Lessons Learned

I hate writing about me. In a way, of course, all writers write about their personal lives in that every single word they write comes from them, ergo, it’s all personal, but good ones disguise that with allegory, allowing the reader to see into them without a blow by blow description of what’s actually happening. It’s much more interesting that way. So, when I say I hate writing about me, I mean I hate writing about my personal life; no one wants to read that. But on this, the last day of 2010, as I sit alone in yet another hotel room, I am reflecting on the events of the past year as they relate specifically to me, and because I’m feeling selfish and bored, I thought I’d share with you some of the things I’ve learned this year.


Casinos

I love casinos. I love the way they look, I love the way they sound, I love the way they smell. They are vibrant and exciting, warm and inviting. The joyous cacophony of electronic music and sound effects are as intoxicating as the (for the most part) positively beautiful women that proffer free drinks upon request. Every single time I walk into one I expect to see a tuxedo clad James Bond playing baccarat, casually betting huge sums of money with gorgeous trollops draped on his arm. Of course, it’s always regular people betting money they probably shouldn’t, but I like to think they share the same feeling as me: A casino is a place to shed one’s normal skin and pretend, if only for a little while, that things are different inside than they are in the regular world. In a casino, one doesn’t worry about the mundane life usually adhered to. Like an adult fairy tale, the possibility of having a “happily ever after” doesn’t seem so farfetched. They are the ultimate escape from the run of the mill.

In this year alone, I’ve been to Atlantic City, Reno, and Vegas. I wish I could say I won a bunch of money, but I can’t. In fact, I spent more than I wanted to, but not more than I should have. The important thing is that I had a good time. The lure of easy money, i.e., a big hit on a slot machine, is very difficult to resist, and although it didn’t happen for me, I did see it happen for others. The odds of winning are remote, and as I plug money into casinos, I am reminded of a bumper sticker I saw that read “the lottery is for people who suck at math”. The casinos take from me, and the entire time they’re doing it, I enjoy it. I know it’s happening, and I still do it. I do it because it’s fun. That’s what I tell myself, and I’m OK with that.

Travel

Everyone who reads these rants knows I travel for my job. I complain endlessly about it, but it’s a necessary evil. I like being able to pay my bills (and hit the casino once in a while), and I particularly like being self sufficient. My father taught me, a long time ago, that it is only through hard work that one can live the life they want to live. I took that to mean that the only way I can have the things that I want is to work for them. Everyone who knows me knows that material things mean little to me. At the risk of tooting my own horn, I make enough money to buy just about anything I want, but it’s been my experience that things owned, in and of themselves, do not happiness make. I thought I found happiness once, not long ago, but I was wrong, and so I have no choice but to continue to work (travel) and hopefully, one of these days, find the life I want, and more importantly, find someone to share it with. So for all my lamenting about travel, I have to keep in mind that it pays my bills, and, as much as I hate to admit it, being alone on the road affords me the often agonizing opportunity to pause and reflect upon what it is that I want. Maybe, someday, I’ll know what that is, and if I’m really lucky, I’ll be able to recognize it when I find it.

Broken Hearts

Everyone has a broken heart story, don’t they? If you don’t then your life isn’t complete yet. I have one, and I’m a bit embarrassed to say that it took almost 50 years for it to happen. The details aren’t really important. Suffice to say that I gave everything I had, both material and ethereal, only to find that it wasn’t reciprocated, in spite of being assured that it was. She left me in August.

I was never one to believe in a soul mate, but when I met this woman, I was converted. Like the dreamer I am, I knew, knew that this one, out of every woman I’d ever met, was the one I wanted most. I had never in my life met a woman who so totally consumed my thoughts. She was by no means perfect, but she was perfect for me. We shared a love of casinos, but I suspect (among other things), that my traveling proved to be the final straw for a camel whose back was never strong enough to support us both.

I think of her often, probably more often than I should. I tell myself that one of these days her memory will fade, and take the constant lump in my throat with it. I don’t know why I torture myself by thinking of her, and I don’t know why she pops into my mind when I don’t want her there. I can’t blame her for her presence in my mind; the problem obviously lies with me. Maybe one of these days I’ll look back and laugh at my foolishness. My biggest fear is that I’ve become jaded, that I will judge every other woman I meet by her, and forever find reasons that the latter doesn’t measure up to the former. I hope that doesn’t happen.

I hope this entry wasn’t too dark. I did have a good time in casinos, and I did have a good time traveling. I hate to love casinos, and I love to hate traveling. I didn’t have a good time when the love of my life left, so I suppose I should take a different tack and apply the same lessons I learned from casinos and traveling: Perspective goes a long way toward rationalizing the things we do. I need to find the proper vantage point from which to view my broken heart. Travel and slot machines may prove to be the key to helping me to help myself. Have a good new year.

TSA OK!

To take pride in the place you were born is a vanity that we all share. “I’m Scotch, I’m Irish, I’m Cherokee, I’m Nepalese. I’m special because of the accident of my birth.” It’s not a bad thing, really, because without that particular universally shared quirk, we would feel unconnected, if not utterly lost. My point is that national pride is a good thing. So with that in mind, I want to express my dismay at the state of the America I was born in. It’s gotten a lot different than it used to be and I’m worried. I really am.

I travel for work. I am on the road ALL the time. I don’t like the TSA. I don’t like their methods, I don’t like their agenda and I most certainly don’t like their screeners. I don’t like them one bit. They and all they stand for are a problem that doesn’t need to exist. Many may say I’m a tin foil hat wearing lunatic, but hear me out. The TSA, under the auspices of public safety, are raping your rights and literally molesting you and your children. They say they’re doing it for your own good and safety, but they’re doing nothing to keep you safe from the terrorists they say are rampant among us.

I’m barely started but I can see that this essay could go on for pages and pages, so let’s try to keep this simple. The TSA has not caught one terrorist. They have not stopped one bombing, not one hijacking; in fact they can point to a huge zero when it comes to averting any sort of air disaster. How do I know this? Because if they had, you can bet it would have been all over the news. In case you didn’t know, while the TSA is screening wheelchair-bound paraplegics for your safety, they also allow known terrorists to board planes. I wish I could make this up. I really do. But, since I did collect some links, here’s one from CBS’ 60 Minutes. There’s so much in this segment I could rant and rave about, but if you take only one thing away from it, be it this: The TSA will grope your grandma and legally molest your children while they simultaneously allow known terrorists to fly. Do you feel safe yet?

You can find any number of horror stories illustrating the sad fact that the majority of TSA agents couldn’t find their asses with both hands and a flashlight. If you think I’m making this up, do a Google search on “colostomy bag TSA”, or “muscular dystrophy boy TSA”, or (pick your ailment) TSA. Oh, and if you have a prosthesis, good luck. You and your stump can sit and wait while the security professionals try to figure out if that mechanism attached to your body is a detonator or an artificial ankle. I have a short anecdote to relate that isn’t nearly as intrusive and offensive as some others, but the important thing is that, like the extreme examples, it shows in a glaring light how ridiculous the screening process is, and how it does absolutely nothing to keep you safe. I know, because I could have pulled it off.

