Driftwood

{Part I - Motion}

A Book of Short Stories

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 Book design by me
Cover art by Fawcett5, 24August 2005. Photo of driftwood taken on the
beach at Beacon Hill Park in Victoria, British Columbia. Image taken from the
Wikipedia, released into the public domain with no copyright
Author photo by Kristen.
Back cover art by me. Photo of dead wood taken in North Bend, WA.

Brought to you by the letter ‘B’

A caffeine-fueled, high-alcohol content binge drinking, altitude sickness,
undisputed attitude, loud music, cigar smoking, short-tempered and full of an
undisputed attitude novel.

The Backstory Project (www.backstoryproject.com)

Bero, Brian J.
Driftwood / Brian J. Bero – 1st Ed.
p. cm.
I. Title
Copyright 2007 Brian J. Bero

Most of these stories have been lingering around in some form or another for
quite some time now. Leftovers, biscuits and refugees. All apologies for the
obvious lack of editing. No apologies for the content within.

“Do not mistake complete lack of talent for genius.”

-Peter Steele

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

All rights reserved.

November 2007
Super Wicked Unedited Family & Friends Limited First Edition

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
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 Stories
FOREWORD........................................................................................................... 5

IT’S ALRIGHT ..................................................................................................... 10

WANDERLUST .................................................................................................... 20

TAKE A WALK .................................................................................................... 31

STRANGER HERE, THAN OVER THERE...................................................... 43

MORNING RUN ................................................................................................... 71

INSOMNIAC ......................................................................................................... 95

EVERYONE FROM THE NORTHWEST IS A SERIAL KILLER.............. 101

MY SUMMER VACATION .............................................................................. 113

A DAY’S RIDE.................................................................................................... 122

LEARN TO SWIM.............................................................................................. 135

DESERT RHYTHM ........................................................................................... 148

THE ART OF NAVIGATION ........................................................................... 159

DRIFTING WOOD............................................................................................. 171

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 For Kristen and Katie

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 Forward

Foreword

Here’s your present folks! And, oh by the way, Merry Christmas!

How many out there were expecting a book, no, a novel for your gift? Ha!

Surprised you didn’t I?

For the past few years, and as they say in the business, I’ve written a

few pieces. Some of these stories were quick “one day get it down writing

sessions”, some other stories came together over time. And most of the work

was crafted while on the road. After all, what do you do with all the time spent

sitting on a plane or in a hotel room or in an airport terminal?

Well, if you’re me, you write.

While those passengers next to me were reading their Ludlum,

Grisham or even Al Gore, I was busy clicking away on my laptop. I found that
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the time just (pardon the pun) flew by. Suddenly, a three-hour flight was a great

opportunity for me to crank out a story as the poor guy next to me writes

emails or edits his latest project plan for work. While the guy next to me in the

hotel lobby was reading the Wall Street Journal and drinking their coffee, I was

plugged into my iPod and pounding out three pages on my laptop before I had

to jet to my first meeting.

Before long, I had thirty pages, then fifty and then well over a hundred

pages of raw material. It was unorganized, stream-of-consciousness “get it

down on paper” type stuff.

At this point, these notes were getting out of hand. What started as a

simple writing exercise soon became something more. I started compiling

material, filling my laptop with file after file of phrases, paragraphs, quotes and

short journal entries. This was material that sprang from traveling all the time

it spoke of life at a startup, tales from the road and all the places I’d seen and

my career “rebirth”. And deep within these pages, I knew there was something

buried in this mountain of raw notes.

And then I had a great idea: I could make a book out of this.

That’s when I discovered that the real work involved in writing is in

pulling together and editing this raw clay into something worth reading. I

started organizing the notes, making revisions, throwing things out and then

adding them back. I started adding chapter after chapter, inserting narrative,

quirky dialog, stories and tales. I began to look for themes and threads and
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ways to tie everything together – make it all seamlessly flow – and I was about

230 pages into the project.

Then I ran headlong into a wall and I knew this thing was growing

beyond my control. The whole thing felt rushed, generic and, even with 230

pages of words, was saying absolutely nothing. There was no shortage of

material, only a gaping shortcoming in skill to finish the project.

I was stuck.

Enter Chuck Palahniuk. I pulled his Stranger Than Fiction book off my

shelf for a re-read and knew I was saved. I scratched the ambitious book

project in favor of a collection of short stories and problem solved.

See, a collection of stories doesn’t need a unifying theme. The book

doesn’t even have to flow. As the writer, I’m free to stick anything in this

collection and you the reader can’t argue. I might throw you a curve with a

story about lesbian cranberry farmers and their yearly convention in Las Vegas

and then follow it up with a piece about a nature walk in the Cascade

Mountains. Everything is legal in a book of short stories.

However, being the good soul I am, and also being a stickler for order,

I decided to try and have this collection make sense. So, gone are the dykes

that harvest berries and I stuck a knife in my Bambi hiking stories. Instead, I

went searching for a unifying theme I could work with.

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 And I didn’t have to look far to see that there was a thread, albeit thin,

of motion within these stories. Running, flying, walking, driving, biking.

Nothing deep or mysterious here or multi-layered within the work, just a

simple theme to try and tie the stories together. Different places I’ve been,

different things that have happened all with motion being the common bond

running through these stories.

There’s also another theme throughout this book, but you’ll have to

pick up that one your own.

Of course, you might ask, “Did all of this happen? Are all of these

things you’ve written about true?”

Well, see time and motion has a way of blurring the senses. When we

look back into the rearviewmirror (note: not a misprint), things tend to get hazy.

The memory gets weak as the distance grows long and I reserve the right to say

“I can’t remember”. I can neither confirm nor deny…..

In all seriousness, as you read this book, realize this is a warm-up

exercise for future work. From my standpoint, I feel this is Part I of IV in

what I’m calling “The Backstory Project”. Ambitious, yes, but I figure I should

have some long range goal with all of this. Besides, I had a great time on this

project. But, I promise for the next one, I’ll get a proper editor. I’m taking

applications now.

Please be kind and gentle. I guarantee you that I’ll have to have

Kristen mail these books out to you. My stomach is knotting up thinking that
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what I’ve written will (gasp) actually be read. My glowing soul on display for

everyone to read….on second though, maybe I should just keep book

unpublished! Sigh…

I’m trying to make up to you guys for not being a good husband,

father, son, brother, brother-in-law, son-in-law, distant relative and friend. See,

I’ve got what people call a “communication problem”, but that doesn’t mean I

love each of you all any less.

Merry Christmas!

Love y’all. Mean it. Enjoy.

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 Seattle

It’s Alright

We had no definitive plan for our couple’s night out. It was just the

four of us, Bob, Dana, Kristen and me, walking the streets of just north of

downtown Seattle looking for something to do on a Saturday night.

When you live on the Eastside – that would be any town east of Lake

Washington - it’s an easy pilgrimage into the city. And when you get a night

out and want some nightlife, Seattle really is the only choice. Just take one of

two traffic congested, and rapidly falling into the Lake, bridges into the jewel of

the Pacific Northwest, the Emerald City.

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 And that is the reason why the four of us are walking down Pike

street, headed downhill past 5th, on an unseasonably mild December evening.

There’s a brisk wind blowing through the streets, coming in from the east

across the Sound, funneling through the high-rise condos and office buildings,

and the breeze stings your nose with its saltwater bite. The sky is filled with

these large jigsaw puzzle piece clouds, low and gray in the reflected city light.

The weather is mild indeed and usually this time of year walking out in the

open would mean a steady rain to go along with the evening wind. Not the

kind of rain that soaks you or leaves you dripping wet, just an endless cold

drizzle that makes the inventor of SmartWool socks a hero to the locals.

December in Seattle equals wet and cold. But not tonight - our

holiday spirit quest/night out. Bob wants us all to go to the Pacific Place for

our “get in the spirit of Christmas” trip and that’s exactly the reason we’re right

here standing in a crowd waiting for the crosswalk light even though there’s no

oncoming traffic.

Walking west, from most anywhere in the city, means walking

downhill towards the Sound and we’re on our heels going down a steep hill

with the Pac Place in view. A steady current of people flow on either side of

the street; hurrying across crosswalks to beat the traffic lights. The steady rush

of traffic and people are dwarfed by office towers that, architecturally, really

don’t have much to say. Call me a building snob, but I prefer the older,

interesting buildings around Pioneer Square instead of the cookie-cutter “new

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business center” glass and steel buildings you see in all American cities

nowadays. These things seem to sprout from the ground – one year you’re

looking at a parking lot and a year later you’ve got this 40 story tower with

gleaming glass, a makeshift park filled with benches and trucked in mature

trees so the building tenants have somewhere to sip their Starbucks (located on

the ground floor of this new marvel).

