The name matters not, but they call me Funnybone. (If they call at all.) A willing prisoner of an insatiable appetite for escapism, I’m a man (he/him/they/she/her/tree) out of step with his time, an analog relic in a digital world, living a vow of voluntary minimalism and simplicity in an unduly complex, human-centric Orwellian landscape--whatever all that means.
I’m half Czech (the top half) and 100% ugly. A remorsefully divorced soloist. (I wasn’t the man I vowed to be.) I’m terminally and reluctantly single, forever decathecting from others. A tri-polar anomic, living out of a backpack. (It’s tight inside one.) I sleep where I can, hoping to see what I can before my shell’s expiration date. An only child…with four siblings. Damaged goods. A proud underachiever/idler and prouder tax evader. A has-been athlete dealing with sport’s afterlife. A poor elitist. An aspiring rock star. An off-duty Americano, with no formal education. An incurable overthinker with no OFF switch. A lost soul, and maybe a lost cause. Never been counted in a census; I’m a nobody and nobody cares.
This dusty corner of the World Wide Cobweb shall be my log crossing the Appalachian Trail, a sort-of adventure scrapbook. Pabulum, mental masturbation, brain flatulence. Oh, yeah: I’ve decided to exchange society’s serious nonsense for a lighter-hearted nonsense; I’ve decided to have a go at the AT. I’m full of bad ideas.
Having survived abortion, I was handed down the recycled, real-world name of Charles, free man. It’s a lame name, but it was forced upon me by people much bigger than me at the time. I was dubbed Funnybone in the early aughts, on the Best Crest. That was my maiden long-haul hike, a decade before Wild began to pummel the path; it pays to be early. I loved trail life--there’s time enough to observe the details--and I’ve been nature drunk and high ever since. (Your first thru-hike lasts the rest of your life. And one great hike deserves another. Everything in moderation, except walking.) I tolerated the moniker enough to keep it. If it matters, THIS is how ‘twas bestowed.
If it continues to matter, I’ve kept a couple of online accounts of previous travel adventures. They can be found here:
This dusty corner of the World Wide Cobweb shall be my log crossing the Appalachian Trail, a sort-of adventure scrapbook. Pabulum, mental masturbation, brain flatulence. Oh, yeah: I’ve decided to exchange society’s serious nonsense for a lighter-hearted nonsense; I’ve decided to have a go at the AT. I’m full of bad ideas.
Having survived abortion, I was handed down the recycled, real-world name of Charles, free man. It’s a lame name, but it was forced upon me by people much bigger than me at the time. I was dubbed Funnybone in the early aughts, on the Best Crest. That was my maiden long-haul hike, a decade before Wild began to pummel the path; it pays to be early. I loved trail life--there’s time enough to observe the details--and I’ve been nature drunk and high ever since. (Your first thru-hike lasts the rest of your life. And one great hike deserves another. Everything in moderation, except walking.) I tolerated the moniker enough to keep it. If it matters, THIS is how ‘twas bestowed.
If it continues to matter, I’ve kept a couple of online accounts of previous travel adventures. They can be found here:
- HERE is an account of my boggy slog along the Pennine Way in England, in late 2012. (I’m an incurable Anglophile.)
- HERE is my journal from my second thru-hike of the 2,650-mile Pacific Crest Trail. (I’ll try anything twice.) It is the most read account on trailjournals.com, which never ceases to surprise me. The 2006 trip is still fresh in mind, making me realize just how rapidly the years roll by.
One aim on the AT, besides extracting as much life as possible and not merely checking the trail off--failure’s an option--is to record the journey. And keep it all under one roof. This’ll be that roof, holes and all. The Eeyore within assures me no one gives a donkey’s ass about what I’ve to say--just as I tend not to--that blogs are prosaic and technologically primitive compared to that yearbook for life, that noisy, irksome social experience called Facebook. Ultimately I write and roam for one jackass, ideally to get to know him better. It is here I can look back, when, or if, the time comes.
Funnybone / Chuckie V Veylupek
Currently Colorado-confined (living at a friend’s, because it’s super free)
Divided States of Americuh
Pi Day (a shout out to E.A.!), 2013
PS: I’m not the final authority on anything I write during this trip. Nor am I responsible for it.
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