I was in Tampa, about a year ago, before the “Detroit Underwear Bomber” episode (and I’ll get to that). I had a carry-on duffel bag. Inside it, among other things, was a 15oz package of Metamucil. It’s about 2/3 the length of a paper towel tube, and about twice as wide. It’s a cylindrically shaped package. It was full of powdered…Metamucil. I put my bag on the belt and it showed up on the X-ray screen as a suspected “boogey” item; it had to be inspected more closely. I assumed it would, and I was asked if it was my bag and if I’d care to step over while a professionally trained TSA agent rooted through it. I wondered why they asked me, because I had no choice, but if that’s how they wanted to play…well, again, I had no choice. So, as Mr. Safety is tossing my belongings, he’s telling me, in a stern and directive tone, that cylinders with powder in them are considered suspicious and must be eyeballed to ensure they’re not an incendiary device. I told him I understood, and I also said that the result of his search was going to yield a powdered laxative in a big orange canister. He dug through the bag I had packed not two hours previously, and while he was elbow-deep in my stuff, he said, “Got it!”

I expected to see a bright orange cylinder, but to my surprise he was holding up a tube of toothpaste. He was beaming with a sort of righteous validation; he had found what he was looking for. I know you’re not supposed to joke with TSA agents, probably because they don’t understand humor, so I refrained from telling him that the tube of toothpaste he was holding wasn’t a cylinder and that I had known what a cylinder was since I was in the third grade. I smiled my best self-deprecating smile and said, “I don’t think that’s what you’re looking for”, and in an instant, I realized that was a mistake. He said, “Sir, you are not allowed to have any liquids more than 3 ounces on an aircraft. This tube is 7 ounces. I’m going to have to confiscate it.” He gave me his best authoritative stare, fairly daring me to speak up. It occurred to me to say, “So do you pack your lunch or take the bus to work?”

The point is, we were talking, but we weren’t communicating. He thought he was being vigilant for the sake of my safety, and I was trying to make his job easier, but anything I had to say was irrelevant. He handed me my bag after dumping my possibly explosive toothpaste in a huge rubber garbage can behind him, where it sat, presumably, until it was full enough to be emptied. It never seemed to occur to him or any of the other highly trained TSA agents that all those water bottles, face creams and God knows what liquids might be explosive materials waiting patiently for just the right jostle to blow the entire security area to bits. I thought that was kind of funny.

He told me to have a nice day, but I couldn’t, because I was worried that I had forgotten my Metamucil. After all, he was a professional, and he had failed to find it, so the first thing I did when I got my bag back was to check it, and there, under the first pair of neatly folded pants, was my HUGE ORANGE CYLINDER of Metamucil. For one brief (and admittedly wanton) discretionary moment, I wanted to shout to everyone within earshot that the TSA agent had failed to find my HUGE ORANGE CYLINDER of Metamucil, and wasn’t it great that it wasn’t a HUGE ORANGE BOMB! I did no such thing, of course, but I wanted to.

I tell this story because, as I said at the beginning of this rant, I am getting fed up with the government that works for me (yeah, I’m delusional) dictating how I am to behave while their “agents” trample on my basic American right to be innocent until proven guilty. “But we’re doing it for your safety!” Bullshit. Show me the terrorists you’ve stopped. I want somebody to explain to me EXACTLY how I’m safer on an airplane because your agents don’t know the difference between a tube of toothpaste and a plastic can of laxative. I’ve been screened by a person who is unqualified to get a job without saying, “You want fries with that?” Call me crazy, but I’ve been to enough airports to know that the vast majority of TSA screeners don’t carry in their craniums a brain that generates enough power to move their dumb asses around.

Am I an elitist? Am I looking down my nose at the professionals of the TSA? Did you know that the TSA’s recruiting efforts include posting job availability on delivery pizza boxes in Washington DC? DELIVERY PIZZA BOXES. Did you know that? The Washington Post does. Do you feel safer now?



The big problem with the TSA is that they’re retroactive. Some idiot boards a plane (not in the USA) with something flammable in his shoes. His cunning, well thought out plan doesn’t work, but we all have to take our shoes off in the airport forevermore. Some idiot boards a plane (not in the USA) with something flammable in his underwear. His cunning, well thought out plan doesn’t work; in fact, it really didn’t work out for him at all, but because no one got hurt and he was a moron, we all have to have our crotches felt up forevermore.

This is fear-mongering at its worst. In case you didn’t know, both of these incidents involved persons who had no chance of blowing up the airplane. None. I’m not going to bore you with the details of how an explosive device works, but in a nutshell, you need two things to cause an explosion: pressure and a detonator. Neither of these things can be achieved with a powerful enough force to blow a hole in an airplane without being encased in metal in a space small enough to be carried on your person with no one noticing that you’re a man but look like you’re at the end of your third trimester. I don’t care how James Bond does it, but in the real world, not you, and certainly not the shoe or underwear bomber can do it. We already know that.

Here’s all I have to say about backscatter scanners: The TSA says a lot of things about imaging devices. They say it can’t store pictures, but it can, and they do, and the machine’s manufacturers have already been proven to be lying when they say it can’t. Don’t believe me? Proof is a click away. Oh, and by the way, did you know that former Secretary of Homeland Security Michael Chertoff, who cried for the use of these machines after the Detroit “bomber” (who wasn’t a bomber), just happens to work for the companies that make the body scanning machines? Do you feel safer now? I swear I can’t make this stuff up.

They say you can forgo the scanning, but if so, you’ll be subjected to an “enhanced” pat down, which involves cupping your balls, patting your cooch, and sliding hands between, around and beneath your breasts. And it also includes a hands-down, in and around your-waistband job; sorry, no tongues or smoking, as well as the slide of a finger between every fat fold as well, and it’s topped off with an atmosphere of presumed guilt. If you want, you can have them switch rubber gloves before they touch you after the sweaty ogre they just groped, but you HAVE TO ASK for that. Oh, and let’s not forget that it doesn’t matter how old you are. Your six year old son or daughter is eligible, I’m sorry, REQUIRED to undergo the same procedure, because you never know…the terrorists could be anyone. ANYONE! Feel safer now?

Follow the money and you’ll see why we have these ridiculous policies. It’s not to keep you safe. It’s about money. It’s all about money. It has nothing to do with our collective safety. To believe otherwise is to bury your head in the sand or stick your fingers in your ears and shout “Lalalala I’m not listening to you!” The truth is you can’t protect yourself from crazy. If someone really wants to get you, they will, but make no mistake: They will have a much harder time doing it on a plane than anywhere else. It’s easy to say “Oh, remember 9-11”, but that’s a line that doesn’t sit well with me. There were no bombs on those flights, and the only reason they succeeded was because they could a) get to the cockpit and b) terrify the passengers. As much as I loathe the phrase, in our post 9-11 world, neither of those things will happen again. First, you ain’t getting in the cockpit on ANY commercial plane these days. Second (and I’ve seen it happen), if you act like a dick on a plane, you’re gonna get the big smack down from every passenger who even thinks that you’re going to try and fix it so it doesn’t land safely. Trust me. A plane bombing isn’t going to happen. You have a better chance of dying from being struck by lightning as you stretch out to catch a meteor while being eaten by a shark.