And in the center of it all sits an upscale indoor called the Pacific

Place. Tonight finds us on the doorstep of a retail center geared towards high

end shopping that can be almost described as, gasp, pretentious in a city that

prides itself with being unpretentious. Think Nordstrom’s. The kind of shops

where $100 buys you a shopping bag with a name and not much inside.

We step inside the silo like, four level Pacific Place and into a swirling

mass of humanity all smiles, cacophony and shopping bags.

Bob puts his hands on his hips and takes in the inspiring sight, “What

time is it? At 6:00 the snow starts.”

“Snow? Here? “

“Yeah, can you believe it? We’re in a mall and it’s snowing!”

For the record, it’s 5:40, it’s not snowing and, overwhelmed by the

crowd, I’m searching for any unoccupied spot. I’m hunting for prime space to

watch the festivities. Forget about the ground level. It’s packed in tighter than

a general admission concert. Our only choice is to seek higher ground.

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 “We’re in a mall and it’s snowing!”

Up the escalators. 2nd level. 3rd level.

For the record, it’s now 5:50 and there are lots of Eastside family

types, like us, here.

Eastside and Eastsiders. The equivalent of a four letter word around

these parts. Might as well be labeled a tourist.

See, if you don’t live in the city, you spend a lot of time trying to

connect with the city. Seattle is the city. You live anywhere else and you’re a

second class citizen of the Great Northwest. Ah, to live in Seattle: The Portal

to the Pacific. The land of strong beer, stronger coffee, books, fleece, trees,

fish, water, homeless people, software and mountains. The last American

outpost and only defense against the Canadian invasion.

Don’t get me wrong, not living in the city has its perks. I enjoy not

paying extra car taxes for a monorail that will never be built. And I appreciate

a trip to the grocery store not being a major ordeal, thank you. It’s great to not

have to fight over parking either. Still, I like many other Eastsiders, are secretly

jealous. We want to live here, have our cookie-cutter 2500 sq. ft. home, two

car garages and be able to walk everywhere. We want our have our cake with

icing and, yes, eat it too. Living in the city is a way to stay on top of things, feel

the pulse of a living dynamic city where you can spend a day down at the

Waterfront or an afternoon at Gasworks Park or a weekend morning

wandering around the Seattle Center. Maybe even spend an evening or two up
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on Capitol Hill where it’s Halloween every night. After all, where’s the street

credibility when you live in Snoqualmie? How can you stay young and hip in

the land of SUV’s and urban sprawl?

There’s a running joke that Seattleites have to get their passports

stamped when the travel over the Lake to the Eastside and that’s why not

many from the city bother to make the trip unless they need to fill up their tank

with gas before continuing on to a ski resort in the mountains or over to the

Gorge for a concert and camping. At best, the Eastside is a rest stop.

Here’s a fun part game, next time you meet someone who says they’re

from Seattle, ask them if they actually live in the city. If they change the

subject, or look away, chances are they live outside the city limits. Just

pretenders.

However, tonight we’re all here this evening to connect with the city.

Eastsiders, city-dwellers, the young, the hip and the older crowd like us. All

one big bonding nuclear family.

There’s something about clean-cut, fleece wearing, 30-something

people that just screams Eastsider.

“Can you believe it? We’re in a mall and…”

And then the snow starts. Over the speakers comes piped-in

Christmas music – the Bing Crosby and Burl Ives standards. Light, Styrofoam

like snow starts shooting out of whirring vents located right below us. The

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snow falls slowly at first, and then picks up momentum as the machines hit

their stride. Soon the Pac Place air is full of light, white flakes dancing along

the indoor currents – slowly making their decent to the crowd below. Kids,

parents, old, young looking up at us looking down at them as the fake snow

falls gently down.

Styrofoam snow blowing left to right, up and down and swirling across

each level of the shopping mall. We’re caught in an indoor blizzard, trapped

near a high end dress store.

We start back down, as the snow falls, to get a better look. Enough

has fallen already to coat everyone with a layer of fake snow dander.

As we hit the 2nd floor, we start noticing a stream of Santa’s coming up

the escalators. First five, then ten, and then they just keep coming in. They’re

filling the escalator, two abreast, like a chain of red slicing through the crowd.

These aren’t your typical Santa Clauses. They aren’t roly-poly. These

aren’t silver haired, bearded icons of Christmas.

There’s a she-Santa wearing a mini-skirt and fishnet stockings arm-in-

arm with a monstrously tall Santa in combat boots. And the pack continues to

grow – fifty, maybe a hundred at this point. A river of Santa red, mixed with a

smattering of black boots, chrome studs and the occasional purple or blue hair.

This river is running up through a sea of us shoppers and holiday revelers.

This is the unofficial annual Santa Rampage.

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 Sometimes called Santarchy, and founded by the Cacophony Society,

the Santa Rampage was first staged in San Francisco as a way to celebrate the

season in a distinctly anti-commercial way – by doing some improve, guerilla

theatre, off key caroling and some public drunkenness for good measure.

Since the first sightings in San Francisco, the Santa Rampage has moved on to

Portland, Austin, Vancouver, Tokyo, Antarctica, Chicago and, of course,

Seattle. They are here to burst the bubble of what is considered the holiday

norm with their cheap Santa outfits and off chord Christmas carols.

They’re a motley bunch. Short ones, tall ones, fat, skinny, male and

female are in this brood. And the outfits are all over the place. Nothing like a

Santa with tat’s covering his arm to ring in the holidays. It just isn’t Christmas

until you hear “Hear Comes Santa Claus” sung by a dude with a nose ring in a

musty, old rented Santa suit.

For the record, it’s after 6:00, I’m in a mall and it’s snowing. The

forecast calls for heavy snow, tapering off when the Santa chick wearing the

bride’s veil and carrying a patched toy bag makes it up to the 4th floor. Yes, it

is snowing in this mall and we are being engulfed in a flash mob by the Santa’s

from hell. They’re making a circuit inside the mall – up to the very top of the

mall, circle around the floor, and then make their way back down Spreading

Christmas cheer amongst us astounded, gaping mouthed tourists.

I’m thinking the gentrified crowd here isn’t feeling the holiday cheer the

Santa’s are bringing. Not that these folks are uptight, but I’m guessing they’d

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rather have their kids seeing the traditional Santa. The rosy cheeked type with

a belly and maybe an elf in tow. It’s probably safe say that little Timmy hasn’t

been exposed to Santa’s wearing garters with multiple piercing. I could be

wrong though.

The four of us have had our fill of Christmas cheer and fake mall

snow and we’re now outside. Ready to move on with the rest our night.

The Santa’s start to file out of the mall. They’re huddling up – a mass

of shabby red rented costumes that the sidewalk can’t possibly contain. I

mean, there’s a lot of Santa’s in the mix here. They stream past us on either

side, and we’re caught up in a seemingly endless sea of red polyester and velvet

against our island of normalcy. The smell of starchy dry cleaning and fleece

mingles in the air with everything from patchouli, to musk and whiskey. We’re

surrounded by Santa’s now. Green haired tongue-pierced Santa’s, long haired

stubble wearing Santa’s, thin pasty white Santa’s with studded leather collars

and thick eyeliner. All of those Santa’s bursting out of the upscale Pac Place

and onto the street with the four of us caught in the middle.

One Santa rises from the pack, points his finger skyward and then

levels his arm to point east and yells, “Onward Santa’s! To Westlake and then

the Market! Merry Christmas everyone and to all a good night!”

And in a flash, they are all moving downhill along Pike Street, stopping

traffic and onlookers alike. One portly Santa sleeveless, tattooed and smelling

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like a pack of cigarettes passes us. He’s bringing up the rear of this group and

trying to catch his breath as his comrades’ charge onward.

This Santa looks at us with a twinkle in his eye and a warm smile. Merry

F’ing Christmas folks!, he says with a laugh.

Now that’s the holiday spirit I came for. That’s why you come to the

city instead of hanging out on the Eastside. In Seattle, just below the surface,

there’s a good, honest layer of grit. That’s why we’re here tonight. We love

our Emerald City with the dirt under her fingernails. We’ll all go back to our

homes only to face west and look back across the water lovingly.

