Where does one go to escape themselves? Definitely not into the treadmill of routine. Sometimes, it’s so difficult to see beyond staying on the train of misery that we need a nudge that can toss us out of our well-worn groove.  Well, it so happens that a friend of mine is presently experiencing a minor hiccup that I felt he could benefit from being dragged away from his rut.

This is Mr. Beefcake, who, although heartbroken, is not so broken to have lost his lack of shame or sense of humor as he took up this sexy pose. (Maybe in this lower resolution, you can’t see the nipple tweaking and seductive tongue lolling out his moist lips, so I’m sure this mention will benefit the reader to better see what I witnessed.)

Note: Mr. Beefcake, not his real name, requested anonymity, hence the meaningful pseudonym. 

In my universe, green chile on carne asada is always a cure for the sad heart, and there’s no greater cure for melancholy than this amazing plate of yummy from El Guayo’s in Miami, Arizona; so let the healing begin!

After the gut is pacified with the salve of good eats, eye candy is next up on the menu. The romantic ruins of a crumbling old-west mining town can work the kind of wonders that will restore vigor, manhood, and the speedy relief of what ails the soul.

We basked in the splendor of a dry river bed devoid of the distracting sounds of life that don’t allow sorrows to evaporate like the waters that once flowed through this place of decay.

Window shopping? Sure, if you are looking for dust, pigeons, crumbling walls, and faded dreams. We were here to recognize that we were alive and fortunate enough to celebrate our vitality while what remains of Miami has been relegated to the scrap heap of things lost. We, though, are not lost, dusty, or being shat upon by pigeons; we can leave and heal ourselves because that’s what we do: we rebuild, and then we shit on pigeons.

Sorrow is like a rusty old barbed wire fence in our minds that is stopping us at the gate of unification. I should probably mention something about God right about now, but would you really expect that from the person peddling this snake oil bullshit yer reading above?

Open your heart like the openness of the Arizona desert, Mr. Beefcake, see your infinite potential on the horizon, and put down your troubles, squash that drama like a mosquito that’s landed on your nose.

After taking this photo, I consulted a physiognomist friend of mine who professionally analyzed Beefcake’s face and skull shape and then informed me that this specimen of a man is likely to be a repeater of potentially harmful behaviors due to his lack of ability to see much past his glowing mustache.

But let us take a moment. To be honest, at this moment, Mr. Beefcake can be compared to this quickly fading river that once ran gloriously over the desert sands of Arizona. He is a pale reflection of his life prior to the anguish that has allowed his flow to be sucked away by the thirsty world that cares not if our towns, signs, homes, or souls are consumed by the relentless and vicious sunlight destroying man, beast, and river alike. But I trust Beefcake and am certain that he’ll soon regain his strength like a torrent of white water carving out canyons and pushing obstacles out of the way. He’ll reign once more over his domain.

So, with the likelihood that tomorrow risks being a repeat of the day before, where the bad storytelling of contrived crap that arrived with this poor excuse of a blog post won’t be found, we decided under the romantic setting sun to head into new potentials by driving to Utah in the morning to find God, just as the Mormons did.