Here’s my humble solution: What we need is what we used to have. We need metal detectors. I know we still have them, but everyone acts like they’re antiquated. We need bomb sniffing dogs. More people like dogs than don’t. I would much rather walk past Rover the police (or TSA) pooch for a quick sniff than to have Shaniqua the Arrogant bawl at me for putting my shoes and laptop in the same bin while waiting for Donald “Cooter” McFeely to grope my privates as he leers at the 9 year old girl behind me in line. Your daughter, maybe?

Metal detectors, dogs, and people who are trained not only in security but civility would be good enough for me.

I love America’s freedoms, but I’m worried about their longevity. As I write this, I’m living and working in South Central Los Angeles, and I feel safer here than I would at any airport. When the TSA shows some common sense in their endeavors, I’ll be much less inclined to lean back and moan loud enough for the entire security area to hear when I have my crotch fondled in the name of safety.

Coast to Coast

I haven’t written anything in a while. I have a million excuses, but none of them make a strong case; it’s whining no matter how you slice it. I learned some hard lessons in my absence, and maybe one day I’ll pass them along, but for now, I think jotting down a few blurbs will do me some good, and I hope they work for you as well.


My traveling job takes me to a lot of different cities. I literally travel from coast to coast, never in one spot for more than two weeks. It pays well, but I still find myself wishing I had a dime for every time I heard someone say “Ooo, that must be so cool.” I will admit that it is nice to have the chance to see things I probably never would if I didn’t travel, but believe me when I say that living out of a suitcase is pretty much a drag. I’ve learned you cannot have a job like this and have a normal home life. On the other hand, I get to see some weird stuff…

Bums

Every one of my traveling work sites is in a major US city, and with just a couple exceptions, they are in the worst parts of those cities. Now, it’s my personal opinion that everybody should spend some time in the seedy parts of the city, especially those who tend to look down their noses at others. Mind you, I do plenty of that myself, but living among the down and outs can be very sobering. Some people have it very bad. I rarely give money to bums because, as I just mentioned, my first thought when asked for a handout is “ Get a job,” especially when it’s some tool with a $50 t-shirt and $800 worth of “unique” tattoos that look like EVER OTHER person’s tattoos. Oh, and I especially like the young “hipsters” who hang out in front of the 7-11 and ask if I have an extra cigarette. My line is always the same: “Nope. No extras. This pack only had 20. Sorry.” I don’t have a problem being less than polite with them.

Once in a while, though, I feel a little bad. I was in a subway station in DC waiting for a train not long ago. It was pouring down rain; not cold, but not pleasant either. I was on a landing that had escalators going down to the tracks and while it was covered, the wind blew everything wet five feet into the sheltered part. So I’m shaking off the rain and a bum walks past me on his way to root through the public garbage cans. I assumed he was looking for cans. As I watched, he pulled a paper McDonald’s cup from the can, straw still in place, and he put the straw in his mouth like it was his and took a hit to see if there was anything in it. Then he jettisoned the cup and went for the crumpled food bag and unwrapped all the balled up burger wrappers, presumably looking for crusts or pickles or something. In that moment, I was just a little bit moved. I gave the guy a five and told him to walk across the street and get his own McDonalds bag with his own drink. He didn’t smile, but he did mumble “Thanks,” and I went down to the tracks. I don’t know if he bought something to eat or not, but I do know that I hope that I never find myself rooting through dumpsters to eat, or worse, deciding that the money a stranger gave me could be spent on something other than food.

Misanthropic Behavior

One of the problems with traveling all the time is that I have to deal with other people. Strangers. I could say there are a ton of weirdoes in Los Angeles (and there are), but they’re everywhere, in every city. Now, I realize that I’m not the only person in the world, and anyone who knows me knows that I don’t sashay through life expecting others to be mindful of my every whim, but on the other hand, I DO expect common courtesy, and it pisses me off when I don’t get it. By way of example, for as long as I can remember, I’ve known that two people can’t stand in the same place at the same time, and now, almost 50 years later, I see adults trying to do it. Since I live in hotels, I spend (too much) time in an elevator, and I can’t count the times that I’ve ridden to the ground floor to go about my way, and as the door opens, there’s at least one person who wants to get on before I get off. The elevator car isn’t going to go anywhere until I get out, and there will be more room in the car when I get out, so YOU NEED TO GET OUT OF THE WAY. I have a special look for those people, and since I’m not very attractive, it usually works very well.

Kind Strangers

In spite of my complaining about others, I do run into some very helpful people. Since I’m often in a place I’ve never been, I make it a point to ask shuttle drivers or hotel desk clerks where the good places to eat are, and I always make sure to tell them that I want a recommendation that isn’t canned. I want to know where THEY would go to eat and drink. Sometimes this doesn’t work very well, because everyone has a different idea of what’s good, but for the most part, I’ve been pretty successful. As much as I hate New Jersey, I have to admit that I got totally spoiled there. I can’t eat Italian anywhere but Jersey or New York anymore, but I’m glad I found out what I was missing. Can’t eat crab cakes anywhere but Maryland and there ain’t nothin’ like Texas barbecue. I couldn’t have found any of those good places though, without a local raving about them. So I guess they’re not all bad, but it would be a much better place if there were more of the nice ones.

Arizona

Desert

Until the end of April this year, I had never been to Arizona. I spent some time in a couple deserts in the service (not combat), but it was cold. It was to be my first time in the hot desert, the type of climate every cracked-lip, sweaty thirsty cowboy I saw on TV or the movies suffered through. Two months ago I was very anxious to see if it was hype. Was it really that unforgiving? I’m going to use a bunch more words, but if I could only pick one, it would be “yes”. It is that hot and unforgiving here. But, it’s cool too.

I like to sit outside in the evening here at my hotel in Phoenix, and I’ve noticed something unique about this place. The birds chirp and sing all night. In fact, I hear them more at midnight than at noon. Yeah, I know, that’s because it’s probably too damn hot to chirp at noon, but it’s still something I’ve never heard before. The crickets sing here too, but they don’t look like Midwest crickets. They’re tan, almost invisible against the dirt, and they move much faster than crickets usually do. I have not gotten one mosquito bite since I got here. I saw some rattlesnakes in a pen at a desert museum near Tucson, and an amazing hummingbird display too, and was very impressed at how different the wildlife is here. But, before you think I’m going to sing the praises of the desert fauna, let me tell you about the flora.