And when we see the beautiful glow of city lights, we’ll be jealous.

However, we all share one thing in common – we all inhabit this

spectacular region called the Great Northwest. From Oregon to Washington,

Portland to Tacoma to Seattle to Bellingham to Bellevue to Snoqualmie to

Wenatchee. City folks and us Eastsiders alike. We’re really not that different.

We all share the same air and the same crowded roads. We all bitch

about house prices on the rise. We all stand in the feeble sunshine and soak it

in on the rare occasion we get a sunshower. We all have to endure endless

weeks of gray and rain. We all share the burden of a seemingly endless winter

in our remote corner of the world because this great place is our collective

home.

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 Have you ever turned your face to a rainy sky, knowing that you won’t

see the sun for another month or two, and just yelled at the rain? Just let out all

your emotion in one primal scream? Try it, it’s very therapeutic.

The Northwest is a very special place and it takes a certain type of

person to live here and embrace the culture, lifestyle, the weather and the

people. And amongst all the Eastsiders, the Seattleites and the Santarchists, I

am right at home. I take a deep drink of the cool, damp December air and

turn my face to the sky watching those jigsaw clouds lock together into an

endless canopy. Very soon all of us here tonight won’t see the sky for the next

three months.

So, with a twinkle in my eye and a warm smile on my lips, to all those

during this holiday season, I say….

Merry F’ing Christmas folks.

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 Seattle

Wanderlust

I really should be working at 1:00pm on a spectacular Wednesday

afternoon in mid-August. Honestly, instead of wandering down the nooks and

crannies of Pike’s Market, I should be sitting in my office, with no window or

natural light, coding something. Instead of checking every shelf in the discount

section of Elliott Bay Bookstore, I should be developing an application.

Hold that thought as I take another sip of my double-tall-soy-latte that

was so skillfully made at the Zeitgeist.

This is heaven.

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 My job is pretty simple. Write code for some big named

telecommunications company. After a two-year stint at Classmates.com, where

I really did nothing but occupy space, pass time and drink loads of coffee and

Gary’s Dragonwater tea, I was dying for a meaningful job. A role at a “rapidly

growing, premier Seattle employer” where I could “make an impact in a

dynamic industry and be a part of something special”

Right. I’ve heard that before. Look, I am a corporate tool, so spare

me the rah-rah talk Ms. Recruiter.

But really, how can you say no to any job that is located in downtown

Seattle one block away from the waterfront? Exactly, you take the deal just for

the fringe benefits. Use the man to pay the bills and fund daily wanderings

around the city. I went back to slinging code.

I threw myself into this job. Well not the job, but everything else that

surrounded the job. I threw myself into Seattle.

I rode the bus to work to reduce my carbon footprint and ease

congestion on the roads. I went out and bought monthly bus passes from

either the transit center or a local QFC. $90 bucks, by the way, and you get

unlimited rides – it’s a steal.

Name any coffee shop within a 7 block radius of Elliott and Clay –

I’ve been there, done that and gotten the caffeine buzz to show for it. Sbux,

Tully’s, Cherry Street, Zeitgeist, Pegasus, Local Color, Seattle’s Best, and Elliot

– I know them all.

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 I wrapped Seattle around me like a warm fleece during the endless

weeks of rain. And she embraced me back.

Oh, the job was ok. Honestly, it was just background noise. I could

get my work done in about 3 or so hours. That left plenty of time for

exploring the city or figuring out different ways to get to Issaquah or Bellevue

by bus so I could explore different parts of downtown and stand at a different

bus stop. The further I could walk from the office to a bus stop, the better.

If you walk long enough, eventually…..you’ll reach your bus.

My goal was to ride every bus that had a route to Eastgate. And I

managed to achieve that by my second month.

To embrace my inner-Seattleite, I explored the city – every nook, every

cranny I could find. I was driven by a burning need to feel connected to Seattle.

To feel like I belonged here and a part of this vibrant place.

I would walk past the city government buildings and see what

rally/protest was taking place and pretend to sympathize.

Underpaid teacher – you got my vote and support.

Citizens against capital punishment – we’re all in this together.

Indian rights – I call it corn; you call it maze, baby.

There was this extraordinarily cool protest, for about a week, in front

of the Edgewater Hotel – the same hotel that Zeppelin made famous during

their early tours – where the plumbers were protesting against unfair labor
22
practices, poor wages and health care. These guys, about 10 or so very scruffy

folks, had the standard pickets and signs but then raised it up a notch or two.

They had a giant, inflatable rat along side Alaskan Way.

I was so moved by their protest that I just had to strike up a

conversation. Let me tell you, this is big for me to strike up a conversation

with anyone. I’m here to observe and not necessarily dig for the why.

So, it was unusual protocol for me to walk up to a picketer and ask,

“Where did you guys get that giant rat?”

This grizzly looking union worker stops in mid-protest looks at me

and says, “Man, there’s this place in Kent where you can get any kind of

inflatable thing. They’ll fabricate whatever you ask for.”

Now while impressed by their effort and passion, I’m wondering if

this place in Kent would fab a big inflatable middle-finger for me. You know,

maybe stock up on some protest gear ahead of time.

If you walk long enough, eventually…..you’ll meet a rat.

My explorations started to take longer and consume more time with

each passing day. I grabbed a gym membership at the Seattle Athletic Club in

order to keep a pair of tennis shoes in a locker for my afternoon walks.

My time in the office started to shrink. And no one even noticed.

The two computers under my desk in my dark interior office kept humming

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away, processing nothing. My desk had nothing on it except for a printed out

copy of the 545 to Issaquah’s schedule. Instead, I continued to walk.

Refusing to piss away a second more of my life rotting in an office, I threw

myself into this daily wanderlust. The bus became a place where I could mix

with the people, real people. Give me your tired and poor and also those

commuting. A mass transit groupie that could recite bus schedules and

proudly carried a monthly bus pass. I went out of my way to take a bus that

used the underground tunnels just so I could ride up the endless escalator into

the heart of the city.

And then they shut down the tunnels for the light-rail project.

My normal bus route makes its last stop across from Top Pot Donuts. I

had to start getting off at 4th and Pine and walk an extra ½ mile when I packed

on four pounds the first month. My new path to the office took me past drug

dealers and vagrants. You get used to the smell of piss and liquor if you know

how to control your breathing. Identify the oncoming stink – like seeing a

homeless, dirty guy walking towards you - then suck in a big breath and hold

until you’re twenty paces past the person. Exhale and take short, shallow

breaths. A side benefit until you master the art of breathing is that you begin

to pick up a new skill in identifying smells.

This is a small price to pay for getting to explore the city and getting paid

while you do it. How cool is it to get paid a nice salary and get to walk up and

down the waterfront? Or spend an hour or two at Myrtle Edwards Park

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watching the seagulls and boats sail by. Walk on up to the grain silo at the

north end of the park and then head over the foot bridge shaped like a DNA

strand at Amgen’s campus on Elliott Street.

I have such a hard-on for this city. I simply love the smell of the

streets. From the piss smell coming from under the Viaduct, to the saltwater

musty smell along Occidental Avenue, these streets have the aroma of home.

Seattle is grimy and dirty, but in a good way. A real way.

The waterfront, the buildings, the market are all rooms in my extended

home. The lobby of the old Seattle Building, on 3rd Avenue, with its gleaming

gold and brown décor is where Pegasus Coffee is located. Go in there and

have the absolute best mocha you’ll ever taste.

If you walk long enough, eventually…..

The two levels of Elliott Bay Bookstore are like my own personal

church, including the discounted book section towards the back of the shop,

and I made sure to visit for a weekly confessional. Grab a book, go downstairs

to the basement and have a double-tall latte in an oversized cup and plop

yourself into a comfy chair for the next hour or so.

If you walk long enough, eventually…..you’ll read Kafka.

Post Alley shops – the ones across the market like the Perennial Tea

Room - are so familiar I could tell you more about what are on their shelves

than I can tell you about what’s in my own home.

25
 Ever heard about the great Philippine grocery – in the Sanitary Market

across from Pike – being one of the oldest stores in the entire market that is

run by a family? Bet you didn’t know it has a phenomenal lunch spread. Just

sit down at the back counter and ask “Mama” to hook you up. If you are a

first timer, Mama gives you a taste of everything she’s prepared that day. To

this day, I have no idea what all I’ve eaten, but it’s been great. And at five

bucks for lunch, it’s a steal.

