There is a particular type of addict known colloquially as a "garbagehead." I might more appropriately say that there's a general rather than particular stripe of enthusiast known suchly, because the hallmark of a garbagehead is to be catholic in his appetites to a dangerous degree. The garbagehead will, by definition, swallow, snort, smoke, shoot, huff, insert, envelop, osmose or otherwise introduce into his system any substance which may effect any sort of psychoactive alteration in his beleaguered brain, pleasant or otherwise. The condition sought by the garbagehead is, simply: Not Sober. He abhors clarity above all else and needs his view askew, his lens cracked, and his focus fuzzy. He doesn't want to experience the world as it is, but how it might possibly be and every new intoxicant or combination thereof represents a potentially fresh vista.

There are degrees of garbageheadism, the extreme end being indicated by those unfortunate chaps you see sprawled out along the railroad tracks or dozing behind convenience stores. Those guys are done; they've inundated themselves so completely with garbage that they've begun to behave like garbage, strewing themselves along rights-of-way like so much human litter. My tale does not concern itself with these poor, sad folks though.

At the other end of the spectrum lies the imbiber who is still able to exercise that modicum of restraint which allows one to enjoy a diverse panoply of intoxicants while participating in society, more or less. It's a balancing act, and definitely not a permanent condition — you either get clean or ultimately get garbaged out — but such a one is my friend Seamus. He is a surprisingly good-natured guy — friendly, intelligent and possessed of a great sense of humor — who just happens to hate society and will go to any lengths to avoid that trying condition. I'm not sure why, exactly — we're not that close, and he seems to outward appearances to be as equipped as anyone to navigate the rocks and shoals of existence. But there you have it. Seamus is one beer-guzzlin', pill-poppin', bong-hittin', crank-smokin', smack-shootin', nitrous-huffin' son of a buck, and whenever our paths cross I always have a good time. Not that I share is voracious appetites or indulge in his benumbing buffets. We just happen to be able to make each other laugh and we both appreciate the value of that. He finds my overweening insistence on "meth or nothing" to be priggish and fuzzy, while I consider his indiscriminate profligacy boorish and wasteful. "Keep fucking around," I tell him. "You are liable to dose yourself sober."

Seamus lives the way out to hell and gone in a cabin on his elderly parents' place and grows pot for his livelihood. He has become used to a secluded, rustic existence and even Fort Bragg is usually too bustling for him. But he must of necessity come into town sometimes to run various pill scams and inventory the local dealers. When he did he would generally give me a call and if the circumstances were favorable we might have a mini-adventure or at least some conversation. He usually liked to find somewhere out of town to indulge his inclinations and cut loose without having to trip over Johnny Law.

One day I was out back of my buddy Sandman's house patiently working my way through the ridiculously elaborate defenses installed by the cable company to keep me from illegally hooking up the service for the fifth time. I had enough tools to dismantle a battleship, a full complement of the old ring-a-ding ding and an intensely focused desire to show those smug bastards over at Comcast exactly who they were dealing with. With five or so hours of daylight left and a Q-beam at the ready should my efforts extend into the evening, I was in it for the duration. I was attacking what appeared to be a rolling titanium bolt sheath with a diamond-tipped rotary blade, muttering and cursing all the while when the phone rang. "Hey, you stupid tweaker," Seamus said. "Put down whatever it is you're molesting or dismantling and prepare yourself for a little woodland adventure. The Ghost Panther has been spotted up at Egg Take!"*

"The what now is where?" I said.

"The Ghost Panther, man! It's an albino mountain lion, rumored to have a taste for human flesh."

"And we are going to harass it why, exactly?" I asked — quite sensibly, I thought.

"No, not harass. Just get a look at him. It'll be a blast, c'mon."

"You do realize that most people's first look at a mountain lion is at as it leaps for their throat, right?"

"Yeah, but my senses are way too finely tuned for that to happen."

What the hell?, I figured. The chances of a thoroughly urbanized tweaker and a delusional garbagehead tracking down anything much wilier than a stump were about nil. "I'm over at Dave's, come get me," I said. Seamus rolled up in his big old Buick deuce-and-a- quarter a few minutes later as I was putting away the last of the tools. I jumped in, sharing the big bench seat with a large jug of cheap vodka and a Ziploc baggie full of pills. A fat joint burned in the ashtray. "What's on the menu this fine afternoon?" I said.

"Oh, you know. Little of this, little of that. Vicodin, Viagra, Desoxyn, mescaline, molly, Xanax — help yourself."

"I'm good. Viagra? What exactly do you have planned for this beast, anyway?"

"I find Viagra acts as an accelerant and intensifier for the other drugs. It only gives you a boner if you need it."

"Well, all right then. Onward and upward! The Ghost Panther it is!"

"Ghost Panther!" Seamus shouted out the window as we drove off.