Hell is a different thing for each person, and I don’t pretend to speak for everyone, but in my personal vision, even something as benign as a plant would be a horror. I thought I had a good imagination, but after seeing how many different kinds of cacti are out here, I realized that nature has a much better one, and her creations are far more sinister than anything I could dream up. Cacti of all kinds, with spines longer and thicker than your fingers wait in patiently in the heat, waiting for you to fall down. For whatever reason, falling down is the first thing I thought of, which was bad, but of course it had to progress to falling down on a hill, rolling ass-over-teakettle. It really was the stuff nightmares are made of. One cactus in particular struck me as unusually malevolent. It is the Ferocactus wislizeni, or “fishhook barrel cactus”. Here’s a picture of it. The spines on this plant feel like they’re made of the same stuff as fingernails…or claws. They are sharper than you think (yes, I touched them), and if you were unlucky enough to roll over one, I don’t believe it could be extracted without a bazillion stitches and pints of morphine. Never, never fall down a hill in the desert. But, if you get the chance, ride your hawg in the desert during a full moon. Words cannot describe it.

Scum of the Earth

I got out of my hotel in the (relative) cool of the evening this past weekend. It was about 8pm and the sun was going down; it was only 102 degrees, so riding my motorcycle wasn’t like flying through a blast furnace. I could breathe without my nostrils burning, and that’s a good thing. So I was tooling around a strange city, not knowing where I was going, but glad to be out in the saddle. I rode around until I found what I was looking for: a bar with a bunch of motorcycles parked outside. I pulled in, got off, and walked inside.

It never fails to amaze me that there are people who think that walking into a biker bar is akin to wearing a sign that says “stab me”. I remember working with a guy once in another traveling job, and we were looking for a place to eat. I saw a somewhat dilapidated place under a viaduct that had two neon signs, one of a burger and one of a Budweiser logo. I said, “Let’s try that place,” and he said, “Hell no! You’ll get stabbed in there.” I looked at him and said, “No. You’ll get stabbed in there. I won’t.” Because I wasn’t driving, we didn’t eat there, but the point is, if you walk into a blue-collar or biker bar, you won’t have any trouble if you don’t act like you’re better than everyone there.

So anyway, I walked into the bar. It was called the Maverick, on 19th Street in Phoenix. It was like the countless other biker bars I’ve been in. You had your drunks, your bar sluts, your grandma types who knew everyone there, and of course, bikers. Not yuppie dorks riding brand new bikes and wanting to talk ONLY about their chrome doo-dads, but guys (like me) who ride not because it’s the “in” thing, but because we love it. There were some club guys (“gang” members, for those of you who stuck in the 70’s), but no one was even near menacing. Again, if you’re not an asshole, you’ll be alright. Everyone was having a good time. Drinks were cheap, you could smoke, and there was a live band. I don’t know what else you could ask for.

I bellied up to the bar and eventually struck up a conversation with the guy next to me. I had noticed an older bike in the parking lot (the one I parked next to), and it turned out it was his. We talked bikes for a bit, exchanging stories and having a couple beers and laughs. He called himself “Dirty”. I don’t have a cool biker name, but I know a lot who do. So after bike stories, he said his band was playing at the Maverick the next night, and I should check it out. Having absolutely nothing else to do, I readily agreed.

I’ve heard some unbelievably crappy bar bands in my day, and I fully expected Dirty’s band to be at least capable, but not stellar. Everyone who knows me knows my brother has been playing in bar bands since the 70’s, so it’s not like I haven’t been around that scene. To my surprise, I was wrong about Dirty’s band. They were extraordinarily good. They called themselves “Cactus Chainsaw”, and if I had to describe them, I’d say their sound was a very heavy blues rock. Think Pantera and old Black Sabbath, “Satan fingers” and head banging, but not too fast. I believe Robert Johnson himself would be proud. Dirty was the singer, and I’ll be damned if that guy and his band didn’t impress me. After a little internet poking about, I saw that they’ve played the Whiskey-A-Go-Go in Los Angeles, a bastion of 70’s and 80’s hard rock bars. Every hard rock hair band has played there. Very impressive! I told them I would write a plug, so there it is. If you’re ever in Phoenix and see “Cactus Chainsaw” on a flyer or marquis, check them out. They rock. They really do. They got You Tube. Google them and see for yourself.

I wrote that little review because I said I would (and I think they deserve it), but my bigger point is that many people do themselves a huge disservice by dismissing those who exist on the fringes of society (bikers) as the scum of the earth, almost less than human. Yes, they’re crude, and they don’t make tons of money. They (I) ride around on loud motorcycles, they drink and smoke and don’t really care what anyone else thinks about them. I know so many people like Dirty who spend their days struggling through life, yet fully enjoying every single minute of it at the same time. They do what they like. They drink and make music the way they want to make it; they are beholden to no one, and that, my friends, is what makes bikers (and biker bars) so appealing. They smile and cry like every person on the planet, but their smiles don’t belie a hidden agenda. Like everyone, they hope for good fortune, but they don’t crawl over their friends to get it. They know that life is too short to spend it worrying about things they can’t control. If you are looking down your nose at people like that, I feel sorry for you. To paraphrase a Harley bumper sticker, “If I have to explain it, you won’t understand.”

Quickies

I saw a comedian on TV once, a long time ago when I was in high school. His name was Larry Mule Deer, and one of his many shticks was holding a manual typewriter next to his head and repeatedly tapping one of the keys as he related fake headlines/news teasers. Anyone who watched news in the 70’s knows that news was much more believable if there were clacking typewriters in the background. Imagine clacking typewriters as you read these. They are off the cuff, mostly unedited, and hopefully interesting.


Burger King has, if you believe their commercials, bone-in smoked ribs. No good can come of this. As a rib snob, I’m not sure anything else needs to be said.

Last Sunday, June 6, was the 66th anniversary of D-Day. Both the History Channel (HISTORY CHANNEL) and Discovery, two of the usually watchable channels, had marathons of either Ice Road Truckers or Pawn Stars. I guess it’s fitting, because with their heroic actions, both of those groups helped turn the tide against the axis powers which helped steer the world away from certain tyranny. History channel. For shame.

I can’t decide which satirical show I like better, South Park or Robot Chicken. Both are, to me, exceptionally funny.

I can’t imagine how this guy feels. He was on a walk with his woman with the express intent of proposing to her at the top of the hill. She was struck by lightning and died minutes before they reached the summit. Truth really is stranger than fiction, and far sadder.

Dreams I Hope You'll See

I think it would be more than a little strange if someone asked me to watch them exercise. I can think of a couple situations where such a thing could prove to be extraordinarily interesting. This isn’t one of those times. Still, I want to ask you to watch me.


As an exercise to write without smoking cigarettes, I wanted to try and concentrate enough to describe a dream. Anything can happen in a dream, and that’s why I love the picture for this one. We all know that there is SO much going on in dreams that it would take years to fully describe them with words, if such a thing were possible. And so I thought it would be a good thing to try to condense a dream into the snapshot that it was, because I have a lot of patience without that pesky nicotine. Harrumph.

