Freckled Crab

The Last Night at Sturgis: A Private Metal Show for Fifty (and a Few Confused Dancers)

Rolling into downtown Sturgis on the last night of the rally is a little like showing up to a kegger after everyone’s already been arrested. The streets were quiet, the beer was warm, and the only thing still rolling was the tumbleweed of regret.

Shops were half-closed, their owners giving up on the last $20 sale of the week. A guy selling leather vests sighed so loud I thought his soul escaped. Even the tattoo artists looked tired—nothing sadder than a man packing up his “Free Touch-Ups” sign.

And the go-go dancers? Bless them. With no one left to perform for, they were dancing for each other—laughing, twirling, swapping turns like it was the end of the world and the jukebox wouldn’t stop. It was strangely wholesome. Like watching the last flamingo at the zoo just… vibe.

But I was there for one thing: Pop Evil.

Now, picture this—fifty of us in front of a full concert setup that could’ve powered a small city. It was like getting a heavy metal private show, except instead of champagne, there was Coors Light and the faint smell of burnt clutch.

The band came out and gave it everything. I mean, everything. They played like we were a packed stadium instead of a slightly inebriated support group. The guitars shredded, the drums went feral, and I swear the lead singer made direct eye contact with me during “Waking Lions.” It was spiritual.

And here’s the best part: at Sturgis, motorcycle revving takes the place of applause. They just fire up their Harleys, which are in the crowd and not like, parked in the back, like they’re summoning Thor. So between songs, the night exploded into revving engines, echoing off the wood store-fronts like a metallic standing ovation.

The band loved it. They smiled like maniacs, dripping sweat and gratitude. And I thought: this is it—the real Sturgis. No Instagram filters, no thousand-bike parade, just fifty stubborn weirdos and a band that refused to play small.

When it was over, the engines idled down, the last bar light blinked out, and the dancers took one final twirl. The rally was officially over, and it felt perfect—loud, weird, and just a little bit magical.

I walked back through the empty streets grinning like a fool. Because honestly, if you’re going to see a metal show, make it one where everyone can hear their own tinnitus.

Forest Turf Wars

I thought living out here in the woods would bring me serenity. Birdsong, mossy trails, that whole “Thoreau with Wi-Fi” vibe. Instead, I appear to be smack in the middle of a low-key turf war, fought with sticks, passive aggression, and camouflage netting.

First off, the lean-tos. Somebody had put time and effort into these—serious Lincoln Log energy. Straight branches, tight lashings, the kind of craftsmanship you only get from someone who’s watched at least three full seasons of Alone. And now? They’re knocked down and scattered, like Mother Nature threw a tantrum.

Then there’s the trail sabotage. My once-clear paths now have artfully dropped branches blocking them, like a woodland version of “You Shall Not Pass.” Not enough to be dangerous, just enough to trip over and mutter about while trying not to spill my travel mug. Honestly, it feels like a passive-aggressive beaver is running a HOA out there: “Oh, you wanted to walk HERE? Sorry, bylaws say detour through this thistle bush.”

And let’s not forget—it’s deer season. Which means men in ghillie suits now roam my dog-walking area. Imagine walking your sweet pup through the pines and realizing a shrub just winked at you. The forest floor crunches, your dog perks up, and suddenly you’re having a staring contest with a bush holding a rifle. Delightful.

What gets me is the sheer variety of combat tactics. Some mysterious woodland faction is going for brute force (lean-to demolition). Another is playing psychological games (branch barricades). And then the ghillie squad just… exists, like some kind of sniper-themed Easter egg hunt.

It’s ridiculous, but part of me admires the drama. Most neighborhoods get passive-aggressive notes about trash cans. Mine? Full-scale forest feuds with set design.

So tomorrow, when I leash the dogs and step into my “serene” backyard, I’ll be prepared. Maybe I’ll carry a rake, or maybe just bring popcorn. Because honestly, the forest turf war has better plot twists than half the shows on Netflix.

Don’t Mind the Hot Hot Mess

I forgot again. About this blog.

Holy crap I have to tell you about how I really forgot about things for six hours. BUT FIRST! I need to change/add some things to the site, like a cute link to my coloring book, because you guys, first of all, it’s adorable, and it helps to boost my confidence – to do something creative and people like it.

Meanwhile, look up Transient Global Amnesia.

I Hate the Term “Broken”

I really do. Saying someone is “broken”, when referring to an emotional state, just doesn’t make sense to me.

Why? Because they cry? Because they’re lost? Grieving something? Because they’re a mess?

Sure, some people are more resilient than others, and some stay down longer than others, but in my mind, never “broken”. That’s for a spoon or a bones or a computer. Feels very judgmental.

I’ve been noticing it a lot recently, and it’s been bothering me. Makes me mad when I hear it.

What I Learned While Housesitting

Friends were going on a 10 day trip and their planned house/dog sitter fell through, so in I swooped. I took Mayhem for a cortisol vacation (it’s a real thing, google showed me) since it’s been nothing but change for her for 8 months.

The home was immaculate. I mean, I was looking for dust and finally found some on day 5. The pup is an older, extremely well behaved Labrador. She poops on command.

And this is what I learned (besides that by comparison my house is filthy):

1. Mayhem does not need 2+ miles a day. Oh she’ll do it, but she’s almost 8 years old and doing so kept her body in a state of stress. Short bits of training and play, with every third day or so getting a long walk is enough.

2. I was keeping myself in a constant state of stress by running these dogs all over the place when they didn’t need it. Yeah, 6 miles a day is a great way to lose weight, but I was physically and mentally exhausted.

3. My husband’s laid back vibe that drives me crazy sometimes was good for the pups at home. Olive was less clingy, while Ruckus and Pepper kept each other fully entertained.

4. I can relax at home and not constantly worry about what dog needs what. They are fine.

I actually sat and read this weekend and didn’t exhaust myself. It was great.