And if you’re in the mood for a top notch sandwich, Michou’s has the

best chicken on fresh baked bread around. $5.25 and you get a lunch that’ll

blow your mind as long as you get their before they sell out.

Tamale’s, a Mexican grocery just down from the 1st Starbucks, has the

cheapest lunchtime eats. Go in there and get a couple of pork or chicken

tamales at $1.75 apiece. You’ll eat like a king for under $5.

And don’t get me started on the chili place in the bottom of the

market. Or the coffee and art at Local Color where they brew with Café Vita

beans and have good local art to view while you wait.

While you’re at the market, head to the south end where you’ll find the

Pike Brewery & Pub. At first glance, the place seems very touristy and it is if

you end up in the restaurant. Instead, get over to the bar and get a pitcher of

the Kiltlifter brewed right there onsite. Chris and Lee turned me on to the

greatness that is the ‘Lifter on one of our first explorations of the city. One

26
pint of that as you sit in their worn leather chairs next to the bar will fix you up

just right.

That’s just the Market. Great food, incredible produce and flowers,

phenomenal coffee and bakeries, off-beat shops and always an interesting place

to wander and roam. During the summer, Wednesdays are the organic

grower’s day. $3.00 buys you a pint of the best organic blueberries around and

it makes for a very healthy lunch provided you don’t also make a pit stop by

the donut-hole stand and grab a dozen cinnamon sugared.

Wednesday’s at the market was the reason I bought an ultra-hip

backpack. So I could carry any fresh produce from the market home with me.

For all you tourists, if you exploration of the city stops at the Market,

you’re missing out on the real Seattle.

Take Pioneer Square for example, the oldest part of the city. Yes, you

can do the Underground Tour with all the other sightseers and peer up

through glass cubes as you walk under the street where the original downtown

was before it burned to the ground. Or, you could stay above ground in the

present-day buildings and poke around.

Elliott Bay Bookstore, as previously mentioned, is a must stop. And

then get yourself over to the New Orleans for some good cornbread, beans

and gumbo washed down with Mac-n-Jacks African Amber brewed over in

Redmond.

27
 And what trip to Pioneer Square is complete without going into the

Grand Central building or J & M’s for a beer or one of the many collector

bookstores. Oh, and that cool nautical supply store that has old navigation

charts and maps.

Head over to Magic Toys and look around. Then step into the

Pioneer Square Hotel (now managed by Best Western) to take in the sights of

the lobby. Get over to Bakemann’s and order a turkey-n-cranberry sauce

sandwich for a lunch under $5 – it’s a hard to find lunch spot as it sits under 1st

avenue, but worth the time to find it. Just make sure you know what to order

when you’re asked otherwise you go to the end of the line.

If there’s a Mariners game, get down to the stadium and buy a brat or

sausage. Do the Stadium walk down Occidental Avenue and walk around

where the street vendors are on your way to Safeco Field. For the record, I’d

recommend the Edgar or Buhner brat. Maybe even grab a bag of peanuts.

Who cares if you actually go into the stadium? And get yourself an iced

double-tall latte from Zeitgeist on your way back. It’s a religious experience,

even a novice coffee drinkers.

Poke your head in the Smith Tower on 1st and Yesler and check out

the oldest Seattle skyscraper with the charm of manual elevators. Walt Disney

has two floors of offices around here – a bunch of IT guys like me locked up

in cubes in this historic building. I look up to the 21st floor to see if I can catch

anyone peering out of their office windows. No dice.

28
 And don’t get me started on the sights and sounds of Capitol Hill.

There’s too much to explore by foot alone and lunch hours can, honestly, only

stretch so long. For three great months, I had the opportunity to immerse

myself in the city life.

If it sounds like I’m giddy as a schoolgirl, well, yes I am.

If you walk long enough, eventually…..you’ll find yourself at home.

Wanderings, ramblings, random paths – taking the time to walk your

city, your town, your home is the perfect way to explore. You’ll be surprised

at how your world expands, and you feel connected to your new extended

home. The people, all around you, become your extended family.

Tomorrow I should get up and see if I can find some better trail shoes,

my gym shoes are starting to wear thin from all the miles put on them. My

soles’ worn thin, so to speak.

Quietly I wonder if Queen Anne is too far of a walk. Probably not if I

give myself two or three hours. Or I could stretch out to Freemont or Ballard

perhaps? There’s a guy that lives downtown that has made it a goal to walk

every mile of Seattle sidewalks, some three or four hundred miles in all I

believe. The possibilities are endless in the wilderness of the city.

Ceiling unlimited as a pilot would say on a crystal clear day.

I take another sip of my Zeitgeist work of art and smile. Maybe I’ll go

back to work for an hour or two and then catch the 555 into Eastgate. It’s a

29
great walk from the office to the 2nd Street and Pine stop. And I could even

swing back through the market and see what produce bargains can be had.

After all, it’s another three hours before my bus comes. That’s plenty

of time to find the best market deals and watch the ferries as they go across the

Sound. Plus, there’s the roasted cashew guy and his $5 bag of freshly roasted

treasure. It’s just another beautiful day in the Emerald City.

I love this place…

30
 Cleveland

Take a Walk

This line isn’t moving.

I’m at Starbucks, just inside the door, waiting to place my triple-

grande-soy-latte order. The line in front of me wraps in and out of the tables,

and here I am bringing up the rear. My back is pressed firmly against the cold

door. I know this because the glass sticks to my fleece every time I rock back

and forth on my heels. If I shuffle too far back, I get a fresh blast of winter air

against my backside and my eyes bug out and I have to hold in a literal gasp.

I should have taken a walk up the street to that other Sbux location.

The fleece I packed, and my only source of warmth for a trip to

Cleveland in the dead of winter, was not a smart decision. In fact the decision

31
was based less on practical and more on the look I was going for. I brought it

because fleece just screams Pacific Northwest and I was too lazy to carry anything

thicker through airport security.

While fleece works for West Coast winters, it’s as much use as a paper

umbrella in a hurricane. That’s why I need to have a constant injection of

coffee to keep my hands and body above freezing.

The line still isn’t moving.

And here’s why – downtown Cleveland has become a movie set this

week. For Spiderman III, one of the many action packed scenes involves a

bank robbery and subsequent armored car chase down a busy city street. This

street would be filled with cars, busses, hot dog carts, people and your run-of-

the-mill superhero battling a bad guy made of sand in a moving armored car.

Really, just your typical night on the New York streets.

So, to pull this movie magic off the production crew figured they’d

need four days to shoot this scene and some “filler” city shots in between.

They’d need four days where they could have between five and eight blocks of

city street all to themselves.

Spiderman’s hometown is New York City, but that’s not an option for

Hollywood. There’s no way to commandeer any street in that city for one day,

let alone four straight days. What Spiderman, and the production crew, needed

was a substitute. A cost-effective alternative.

32
 Goodbye, NYC. Hello Cleveland!

Home of the Indians, the Browns, a lake that famously caught fire and

now it has become Hollywood-East for the next week. Funny thing is that I’ve

never actually made it to New York City and here I get to live the experience

of a random NYC street while I’m working in Cleveland.

Strange, I can’t get too excited about this.

The line inches ahead and I move my butt off the cold door.

There’s a guy in a thick, but well worn jacket. That ‘70s tan color with

dirt stains up the sleeves, this guy is hunched over his Grande drip both worn

hands gripping the cup tightly, the steam rising into his face. Just a homeless

guy getting his morning coffee vapor bath as a line snakes around him with

enough wealth to make the entire scene shameful. But this is not a

commentary on the great wealth divide (chasm) in this country.

Instead it is social commentary about the people standing in the line,

those movie producing, latte ordering, self righteous, world-revolves-around-

me individuals that have raided the quintessential blue-collar town.

See, I’ve had to put up with truck loads of Californians and their

movie shit the past two days now.

I booked my usual room at my usual hotel, the Wyndham located in

the “Theatre District” of downtown Cleveland. There are about four or five

33
theaters within a half mile of the hotel, which is really handy since I have no

desire to see any shows while I’m here.

It used to be some old hotel until Wyndham took over and remodeled.

Now it’s old with new beds and updated bathrooms. If you have to stay in

Cleveland, it’s not a bad place to spend a few nights. According to my clients,

it’s best to stay indoors after 9:00 PM here during the week, unless there’s a

bunch of shows or plays going on. Otherwise, the people you’ll meet on the

street are “on the shady side”.