For me, the hallmark of good writing is the ability for the words printed on a page to become more than what they are. That is, even though I look at a white page of letters, “little bugs”, as Tarzan saw them, I am transported, vividly, to the scene that the author describes. It’s not the same one the author saw, exactly, but I am able to see the one that really matters, and that’s just all kinds of awesome. When you forget you’re in a chair because you’ve been taken away to another world, well that’s good writing.

I had this dream the other day. It really stuck with me.

I’m standing outside. It’s crisp and cold. The sky is ice blue, a stark contrast to the light white and tan of the terrain. It’s so cold. Fence poles don’t move. Shadows do, but they’re slow. There are a few horses standing on the slope above a ditch in front of me. Some are brown and some spotted, and they’re slow too. There is both ice and water in the ditch. Light brown foam splotches a surface that isn’t liquid but isn’t solid, like a giant dirty root beer float. The horses’ breaths waft lazily, puffs of white smoke against a blue sky. I am squinting in the cold and bright, and there seems time to relax and gather thoughts.

Things started to happen, and I was caught, not frozen, but REALLY SLOW.

The person standing next to me (whom I did not know was there) shot one of the brown horses in the ass. I don’t mean in the cheek, like a cartoon, but right up the ass with a large caliber projectile. The report was deafening. The horse’s tail fluffed and for just a second, everything looked normal. It seemed like it took ten minutes for me to snap my head around to see the shooter, and then look back to the horse.

It shuddered, then stood still. The blues and tans of the scene gave way to bright red. Blood came pouring out from beneath the horse’s tail, soaking its legs. It shuddered again, spraying blood on each of its hindquarters. Its head moved left and right, not panicking, but definitely aware that something was very wrong. It shifted weight from one hind leg to the other, and as each gave out, its entire backside went down. It looked absurdly like it was doing a push up. The ground was hard and frozen and sloped toward the watery ditch. Its front legs tried to hold, but the hooves couldn’t find purchase and it slid down.

The horse took what seemed like forever to slide into the ditch. The farther it went, the wider its eyes became. It made no sound, save for the rushing of its breathing. The panic was palpable. I couldn’t move and I couldn’t look away. At the point where it should have gone completely under, it shifted onto its back, having nudged something beneath it. The carcass of another horse floated up next to the struggling one, bobbed a couple times in the dirty foam, then sank again. The water in the ditch was covering a lot of dead horses.

I turned to the person next to me to speak, but no one was there. I turned back to the horse and saw that only its nostrils and mouth were above water, flaring and chomping at the air. The other person, a man, the man who shot the horse in the first place was standing by the ditch. He was watching it drown, watching it edge closer. It bobbed among the other dead horses, and then he just stepped in to the freezing water and sank up to his waist. He pushed his arms in up to his elbows, causing the rigid legs of one of the bobbing dead horses to knock the dying one’s nose beneath the surface. Bubbles popped as the horse went under, disturbing the slushy foam. The sound froze in the cold. I was powerless to do anything. I watched the man grimace, then pull his arms out of the water, revealing hands that were very recently intact, but now had several fingers missing. I knew that having your fingers snapped off had to hurt, especially when it was that cold. I watched his expression. His eyes widened, and his mouth opened, and I couldn’t wait to hear what he had to say…and then I woke up.

And that’s the real bitch about dreams, huh? I don’t know what it means. I just want to know if you can see it. If you can, I’m doing my job. Thanks for watching.

Hero Worship

“After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music” – Aldous Huxley


Regular readers know that music (and all that it entails) is a favorite subject of mine. It touches us in so many ways. It doesn’t matter what type of music you enjoy; that you enjoy it is what’s important. It is one of only a very few things that has a truly universal appeal, and (cue ascending grandiose symphonic fanfare) I daresay it is, in the big picture, humankind’s crowning achievement. As I said, it doesn’t matter what kind you like. We probably won’t agree on artists, but hopefully we will on the art part and how it works for us. Besides, it’s my essay and it’s gonna go my way. So there.

When I was in the third grade, I got a birthday present that changed my life. It was wrapped in light blue paper, but I knew what it was before I opened it. I knew it was a record, an album, an LP. We weren’t even allowed to touch my parents’ LP records (I think they had less than 10), and here in my hands was ONE OF MY VERY OWN. I was, in a word, ecstatic. I didn’t even know who the artist was. It didn’t matter. It was mine.

The record turned out to be Alice Cooper’s “School’s Out”. I had never heard anything like it, ever. It was about as alien a thing as I could imagine, and I loved it. I played it continuously on a green plastic record player that had STEREO speakers on the sides when it wasn’t disguised as a suitcase (or something). It provided hours and hours of entertainment and, believe it or not, it expanded my vocabulary farther and faster than any book I’d read to date. I remember asking my mother what a “lifer” in a state penitentiary was. Good times.

My early discovery of Alice Cooper’s music might seem trivial and just plain dumb, but that’s OK, because I know it to be far more significant. Alice Cooper (the group, the image) touched my life in so many ways. As a young and impressionable pre-teen I found not just the music, but the entire spectacle really helped me to make sense of the world. How? For starters, in the third grade, where everything is either hilarious or devastatingly embarrassing, I was able to show my grandmothers pictures of Alice and the band, bathed in green light and serenading snakes. I’ll never forget watching them either squeal with revulsion or start away in disgust. I knew they’d hate it, and that’s what made doing it so (as Alice would say) delicious! I was closer to the people I loved, and Alice Cooper was the catalyst.

We eventually moved far enough away from grandparents that we didn’t see them nearly as often. My father worked for a grocery store chain as a buyer, and as you might guess, suppliers wanted to make my dad the buyer happy, so they offered a lot of different perks, not the least of which was the coolest thing EVER: free concert tickets. Yeah. If you were in high school in the 70’s, long before videos, concerts were the epitome of good times. With prices as high as seven dollars, free tickets were a godsend.

I was hanging around with a new friend (acquaintance, really) and some of HIS friends in the new city, and feeling rather out of place. I didn’t really know anyone, and I remember being stoned and part of a conversation that was as vapid as could be. I was just going to get up and leave when someone across the room mentioned Alice Cooper. Nobody there knew my dad could get free concert tickets, and it just so happened that I had tickets to go see Alice Cooper. I started talking to the guy, and in one of those awe-inspiring moments, I could see that like me, Alice Cooper had really touched his life. After just a few minutes, I told him about tickets, and he was just all cool with that, to put it mildly. It’s been thirty-plus years since that conversation started, and it has never ended.

I tell this story because I happen to be in Phoenix and I visited “Cooper’sTown” (I don’t think I have to say who owns it) sports bar and grill last weekend. I felt like a kid in a candy store, and I wished my buddy, the best friend I ever had was there so we could soak in the exquisite joy of being in the (sort of) presence of a shared idol. I could go on, but I’ll just say that I think I got what I went for. I got the chance to have a couple drinks, bought some trinkets, and I got to reflect for a bit on the idea of Alice Cooper having had a lifelong effect on me. I could probably write this essay for the rest of my life and still not scratch the surface of what I want to say.