We headed up into the hinterlands, Seamus keeping up a running dialogue about spirit animals and trans-species soul commingling. I half-listened while playing Angry Birds on my phone and taking the occasional blast off my pipe. By the time we arrived, I was wired up pretty good and Seamus was looking glazed and serene, like a martyr heading off into the arms of Allah. I honestly didn't feel up to confronting any carnivorous cats, ghost or otherwise, even if I did not really believe in them. "Why don't you go scout the area, and I will keep an eye on things here?" I said.

"Good idea. Yell if you see anything."

"Oh, I'll yell; don't worry about that," I said.

Seamus grabbed a brown paper sack out of the glove compartment and started to head out. "What you got there?" I asked.

"Supplies," he said with an air of finality.

He trotted off into the brush and I sat down on the hood of the car to enjoy the afternoon. It was quiet and still and the air smelled like lavender. I decided to pollute the air with some toxic chemicals and fired up a bowl of the old ring-dang-doodle. I was pretty much spun and starting to get concerned about old Seamus out there on his own in the deep dark wood. What if there really was a Ghost Panther? He didn't have the hypervigilant mega-awareness that allowed me to hear hair growing at 50 meters. He was out there essentially blind, hallucinating probably, no sense of direction— What was I thinking? The sun was starting to sink low, too, and I have no doubt that Ghost Panthers did their best work at night. I figured I had better go and find him.

I took off into the woods, yelling his name every now and then. "Seamus! Olly-olly-oxen-free! Come out, come out wherever you are! I found a Ghost Caterpillar! Yoo-hoo!"

No response. I widened out a little, making gradually expanding circles, and after a while I came upon a clearing and in the middle of that clearing there was a stump and splayed out on top of that stump was a naked Seamus. Around the stump were littered dozens of spent fast food condiment packets whose former contents were adorning Seamus's naked body. He was rubbing a pack of honey mustard into his hair when I came upon him. "Dude, what in the name of the sweet baby Jesus are you doing?" I said

"I'm staking myself out for the cat," he replied. He opened a small tube of barbecue sauce and began massaging it into his butt crack. "I'm going to be reborn as a lion."

"You are going to be reborn as lion shit is what you're going to be, numbnuts."

"I'm burnt to the waterline! I'm fully raisined! I'm ready, brother. This is my destiny! You can have my car, bro."

I thought about it for a second. Nah, too much explaining to do. "C'mon man. Let's go get a drink. Put your clothes on."

"Meow! Meow! Here kitty kitty kitty! I shoulda brought some damn tunafish!"

My superacute senses detected sound and motion in the vicinity but it wasn't a Ghost Panther. I was certain all mammals within hearing distance of this madman had lit out for saner pastures.

Converging on the stump from all points on the compass were several dozen tribes of ants, numbering in the tens of thousands. There were huge black ants, vicious little red ants, and the dreaded mulatto warrior an. Things were about to get ugly. "Uh, dude? You're definitely about to get eaten but it's going to be a much slower process than you anticipated."

"What? What are you talking about, fool? Oh wait, you'll scare him off." He slapped at his leg as the vanguard established a beachhead. Within seconds they were swarming all over Seamus's delicious exterior. He looked down in horror at the waves of ants rippling across his person and leapt into the air, slapping madly at himself and hopping up and down. The ants, angry at having their meal interrupted, began biting in earnest. Seamus gave up slapping and fled, his panicky screams ringing through the forest.

I gathered up his clothes and trash from around the stump. When I got back to the car, Seamus was pouring vodka over his head and chafing at his skin. "Excellent idea, just don't light a cigarette," I said.

We got him de-anted and cleaned up as best we could. Seamus drank the last slug vodka, popping few random pills and fired up a joint. "Man," he said. "What was I thinking?"

"I don't know, but there is a lesson here. That lesson is: leave nature the hell alone. You realize that if that cat or anything else had eaten you would have poisoned it? You are toxic, bro! I guarantee you that every single ant that got a piece of you is laying out there O'D'ed on the forest floor."

"Wow. You're right. I don't feel bad for them, though."

"I don't either. But remember this. Nature is natural. You are not. You are unnatural. Now let's go home."

And with that, in a car heady with the fumes of vodka and soy sauce, we drove off onto the gloaming. Seamus took one wistful look back as if expecting the ghost panther to be nobly attending our departure, but there was nothing there. "Eyes on the road, dumbass," I said.

*The “Egg Take” — This Camp One Day Use Area outside of Fort Bragg is 3 miles from Highway 20. Locals refer to it as: "The Egg Take" as in: "We'll meet you out at the Egg Take for a barbecue.” This rather odd sounding name refers to the salmon egg collection station operated by the California Department of Fish & Game. Migrating salmon are diverted by a small dam into holding pens. The salmon eggs and milt are harvested from adult fish and are then transported to a fish hatchery (in Yountville?). There is a very nice day use area in the meadow there with covered tables, fire grills, horseshoe pits. You can wade in the river by the dam. If you are trying to explain local folks where you are staying, it'll confuse most of us if you say that you're camping in Jackson State Forest at Camp One.” If you instead say: “We’re camping out at the Egg Take,” then we'll understand. (Courtesy, noyopacific.com, a kayaking website for the Mendo northcoast)