Or so my clients say.

With all apologies to my Grandfather who was born nearby, why else

would you travel to this city other than for business? You’re either visiting

relatives or clients. Family or business – sometimes even those lines get

blurred, but that’s another story.

My clients tell me about this great place for dinner, not too far from

Jacobs Field. Great burgers and sandwiches they say.

“Uh, well you might not want to walk that way unless there’s a Cavs

game going on. Or, if baseball was going on. But it’s not of course.”

“Yeah, actually you’re better off going there for lunch. How about

you just don’t go out after dark? Really, we can’t promise you’d be safe. It’s

not a good idea to go take a walk.”

Well, I say, that’s comforting.

34
 The line isn’t moving. I am permanently stuck in this place.

I stay at the Wyndham because my clients are across the street.

Directly across the street. I can look out of the window in my room and right

into their building.

The VP of Technology was working until 7pm last night. His light

was on. So was mine.

The hotel’s location is really convenient for a business trip like the one

I’m on. And there’s a Starbucks at the end of the block. From a routine

standpoint, it goes wake up, shower, dress, Starbucks and onto work. Simple

enough.

The founder’s brother, Ron was working until 8pm. Maybe 8:30. I

couldn’t go anywhere after dark, so I figured I’d keep track of these things.

The Wyndham Hotel is a great place to setup shop since it’s so close

to my client. It’s easy to walk across the street after all.

Enter Spiderman and it changes things.

The production crew must number in the hundreds. There are

production assistants, gophers, gaffers and the carte services crew. There are

drivers, runners, logistics and legal.

All these folks are Californian. You just get a sense for these things. I

can even pinpoint them as being from Los Angeles. Tanned, perfect

complexion and great haircuts.

35
 And there are boatloads of security guards.

And these guys aren’t from California. I think they’re local. Big dudes

with puffy jackets, arms the size of my torso and attitudes.

They’ve got my road blocked off and barricaded. I can’t move

without getting stopped and directed away by a burly, super-sized guy.

I’m completely cut off unless I go five blocks up or four blocks down

and cross the street. Five blocks up puts me close to the ghetto, four blocks

down gets me close to the transit station. I’m not scared, it’s really about the

cold and my inability to tolerate any temperature under the 40 degree mark.

And those big dudes are blocking the way with their arms crossed and

their surly demeanor. They’re kind of intimidating.

I don’t know it yet, but tomorrow I’ll have a shouting match with one

of these guards and cause a major scene. Call it my own scene-stealing

performance. This big, burly guard with a punching bag face and bowling ball

sized hands will tell me to take a walk, man and I’ll tell him to f-off as these

gaping mouthed Californians look on with their perma-shocked faces and wide,

staring eyes. We will stand toe-to-toe jawing it out, one guy doing his job

another just wanted to cross the street in order to do his.

I’ll take a walk alright, right through the security guard and across the

street. But, I digress – that doesn’t happen until tomorrow.

36
 The Californians have moved in, albeit temporarily, and taken over

Cleveland of all places. Everywhere I go, I can’t seem to shake these guys.

They’re the smiling face wearing a $100 t-shirt and some type of “smart” shoes

walking downtown in your city or town – they are visiting relatives or maybe

checking out a second house for a rental or investment property since land is

simply a steal wherever they go.

Imagine a typical Cleveland downtown morning – you’ve got your

regular bustle of people, grim faced, pale and cold as they make their way to

work. Now inject hundreds of freshly tanned, beautiful people bundled up in

winter parkas striding around downtown like they own the town.

It’s easy to pick the Californians out of a Cleveland line-up. They’re

the ones with only chin and cheeks showing as the fur lined hoods are pulled

up covering their salon fresh hair and stylish shades hiding their eyes. Thick

studio issued ski gloves cover their manicured hands. Sometimes the only skin

you see is a nose pointing out from their hoods. Still, you know they’re

beautiful.

Also, it’s easy to pick the stupid Washingtonian out of a line-up. He’s

the one wearing a gray fleece, thin dress pants, white as a ghost, sporting no

sunglasses and without gloves. Completing the ensemble, he’s carrying a

twenty-five pound laptop bag and wind burnt cheeks. And he’s shaking so bad

from the cold that he’s blurring at the edges.

37
 Yes, the Californians have invaded yet another state and they’ve taken

over the only Starbucks within walking distance. You guys raise the average

house price back home, pricing us out of desirable towns like Bellevue, and

now you raise my wait time for coffee. Californians are this century’s elite

social caste.

From my standpoint, I have a love-hate relationship with these guys

that even I don’t fully understand You could say I’m jealous, and on some

level, you’re spot-on. They’re easy targets for quips, jokes and one-liners.

Every traveler has to have someone to blame for why they’re delayed or why

they’re favorite hotel is sold out. Or why their home is turning into a posh

members-only club. Every writer needs an easy target.

There are twenty or so Californians in front of me, bewildering these

baristas with their “half-caf,non-fat-extra foam-one-pump-vanilla-latte” or

other concoctions. I know the Starbucks folks get good training – my God,

the one thing you can count on when you travel is for all Starbucks to be

consistent – but these Cleveland baristas are used to pouring drip and mixing a

frap. This California stuff is too complex.

These baristas are faced with the fact that their Starbucks is filled with

these beautiful people, these models-in-training that own this city for the week.

These plastic people from Los Angeles that think they own the world.

38
 The line is actually moving now. Although, I’m still getting blasted by

the artic air sweeping across Lake Erie every time a new Californian comes into

the store.

One Californian leaves, another takes his/her place. And, from time

to time, a local comes in with their extra fifteen pounds, heavy pea coat and

pale complexion. It’s priceless, the look on their faces. It screams – “We’ve

been invaded.”

Now I’m getting frustrated. I just want my coffee, my triple grande

latte and nobody gets hurt. I want some warmth for these old bones.

I want to be three shots to the wind.

An employee steps out from behind the counter and starts taking

drink orders, writing them down on the paper sleeve. She stares up at me from

behind her green apron and asks in that familiarly odd Ohioan voice, “What

can I get’cha this morning?”

Look, I’m not with these guys I swear, I want to say, but don’t. I just

place my order and emphasize triple when asked for my caffeine need.

Triple? You know that a grande comes with two shots already says the

short lady.

Yes. I know it comes with two shots already. I need you to add an

additional shot. You know, the whole 1+2=3 thing? Three shots of espresso

– no more, no less.

39
 She rolls her eyes and her Swiss-cheese ass around and I’m confident

that my drink will get some form of saliva injected into it. I really don’t care as

long as there are three shots of espresso in that damn cup.

While I continue to wait and stew in my anger at California, sleep

deprivation and caffeine withdrawal, I listen to the buzz of conversation in the

store. Since the Californians have majority, they decide to be the vocal ones.

The few locals scattered about are somber and silent, just waiting for coffee

and then quickly moving on.

“Can you believe how cold it is here?” said one random bundle of

winter clothes

Another short, raven haired soy-mocha-without-whip preening model

says “I don’t know about you, but I really can’t wait for the shoot to finish. I so

have to get back home to dry out.”

I’m thinking about earthquakes right now and, beyond mass

destruction and unprecedented death, I can’t find the downside. Call it a

regional “reboot” of sorts.

“Does anyone know of a place to eat around here that doesn’t have

every dish smothered in cheese or gravy?”

We inch forward. Any motion is good motion at this point, all of us

packed in and bumping each other with puffy jackets, pea coats and a lone

fleece.

40
 If you travel long enough and far enough, you may not run into

yourself, but you’re bound to come across someone that orders the same

coffee as you. And here I come face to face with my twin – some guy with

perfect straight gleaming teeth standing about 6’4” or so with a nice tan. And

I’m sure his name has to be Seth or something like that and he’s just got to

have a trust fund and BMW 5-series. Seth probably keeps a script he wrote,

while at UCLA, in his trunk just waiting for the right moment.

Since karma has a really funny sense of humor, Seth likes his triple-

grande-soy-latte the same as I. I’ve been across the country, in countless

Starbucks and almost as many non-chain coffee joints and, until now, thought

I was alone in this vast universe of coffee drinkers. An original, like the

Marlboro man, but without the lung disease and cowboy hat. When I ordered

my drink, people stepped aside – the triple shot thing demanded respect – and

I was a Man amongst boys.