Since I started this blog, my title and opening blurb have always acknowledged my admiration of the Alice Cooper thing. I have no greater tribute. Thanks to Vincent, Dennis, Glenn, Michael and Neal. You helped me scare my grandmothers and you helped me to know who my best friend would be. You guys rock.

We Rock

I had a couple different blurbs I was thinking about to go along with my Alice Cooper piece, but decided I would write a few words about Ronnie James Dio who died this week. My favorite description of him was “the little man with the big voice”. He was indeed small in stature, but he was immeasurably large in appeal. There are many who might not know who he was, but there are literally millions who do. Very few can claim such acclaim.

“…the less that you give, you’re a taker…”

Coupla Blurbs

Lose Your Lunch

Some asshole stole part of my lunch yesterday. The motive, I guess, is irrelevant, but I found myself hoping that I never feel the need to rummage through random lunch bags at work. To be fair, I have put (what I was told was) food in my mouth without knowing for sure that I was being told the truth. Many times, I have been surprised at how much I liked it. And a few times, I have had to excuse myself quickly. I tried a stuffed grape leaf once, courtesy of a co-worker from Bethlehem. I’ve never had a turd in my mouth before, so I don’t know what they taste like, but I’m pretty sure they couldn’t taste any worse. At least I tried it.

It’s one thing to try something new, and it’s quite another to surf strangers’ lunches in a factory refrigerator. Ever seen the internet picture of the guy and his girl sitting on a couch, smiling and carrying on their normal daily routine, unaware that there’s a huge jar of anal lube on the coffee table? (Here it is) Yeah, I figure it’s his spaghetti in the back. And that veggie tray? I think that belongs to the girl with the painted-on eyebrows who looks a lot like Morticia Addams would if she weighed three hundred pounds. I’ll eat tacos out of a truck any day. If I see a sign that says “Meat on a Stick”, I’ll probably try it. It would never occur to me to eat a stranger’s leftovers. Ugh.

Get What You Need?

I was standing in a checkout line at a grocery store the other day, and in front of me was a woman with a small child whose head must have been on a swivel. Her eyes led her neck, which darted from the cornucopia of candy (placed at child-eye level) to her mother, wordlessly pleading. I was pleasantly surprised that there was no wailing. I think that’s what made it so riveting. And as I stood there, I thought to myself that anyone with eyes could see through that kid and know that there was one, and only one thing on her mind: Butterfinger. A big one. I know that look. I know that feeling.

The mom utterly ignored the child’s mute plea. The child knew that a big Butterfinger was not in her immediate future, and to her, that meant she’ll never get one, ever!

Childish, yes, but I know that feeling too.

We always want what we can’t have, don’t we? Be it a candy bar or a car, an ice cream or a lottery hit, young or old, we all want what we know we have no chance of getting. We try, though, yes we do. It doesn’t matter if we’re using cow eyes to get a candy bar or flowers to get a girl; we reason that it would be perfectly rational to jump through flaming hoops over a bed of nails to get that thing we want, all the while knowing our efforts are futile. I don’t have any wise words to explain why we do it. I do know that the child I saw in the store will more than likely perform the same act at the next store, hoping for a different result. I hope she finds what she’s looking for. One of these days, maybe…

Don't Face the Music

Just recently, I’ve seen postings here and there (OK, on Facebook) for videos of so and so’s favorite song of the moment. I can’t begrudge them because they want to share a song that’s important to them at the time they posted it, but I still have a big problem with it. Not the intent, but the medium. I have a problem with videos and the glut of current popular musical artists in general. I don’t care what you look like, I don’t care who you’re married to, and wads of cash flashed in pictures of ridiculously opulent houses do nothing to convince me that I should spend my money on your “art”. Music is for my ears, not my eyes. Move me first with your talent, and if I’m interested enough, I’ll find a picture of you. Otherwise, I don’t care about you.


Am I a grumpy old coot? Maybe. Hear me out.

I must confess that I myself have sent out mass emails in a more than half drunken state, fully convinced that everyone who listens to the song will interpret it as I do at that moment. They will see the sheer wisdom and beauty that it evoked for me, and we will be blissfully united by the most imaginative of man’s feats. Of course, once I sober up, I realize that at least half of the recipients probably didn’t listen to it, and if they did, they didn’t have an epiphany. But I never sent a video, just the song. I wanted my contacts to listen.

The problem with video is that once you see it, you will always associate that song with the images that the video director wants you to see. By way of example, Tom Petty has a song called “Don’t Come Around Here No More”, and the video for it consists of the band members costumed as Carroll’s “Through the Looking Glass” characters, who end up slicing Alice (who has somehow become a giant cake) into pieces for dessert. If I had simply heard the song, I probably would never have thought of Alice, because it doesn’t say a thing about her. I don’t get it. What does Alice in Wonderland have to do with the singer admonishing a former lover to stay away? I guess with some imaginative license a parallel can be drawn, but I prefer to let my imagination reveal what the song has to say, not someone else’s. I always kind of liked the song, but once I saw the video, every single time I hear that song I see nothing but Alice the Cake getting cut up.

Somebody close to me said not long ago, that when you first fall in love, it seems like every love song was written with you in mind, and when you’re in the midst of a breakup, every sad song was written with you in mind as well. When I was younger, before videos, having a radio playing was a given no matter what the activity of the day was, be it work or home or school (yes, we used to be able to bring records in on Fridays and play them). If you were lucky enough to find some time alone, sitting around blowing your eardrums with Princess Leia-like headphones was the ultimate pastime. It was, IS, the greatest escape from real life. I still get giddy sometimes when I listen to my favorite songs, because whether they make me happy or sad, they help me to understand me, and that, my friends, will work for you too.

The true magic of music is that the same song can have completely different meanings when heard at different times. If you haven’t laughed and cried to the same song, you’re missing something, because it is your mood that sets the imagination stage, not what a director thinks it should be. There are enough people in your life that want to tell you what to think or do or say. Don’t believe them. My advice is, if you want to listen to music, LISTEN to it, don’t watch it, because you’ll never see yourself if you’re looking through someone else’s eyes.

For Loren

It wasn’t very long ago that someone close to me lost a child. The girl was 29, and there’s just no other way to say it: She died far too young. Like everyone involved, I was shocked to hear the news. I literally did not know what to say. She was a good person, and it seems that people like that are maddeningly few and far between. I will miss her. I write this not for her, but for her mother. I wish I didn’t have to write it. I really do.


What is there that anyone can say to a parent who’s lost a child? Somebody told me not long ago that, as a person who has no children, I don’t really know what love is. I could argue that point, but I mention it because I don’t think I’ve ever felt so empathetic for my friend, one of the nicest people I have ever met. I cannot imagine what that must be like, and I can’t put a value on how badly I wished I had some words that would help to ease the utter despair that she must have felt. The psychiatrists say that it is a uniquely human quality to want to help when we see another person in trouble, that it is innate in us to assist and comfort fellow persons, even strangers, but when it is someone close that’s hurting, it seems impossible to console them no matter how good our intentions. And those of us with some sense of decorum stand mute for fear of worsening an already awful situation, wanting to wail with and for them, knowing that there is nothing we can do to make things better. Yet, we’re powerless to console what must surely be inconsolable. And that’s really what death reminds us of, isn’t it? That we are not in control. That we are mortal.