Until this guy came along, my world was swimming along nicely. Just

me and my unique snowflake of a drink order. Now here in Cleveland I am

faced with the realization that I am not alone in the universe.

I am not my Starbuck drink order.

Now I’m tired, cold, caffeine deprived and pissed – the hits just keep

on coming. Some random Californian orders the same drink as I do.

41
 I move forward, one step, two steps closer to the counter and wish the

counter could be miles away from here. Of all the places, all the chain-coffee

shops in the world, I’ve come face-to-face with my doppelganger.

Resigned, I fork over my $5.00 cash and tell the lady at the counter to

keep the change. Dejected, I wait for my order to arrive around the same time

as my counterpart.

The barista calls out a triple-grande-soy-latte-with-whip and as I reach

for the cup, I say no, no I didn’t order with whip.

The Californian glides past and cheerfully says, “Oh, that’s mine guy.

Thanks dude and have a good day!”

The barista calls my drink out and slides it towards me. I’m so happy

that she has to remind me to pick up my drink. I was already smiling and

heading out the door and into the cold, winter morning to take a walk with the

warmest feeling I’d felt in a long time.

42
 San Jose

Stranger Here, Than Over There

The klaxon wail of the alarm clock jars me from a deep sleep. The

sound is deafening and immediately I’m upright in bed, hands out to my side

ready to defend myself from the unseen, but vocal threat. With my heart in my

throat, my ears burning and my eyes slowly starting to adjust, I realize this is

not a physical threat – it’s just an alarm clock going off. I’m fumbling over a

mound of pillows trying in vain to turn off the shrieking noise box.

Funny thing is I don’t remember ever setting the alarm clock on the

nightstand and then it hits me.

This is the fire alarm going off.

43
 Do you remember when you were in elementary school having to go

through those fire drills? You’d line up with your class and march, single file

of course, out of your classroom to the nearest exit. Maybe you even had a kid

who was in charge of getting everyone in line, out of the classroom and safely

out of the simulated burning school. That kid has tremendous pressure on him

or her and didn’t realize it. I was the kid that was all about getting a 10 minute

break from school.

The fire alarm continues to wail, pleading with me to get up and out of

the room. You will die unless you leave your room now, it cries in vain. You

will turn to ash if you don’t leave the room now, it says.

In case of emergency Brian, follow the posted fire escape plan.

Now that I’m awake, I can see the mounted fire alarm in the ceiling.

A small, mini-strobe light flashes while the blaring sounds brings pain with

each pulse. I’ve heard that tampering with a fire alarm is a federal offense.

Still, I’m tempted to swat it off the ceiling and grind its plastic heart into the

matted, but cleanly vacuumed, carpet just to end that infernal noise and get

back to sleep.

How dare you wake me up from my slumber! Harbinger of pain.

The alarm continues, again and again. Maybe this isn’t a drill. Maybe

we are on fire. Maybe I should act concerned here? I decide to roll over and

feign interest – if I ignore it, it should just go away and leave me in peace.

44
 My eyes are getting accustom to the soft amber glow of the outside

street lamps and the shadows they cast through the curtains. With that

illuminating my room, I grab my cell on the nearby desk, careful not to knock

over the lamp or stub my bare toe against the roll-away plush chair carefully

tucked under the desk. I check the time – 2:49 AM. This is not good. I really

need my rest. This fire is starting too early for my taste. How about stopping

by around 5:30, maybe 6:00 instead?

Alright already, I better get out. After all, I’m up on the top floor of

the hotel and if hell is breaking loose underneath me, I could get royally

screwed in this deal.

Our “fight or flight” instinct is pretty darn powerful. I choose “flight”

in this case. The whole “live to fight another day” thing. Otherwise, I’ll burn

to a crisp trying to catch another few hours of sleep. They’d find me in my

king sized bed smoldering in my fresh linens surrounded by down pillows with

a melted chocolate mint, that was gingerly placed on my well made bed by

some unknown angel, but I missed.

Without thinking, my hands grab the nearest (and only) pair of jeans

and throw them on. I unroll a balled-up shirt that had been balled-up only a

few hours ago and put it on as I make for the door. Sensibly, I do have the

presence of mind to grab wallet, phone and wedding ring on the way out.

Fuck the laptop and luggage. I’m saving the important stuff. One must have

45
their priorities in order at all times. In case of emergency, “do what thou wilt

shall be the whole of the law” as Crowley would say.

I make my way down the stairs with other ruffled looking hotel guests.

Down, down, down we go shuffling towards the exit. It’s every person for

themselves. Each of us is saving our own skin. Fellow man my ass. Women

and children can fend for themselves at 2:49 in the morning.

We all step outside into the dry, cool night San Jose air emerging from

the hotel through the emergency exits and the front lobby, spilling into the

valet parking lot. It’s a sorry sight, just a bunch of disheveled, unmade yawning

patrons enjoying the fresh morning air together.

Downtown San Jose has a distinct city odor at this time in the

morning. The smell of asphalt, a splash of refuse with a touch of diesel makes

a nice bouquet to start your morning. A fine vintage if you were inclined to

bottle it up for posterity.

At least it’s quiet out here on the street. There are a few cars that

pause as they drive by. The driver’s head craning out of the car to see what’s

going on, ready to take in the action, but provide no assistance. Everyone likes

a good train wreck from a good, safe distance.

I notice a few hotel exiles wearing plush hotel robes that hang in every

room’s closet. There’s two robes neatly tucked away in my closet, up on 4th

floor corner room. Bollocks, that sure would be nice right now.

46
 We’re all staring up at the building looking for a sign, some sign that

this building is burning down. We want action. We want fire blazing, smoke

pouring out the windows, people running with arms flailing out of the building.

We want terror. Give us drama. Let us see the wide-eyed lady with fear in her

eyes and a silent scream on the edge of her lips.

But there is none of that. Just a light polluted sky in a stone dead

downtown and the sound of the alarm blaring inside the hotel. A group of

shaggy headed people standing around looking up at the building. And a few

onlookers motoring slowly by.

Here we all stand together, silent and cold, outside of our rooms in

downtown San Jose, California on a Tuesday night in early February. How

random life is.

When you have time to kill and nothing to do, you tend to look inward

and get lost in your thoughts. Or, at least I do. These are the moments you

ask those “deep” questions. Who am I and where am I going?

Or, you may ask yourself as I did – How did I get to this point?

The trip started like any other Bay or Valley travel might. I wake up at

3:45 AM, get showered, dressed and make the early morning trek to SeaTac to

catch the first flight (6:00ish) to either San Francisco or San Jose.

47
 It happens to be San Jose this time. The Valley, and a company I’ll

refer to as “The Client”, was on my schedule for this first week in February

2007. This is an important POC for our little emerging company. We’re trying

to strike a partnership deal, or even a possible company sale, with The Client.

And it just so happens that The Client likes to buy small companies. Hey,

we’re small – got $80 or $100 million or more to spare?

The whole development and content team have been working their

asses off to knock out the two use cases posed to us from The Client. These

use cases are the scope of the work to be performed – a “show me you can pull

this off with your product” exercise. Two use cases that both we, and our

archrival, have to prove out in their lab environment, on their turf. It’s us

against them and I’m on the hook to take these bits down to the Valley and

make ‘em work. No pressure. You wanted the best, you’ll get the best. Like

Al Davis of the Raiders says, just win baby. Showtime.

Scott is leading the charge this time. He’s running business

development and this is his party. I’m just the guy he tapped on the shoulder

for this work and now it’s up to me to come through. I guess it was about a

month ago I got the call about this gig. It really never registered that I’d be

here onsite. My schedule is typically managed by Eric. If I need to know

where I’ll be next Wednesday, just ask Eric. Nowadays, he spends more

quality time with me than my family does. Call him my “road wife”. Now I’m

feeling very guilty down here with Scott. Is this cheating?

48
 Scott and I meet up onsite at The Client. Standing in the parking lot,

in sunny Northern California. Just another great day in The Valley.

We both took different flights into different airports, but the

destination is ultimately the same. When I get there, he’s already signed in and

has been in the lobby waiting. He’s so organized.

However, I have my priorities in order – we’re getting coffee first. No

sense going to war without some caffeine in the system. It’s amazing that I’ve

become such an addict over the past two years. Down the street we go to the

local Sbux and place our respective orders. Quick, efficient and consistent – all

of these are Starbuck barista traits. If only the world ran like this and you

could bank on the consistency, but alas the world tends to throw you curves

from time to time. With that thought in mind and a triple shot in my hands, I

am ready to take on the world. Or at least The Client.