When I heard the news about Rachael, I wanted to write something, but I couldn’t think of how to begin, let alone a theme that would tie all thoughts together in a way that would make sense. Her death was such a shock that nothing I could think of would be enough. Nothing was appropriate. And in the most serendipitous of ways, I saw something that completely captured everything I wanted to say. It was a bird. I saw it at the Honolulu Zoo, and I thought it was injured. It had a huge red splotch on its chest. I thought it had been shot. Then I noticed another, and another, and all bore the same mark. They strutted and preened and flew about (in their cage) looking fatally wounded, yet vibrant. It was as if they continued to live after having their hearts torn out. I’m not ashamed to say that I got a little mushy. Like a bolt, I thought of my friend’s loss, and experienced the tiniest fraction of her pain, and that was more than enough.

The bird in the picture carries on regardless of its horrifying appearance. As individuals, they had varying degrees of color and size for their marks, as if some were more immediately wounded than others. I don’t know if the marks change on the birds, but I hope that the stain on my friend’s chest fades with time. It won’t disappear, of course, but I hope that like the birds, she is able to go about the business of her life in spite of her having literally lost a piece of herself.

For my Friend: When my father’s father died, I watched him during the funeral, and he was stoicism incarnate. I knew he was hurting, but he was a rock. I’m sure he was stained though. I remember later in the evening, hours after the funeral, as we passed each other in his father’s house bursting into tears and hugging him, telling him that I didn’t think I could ever be as composed as he was when it came time for me to bury him. It was an awful feeling, but I can see how it could be worse. A person expects to bury their parents, not their children. Words are an utter failure for describing that experience. I think what I want to say is that grief is a very personal thing. For a parent, it must be a private hell built for one. I hope your time there is short. I know that you have seen the darkest of days, and I hope that it will help you to appreciate the bright ones that will surely come. No one deserves them more than you.

Bird info

Out of the Mouths of Fools

I have a friend who has a very specific mantra that he loves to repeat when trying to reconcile the absurdities we all face on a daily basis, such as when a driver cuts you off for no apparent reason or a fast food clerk who says something totally unrelated to the simple task of ordering a quickie meal. He says, “Jeff, you have to remember that ninety nine percent of the population is retarded.” Now, we all know in our heart of hearts that that can’t be true. However, there are times when I wonder if he’s right.
Now, before you think this is going to be an elitist diatribe about how much better I am than everyone else, or dismiss me as a sad little man heaping derision upon others to make myself feel better, hear me out. I want to present a few examples of people I’ve met recently in my travels that utterly defy my attempts to classify them as normal human beings. No one can say for certain what “normal” is, and I obviously can’t meet every person in the world, so there’s no way I can say that ninety nine percent are idiots, but I offer a few examples that really have me worried that my buddy is right.
Taco Hell
I don’t eat fast food much, not because I’m a health nut, but because most of it just tastes bad. Once in a while I’ll get a double cheeseburger and a drink (for about 2 dollars) when I have a long motorcycle drive, for instance, and I don’t want to be hungry. The meal itself isn’t satisfying in the way a good rib eye steak is, but it is adequate in that I’m not hungry while I’m riding and, hopefully, it was non toxic (at least in the short run). I really don’t keep up with fast food menu changes; I just hope that whatever it is that I order is the same as it was in years previous. So, it was with this blissful ignorance that I rolled into a Taco Bell not long ago (for the first time in a long time) to get a cheap, quickie lunch. I wanted a Mexican pizza. Now, I hate olives, so I told the girl behind the counter that I wanted one with no olives. She practically froze, and made a quick point of telling me that they were out of olives, and looked at me expectantly to see how I would deal with this information. I didn’t know what to say. I wouldn’t care if every olive on the planet was gone. I couldn’t understand why their lack of olives would impact my order in any way, so I said, “OK, I’ll have it without sour cream”, and that was what it took to get my order from her station to the back where it could be made. She took my money with a smile and busied herself with the next customer, satisfied that she had averted a fast food catastrophe. I wondered if I really wanted to eat there. Turns out the Mexican pizzas aren’t nearly as good as I remember them.
Snake Oil
I was working in Pontiac, Michigan, standing outside (in the cold), smoking. It was a factory of sorts, a union place where the talk among the employees is the same no matter where in the country I go, although in Michigan, it’s always worse. Generally, the conversations I overhear are comprised of a) How terribly inefficient the management is, b) Schemes to use the union to make the management look foolish, and c) What their plans are when they hit the lottery. Once in a while, though, you run across that person who carries himself as a genius among fools, a jailhouse lawyer-type whose sole source of self esteem comes from spouting big words to impress the gullible, words he hopes no one else in the vicinity will understand. It’s wrong to judge people by the way they look or dress, so I’ll leave his ridiculous attire out (ask me about it sometime), and stick to telling what he told me. He told me, in a matter-of-fact tone, with a straight face, that he knew how to cure cancer, all cancer. In fact, he said that he had built a machine out of ham radio parts that could do it, and sold it to a doctor who had no idea such technology existed. I wasn’t quite sure which tack I should take with my response, so I bought myself some time by asking how his ham radio machine worked against cancer. He told me that very specific radio waves will kill viruses, and that cancer is a virus, and that all cancers are caused by the same virus. I wanted to respond at this point, but he was on a roll, so I let him run with it. He went on to explain how the pharmaceutical companies have kept a lid on this stunning treatment since the fifties, silencing anyone who dares to retrieve and disperse this wondrous, vital news to the world, because like diamonds, if people knew the truth, they’d be out of business. Indeed, the medical and pharmaceutical companies are one and the same (controlled by the New Illuminati) who conspired years ago to keep people just a little bit sick all the time so they’d have to buy medicines. It’s the perfect scam, he said. People will always want to be healthy, and they’ll spend every last dime chasing that carrot, and the medicine men will be steering the horse. I was literally biting my tongue. The parting words from this character were that I should look up Royal Rife, the man who first invented the cancer killing machine. He said this as if it were a secret name to be spoken only among those who could be trusted. Well, after a very little bit of research, I found that Royal Rife was debunked and dismissed in the fifties. The “lost” knowledge that the smoking loony could, alone in his basement duplicate with Radio Shack components never really worked, and everybody knows that, except this guy. I wanted to ask him his opinion of the government’s role in the 9/11 disaster, but had to go back to work. I always love hearing that one.
Gay By Choice
I met a guy in California earlier this year who was a good guy to work with. Unless you’re independently rich, you have to work, and some jobs just plain suck. The trouble, though, with a crappy job, and perhaps what makes it even crappier, is the people you have to work with. A pedestrian job can quickly turn into a traffic jam of frustration and anger when dealing with morons, so it’s always nice to work with people I can at least get along with. This guy was extraordinary in that he expected the work to be done quickly and efficiently, but it was also important to him that his workers were as happy as could be considering the circumstances. We had to work, but we didn’t have to toil. Anyway, this guy thought it would be a good idea for us all to get together one Saturday night and call out for pizza and have a few drinks at his home, and generally socialize. We’re all transient workers, so it’s good now and then to have some camaraderie when we’re all a long way from home. When I arrived, most of the guys we were working with in LA were already there, eating and drinking and having as good a time as one can have when on the road. Our host was there, of course, and he was as affable as always. He was wearing a black t-shirt with a design and some words on it; I thought it was a concert shirt. When I spoke to him, though, and had a chance to read it, I noticed that it was a religious message and not a rock band shirt. I thought that was odd, because he never mentioned anything about religion; he swore and gossiped like the rest of us. He said he was a born-again Christian (as he sampled my wonderful vodka and fruit juice concoction), but that he didn’t proselytize to anyone who didn’t ask. Fair enough, I thought, and that was the end of that. He did, however, say the oddest thing a while later. He said that homosexuals, all homosexuals, chose the life they’re living. Since we were all friendly and we were all drinking, I told him that I didn’t believe it was a choice. In my opinion, you’re either gay or you’re not, Hollywood weirdoes notwithstanding. This subject, however, was one he was adamant about, and he wanted to explain why he thought the way he did. He reasoned that the only reason gays were gay was because they had a psychological problem, a deep-seated self loathing; their behavior is a manifestation of a cry for help. And then, of course, he said that all of those problems could be overcome if they would just give themselves over to Jesus. That was the end of the discussion for me. I’m not going to convince a vodka swilling, oddly discrete bible thumper of anything with logic. I am still friends with this guy, and I hope I get the chance to work with him again sometime soon. We won’t be discussing anything remotely religious, and he’s OK with that, so I am too. It’s just funny how sometimes even the people who seem relatively normal can come up with some real gems.
I have no doubt than an essay similar to this one describing my own foolish notions could be written. I’d do it myself, but that would make me a little…weird. The whole point here is that we all have our quirks and we have all said or done something that would make others question our ability to walk around without hurting ourselves. Sometimes, though, it’s good to run into people like I’ve described here. It makes me feel a little more normal, whatever that is.