We meet up with our Client contact, Alpesh or “just Al”. Al seems to

be a likeable guy – pleasant smile, nodding sort of fellow – and tells us that if

we have any questions “don’t hesitate, give me a call.” Ok, Al. Little do I

know that I won’t see him for the next two days and his offer of help goes to

waste. Thanks for all the help, Al.

Al walks us through the offices, weaving in and out of the maze of

cubes. He shows us the restrooms, the break room, the water cooler and all

the essentials. I’ll never find them again – not with a map.

49
 He walks us into the “War Room”, our destination. This 8x10 office

will be our existence for the next four days. With a table, a hastily assembled

PC, some assorted chairs, wires and power cords running everywhere and the

previous occupants family pictures scattered around we are ready to begin.

Al smiles at us, nods a few times and we all enjoy the nervous silence

between us. “Ok. You have my number if you need me. The phone is over

there. Ok, bye.” He says and is gone before we can reply. Once we’re in,

we’re in.

We’ll start with the easy stuff – the product install.

And, on cue, the snafus begin. We’re without a database, so I find

someone that I can bum a few blank CDs from in order to burn off an

installer. A minor set-back, but I’m a pro. Lesser men would have already

blinked. Not me. No sir, not me.

The product install goes in without a further hitch and then comes the

magic for this POC. I look around the room to make sure no one is watching.

We’re safe; it’s just Scott and I in here. Now I can load the “secret sauce”.

New content bits that include all of The Client pre-packaged work. Should just

be able to change a few settings here, tweak a few parameters there and – BAM

– POC complete. The whole thing finished in one afternoon leaving plenty of

time for cocktails, long lunches and even more cocktails.

Well…..that was the plan. And, when you go to war, even the best

plans fall apart when the first shots are fired.

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 It would be a long day. Long day indeed.

How did it come to this?

Long ago, 3:00 AM was known at the “dead hour”. The time that is

much too late at night, but too early in the morning. Ray Bradbury makes

reference to this hour in “Something Wicked This Way Comes”. After reading

his take, and use of this time, in the book I’ve since hated waking between 3:00

and 4:00 am. If I have to travel early morning, I’ll set my alarm to 4:01 am and

risk missing the flight rather than being awake during the “dead hour”.

Historical references also refer to this time as the “witching hour”– an evil, evil

hour that should be reserved for only sleeping. Anything else going on at that

hour is bad news, as the good people are snug in bed. Some believe that evil

spirits are allowed to mock the Holy Trinity during this hour.

I know this because I just have a tendency to remember these random

factoids. And nothing changes the fact that, regardless of what you believe,

this is too early to be awake.

All those that are supposed to be good of heart should be asleep.

Wonder what this says about me being awake during the witching hour?

It’s now 3:09 AM. I know this because my phone tells me so. It also

tells me that I have one voicemail from my Mom. She called last Sunday and I

haven’t returned her call yet. Or even bothered to listen to the message. I

51
know exactly what she’s saying anyway. Eventually, I’ll catch all sorts of hell

for not calling her back. “You never call your Mother”, she’ll say. And, she’s

right.

I’m the bad son that never keeps in touch and moved across the

country when she thought I’d always be around and raise my family nearby.

Probably thought I’d stay in the hills, maybe get some property nearby and

settle in to a quiet, comfortable life. The Normal Rockwell picture perfect

family, with our shirts pressed and tidy as we gather round the table for a

holiday feast. All of us, including a couple of angel faced cherubs, around a

white linen clothed table enjoy the company of family. Sharing an afternoon

and stories from the past week. Saying things like “Please pass the gravy” or

“This is a fantastic meal, Grandmother!” She’s going to be very upset when

her son finally calls back.

I know this because I know her. And I know the conversation we’ll

have before we even have it. That’s why avoidance is the best tactic.

It’s 3:10 AM and I’m out in the cold. Damn me for not grabbing that

plush robe hanging neatly above me in room 400. That soft, 100% cotton

comfort would be nice right now to protect me from the morning chill. But,

the robe is up there in danger of burning up while I’m safely down here.

Down in the valet parking lot wearing a wrinkled, and thin, dress shirt. Just

last week I had this very shirt cleaned and pressed, with extra care on the

collars and medium starch to keep it nice and crisp. Now this once-worn shirt

52
is holding me together. My wrinkled shirt, my phone, my wallet and my ring.

That’s my existence. My little cocoon of warmth. Nothing else exists. I am

but a dot in the cosmos. I am a warm, radiant little light. Go forth and

resonate.

I steal a glance at those around me, individuals dotting the valet lot

and scattered around larger clumps of people – a few parties of twos, threes

and such. Clustered together like shrubs in our private garden.

This guy nearby, not too close mind you as even in our shared trauma

we’re all mindful of our personal space, has a different take on life.

Apparently, his world right now consists of his t-shirt and his flannel pants.

His singular, unique statement to the world. The t-shirt that has a picture of a

piñata and says “I’d hit that.” Funny.

I should remember that shirt. It’s cute and, apparently, cute gets you

far in life.

Time tends to move in slo-mo when you are lost in your thoughts.

The whole “reaching a Zen-state” thing is cool in concept, but it doesn’t pass

the time fast enough when you’re standing outside in the cold, pre-dawn of the

morning.

And here I told Eric last week that I would be a cool Zen-master this

year. Like the Buddha or the Dali Lama or just an average Joe chilling out– the

picture of serenity and ultimate “oneness”. I told Eric I’d be the guy with the

calm, the guy that always had something witty to say. Like David Carradine
53
from the Kung-Fu days or Jeff Bridges’ “The Dude” character. The world

would be my grasshopper and I would be an island in the sea of chaos. I’d be

cute in my own divine way, so to speak.

It’s 3:13 AM. I know this because my internal Zen-clock tells me. I

am like a leaf on the wind. Riding the current wherever it takes me.

Apparently, the current and the cosmos have a sense of humor,

because I was carried to San Jose and now standing in the cold outside the

Hotel Montgomery at 3:14 in the morning. How did I get here?

“Time, time, time. We’ve lost a day here, Scott.” I say.

A look of grave concern washes over the former Navy sub officer.

This POC is his baby here and here I am a far cry from being reassuring. I’m

throwing a rock into this calm pond and watching the ripples expand outwards

from the center.

To some degree, I’m painting a grim picture because I like to push

buttons. This provides an opportunity to play the hero, rescuing us from

disaster at the last possible moment. Not very Zen-master like, but old habits

are hard to break. I could never resist pushing a button and seeing just what

happens.

I wanted some music playing in that War Room. That dark prison of

ours needs some life, some excitement to shake out the funk. We need

54
something loud and dramatic – a statement song. Remember Cusack from

“Say Anything“, wearing his Clash t-shirt while holding up the stereo to win

back his girl? Kinda like that. Just not playing Peter Gabriel. Look, I need my

Zen soundtrack.

Well, the lack of a soundtrack is the least of my worries right now.

The new bits I brought down aren’t working as expected. In fact, they’ve

broken the entire product and reduced Studio to one error after another. I

can’t do a thing at this point, completely dead in the water. Biggest biz dev

opportunity thus far, with the entire company watching and we’re going down

in flames.

I’m exchanging email non-stop with the team back at HQ. Fire off

one email, read the two new ones in my Inbox and fire off a few more. It’s a

frantic conversation to say the least. The guys have my back, as usual, and are

frantically hunting the bug down. Our fate is up in the air and in their trusty

hands at this point.

No matter what though, we’ve lost time. Valuable time that is the

difference between success and failure in these situations. You need your

weapons to work when at war. Guns jamming in the heat of a battle ain’t right

and will flat get you killed. I ain’t a Marine, but as a Zen-master, shit can still

get ugly when your tools don’t work.

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 Time. Time lost, time well spent, time and time again. Time is a spiral

and space is merely a curve that bends and weaves the way through the fabric

of us all.

I have no idea what the heck any of that means, but I need to say

something profound now and again. Something to break up the ever growing

stress.

I’m toast – the product is flat broke and we’re spinning our wheels.

Absolutely nothing to show for the first day as time winds down and evening

draws near..

How can I get back that lost time?