Still Lurking About

Well how about that? This page is still up. I thought it would have been taken down due to inactivity. The last time I was here I promised road stories, but it turns out most of them are pretty boring. In fact, the things that stick in my mind from my travels are usually more like rants than commentary. Fortunately, I do enjoy ranting from time to time, and it will help me get back in the swing of writing. So, on a very light note, here are some observations on some of the people and places I’ve been seeing lately.

Motel Hell

I live in motels. Sometimes they’re fancy and sometimes they’re cheap, but it’s not the price of the motel that makes it better, it’s the feeling you get when you walk in and know right away that you can be comfortable there. It is intangible, elusive, and always welcome. I had a run of two motels in a row a couple months ago that were comfy, but the weird part was that both motels had furniture that looked (to me) exactly like cartoon characters, one from the past and one from the present. See the accompanying pictures and decide if I speak the truth or if dementia has begun.



I walked into a motel room in near Baltimore, a Marriot Courtyard I believe, and the sun streamed into a room that sprung from the pages of a storybook, with impossibly bright colors that covered the spectrum, yet did not seem out of tune. And right away, I saw it. The chair. The chair that struck me like a bolt. You just gotta love those moments when you suddently remember something long-lost, something from your childhood that evokes a rush of nostaligia that brings an instant smile and an inner warmth that has been missing since adulthood set in. Anyway, this cream (?) colored chair sat on a dark blue carpet that was wildy incongruous, yet very pleasing. As soon as I saw it, I remembered a book I hadn’t thought of in years (decades, actually). The book is titled “Put Me In The Zoo” written by Robert Lopshire in 1960, and it was a childhood favorite. (If you have never read it, I suggest you do.) The chair in that room looked exactly like the critter in the book; I never could figure out what kind of animal it was, but there it sat, in my room. Was it just me? Had months of motels worn me to the point where I was seeing imaginary creatures in the flesh, er, fabric? You decide. The picture of the chair is a little dark, but trust me, it was spot-on, so to speak.





I probably wouldn’t have thought the “zoo” chair so strange except that from Baltimore, I went to near DC and walked into a room with a chair that looked just like “Plankton” from Spongebob Squarepants. Two motel rooms with two cartoonish chairs in one day made me wonder if working on the road was starting to have unforeseen side effects. But, unlike the zoo chair, this one doesn’t take much imagination to see. In fact, if you can’t see it, maybe it’s you that has a problem.





Melting Pot

I’ve been a lot of places in the past few months, and every time I change areas, I always make it a point to try to munch on whatever the local culinary specialty is. For instance, I have to eat crab cakes when in Maryland, steak in Oklahoma, and tacos in Texas. Whenever I get to a new site, I find a local bar (duh) and ask the regulars which restaurant they think has the best food in town. I always specify that it’s not the price that makes it good, but the food. Because I’m a bit of a cretin, greasy spoon diners are often far more enjoyable than swanky, “dress up” places. Food presentation means little to me. Flavorful and unique are the qualities I seek, and if I can eat with a spoon, even better. I wish I could give a review of something I heard of in Texas, but my time there was short, and while I did have some AWESOME barbecue, I didn’t get to try the one thing that I had heard so much about: fried butter. Yes, I said fried butter. I think they’ll fry just about anything in Texas. I saw on various menus fried olives, pickles, jalapenos and cheesecake, but the only place to get fried butter was at the state fair, and I heard radio announcers describe the traffic around the fair as “nightmarish”, so I didn’t go. I did manage to get the lowdown on how one goes about frying and eating sticks of butter though. The process, according to the locals, is to take a frozen stick of butter, and roll it in a sort of biscuit dough, then plunge it into hot oil. When sufficiently cooked, the result is a nearly hot dog sized wad of crispy fried goodness that oozes buttery ecstasy. I had heard tales of fried Twinkies as well as fried candy bars (Milky Way, Snickers), but I wanted to eat what surely must be true ambrosia. Mark my words: I WILL eat fried butter before I die. I will.

Home and Away

For all of the different stuff I get to eat, the legion of restaurants can never duplicate the foods that one can only make at home. There is a great deal to be said for eating out, of course, not the least of which is being able to tell someone what you want to eat, wait for them to bring it to you, then leave the dishes when you’re done. I like that. But, there are some things (and we all have our favorites) that can only be made at home, or at least, in a motel room with a kitchen. I have yet to find a motel room with a real oven; twice I have been in a new place shopping, hungry, and bought frozen pizza because it looked good, only to return to my motel and remember that I have no oven. Motel maids must love it when I do that. But there is nothing like making what I want the way I want it made when I want it. It often reminds me that I’m a long way from home and the people I love when I sit and eat by myself, and that can be a drag, but a pile of macaroni and cheese can work wonders when you’re melancholy. I believe writing helps too, now that I think about it. I’m going to have to do it more often.