3:20. I look up and still see no fire leaping out of the fourth floor

windows. No glass exploding and raining down on us below. No one on the

rooftop waving in desperation to be rescued. Other than the constant klaxon

of the alarm, all is quiet within the hotel. Guess my laptop is safe and sound,

snug in bed oblivious to the ruckus. My three other pressed and medium

starched shirts are all hanging in the closet like soldiers at silent attention.

Right next to that warm cotton robe.

I check the time – still 3:20.

Then it hits me – where the heck is Roza? Did he escape like the rest

of us? Maybe he had the sense to grab his robe and rush down the stairs to

56
safety? Nah, ten-to-one he’d still show up in a freshly pressed shirt & pant

combo. Or, by chance, is he still in bed, sleeping through this life changing

event?

The fire department shows up in force and breaks my concentration.

Sirens blazing, lights flashing on and off reflecting deep red against darkened

hotel windows. We’ve got three trucks lined up along the street to battle this

fire. One by one, they pile out of the trucks and onto the curb with their gear

on and ready for business. Not a single one pays any attention to us though as

we’re just the silent crowd dotting the sidewalk. The firemen weave in and out

between all of us, never stealing a glance or a providing a reassuring “It’s going

to be just fine now that we’re here” phrase. Instead, each looks grim and

intent on the task at hand. Singular focus is on their mission.

There’s a couple behind me – husband, wife and newborn – out here

standing silently between the service gate and a car that has been abandoned in

the valet lot for the evening. This family is tucked back on the fringes of our

newborn “society”, a group living out in the ‘burbs from our city. The baby is

snuggled in the father’s robe and they huddle close together for warmth. A

nice warm support blanket for each other. The rest of us are islands of

isolation and are uneasily looking for something to pass the time. Some of us

crane our necks skyward, looking up into the glow of the night sky and

pointing towards the top of the building – was that the red glow of flame? Did

you see movement from the 3rd floor? We cast glances at each other, hoping

57
to get a hint a nod a cue that someone has discovered something we have not.

Our society needs drama to pass the time – most of us have no one to huddle

with, to share this experience.

3:22. Tempus Fugit, baby.

Where’s my support team in all of this?

“What’s going on?” says a familiar voice, “everything going ok?”

I know this if Eric because my phone tells me it is Eric.

So, I give him the lowdown – we’re hosed as it stands right now and

I’m getting worried. Now, I typically stay calm in situations like these – the

“Iceman” as Scott would later put it – I never get worried, but I can safely say I

wasn’t feeling too comfy at this point. The whole idea of being the Zen master

is out the window and on the asphalt at this point.

We continue our chat for a minute or two – small talk. Borderline

nervous talk. How are things at the office? Did you have a good weekend?

Sure, sure.

Before the cell hits the table, things are set in motion back at HQ.

Next thing I know, the entire company is REALLY mobilized. Sounds like

Eric had a chat with Sunny and they are leading the rally cry. “To arms, to

arms!” Now shit will get done and pronto.

58
 Within the next hour, and a few email exchanges with Colin, my

phone tells me there’s a fix for the major bug in Studio that is keeping me from

doing anything with the product. Yes! Eric and the team work great magic

from a distance

In short order: fix comes in, fix gets deployed, and fix fixes things.

Hooray fix!

Time to get moving, we’re back in business. Time to make magic.

Time has been wasted though. How can I pull this off?

My legs are starting to get numb from standing in one place. I start to

pace. 10 steps to the right, 12 back to the left. Circle around the people-trees

in their plush robes and wrinkled evening wear. Try not to look like a vulture

circling or, worse, someone weird on the street at 3 in the morning.

It’s 3:24. This can’t go on forever.

A shaggy haired Montgomery hotel worker stumbles out of the

building with the fire folks in tow. The short guy wearing his hotel issued dress

outfit that, no matter how long and hard he tries to keep ironed and neat, he

still looks like he rolled out of bed. However, this is a significant change in our

situation. Now something is happening. Freedom at last! Back to the nice

warm bed on the 4th floor that has been spared from the flame. Back to my

neatly hanging clothes, my laptop and my sleep! The hotel guy and the firemen

59
huddle together in deep discussion. This can’t be good. Maybe they are

formulating a plan? A plan to end this standoff, turn off the racket the alarm is

making and get us victims of the fire-that-never-was back to our deluxe king

rooms, perhaps? Plans are always good to have. You figure out what you are

going to do and then just execute. It takes a keen, organized and methodical

mind to formulate a plan and then follow it to completion. Some might say

those that stick to a plan, regardless of external influences and events, might be

too linear in thought and too inflexible for change. They might be right;

arguably the best plans are fluid to a degree, flexible enough to account for the

unaccountable. Even going to bed each evening involves a degree of planning

– what time must you go to bed, what time must you wake up in order to make

your first meeting – all of these things come into play in our daily lives, yet we

handle them without fanfare or lingering thought. They are, at the core, plans

and how we structure our lives and activity. Experiences we have, we share

and all we touch and all we see are just what can happen when our plans are

put to motion. Too bad that even the best plans get thrown out the window

when a fire starts. It’s now 3:30. Time is starting to roll as planned.

What happened to my plan of attack?

The Tuesday morning after our Monday disaster started as planned.

Up at 6:30, walk over to Starbucks across the street from the Montgomery, the

one nearest the bus stop where you can stand in line with students trying to

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caffeinate before their first class and business folks starting out their day. I fall

into the latter consumer group and grab my two shot soy latte, well made by

the staff of course. In the back corner of the shop, against the wall painted in a

rich, caramel color, sits a lady who appears a bit down on her luck. Amidst the

wealth of the Valley, the students trying to find their way in the world and the

business folks oblivious to it all, this lady is heads down with her well worn

jacket striking a dusty counterpart to the wall and the hanging mass production

artwork. I pause with my overpriced latte in hand and wish her a good

morning. She cautiously looks up from her half empty cup of drip and offers a

nervous “Thank you.”

I join up with Scott and we carpool over to The Client looking to get

onsite by 8:30. He’s rented a sweet Ford Taurus. Once you go Taurus, you

never go back baby. Traffic was light, everything smooth as silk, so far. I am

hoping karma will be kind to us today.

Yesterday was a disaster. Today will go as planned – catch up on the 6

hours lost, build everything and have it work. That’s the plan and I’m sticking

to it this time.

We hit the Client office and rush quickly through security and into the

War Room. It smells of office stank and empty day old coffee. There might

even be a hint of despair in the air? Well, no time to sulk – close the door and

let’s get moving.

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 It is an absolute must, if you are in tech, to be able to multitask. Have

ten things going on in parallel. I am convinced that successful techies are born

out of the food service industry. If you have ever spent any time running a

restaurant or working on the line, you know that during the ‘rush” you have

twenty things going on at once. You learn real quick to handle them all, screw

nothing up or else you’re gone. As in food service, so it is in tech. As you are

clicking here, you’re typing a command over there and waiting for a run to stop

in yet another window. I’m juggling three remote servers, six virtual machines

and two other instances at once. The world is a distant place, just outside of

my periphery. All that exists is what I see in my monitor’s display and the soft

hum of the computer’s fan. A constant, reassuring sound telling me everything

is going to be a-ok.

So far, hunky dory, as planned and the morning just flies by. Before I

know it, lunch time hits us in the War Room. I’m starving but just never

noticed it and that is a good sign of productivity. And I’m dying of thirst.

Dehydration has set in and I’ve forgotten my handy dandy Nuun tablets back

at the Montgomery. That’s not in the plan, I’m sure I accounted for staving

off thirst. You will build flows and stay hydrated!

Roza suggests downtown Mountain View as a lunch destination.

Apparently, they have a pretty happening hub of restaurants and bars for all the

techies to spend their lunch hours. As we wander down the streets, passing

Thai and random Chinese joints, I spot an Irish pub and stake claim. No more

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sushi – a Roza pick for yesterday – we will have heavy, non-descript quasi-

authentic Irish fare! Now yesterday’s sushi, that wasn’t pretty. Great sushi, at

least in taste, but I had a bit of a problem later in the day. One typically does

not talk about such things, but has to be a level of pride when you can shut

down an entire bathroom. Like a proud papa, I closed down one of The

Client’s bathrooms. Shut it down for awhile too while facilities came in to

decontaminate the room. Again, typically something you shouldn’t talk about

publicly, but it does illustrate how badly Monday went for some of us. And

since Monday was going down the toilet, I chose to take something with me.

Back to the present – a burger is in order. A big, fat greasy pub

burger. Charred mammal flesh and a few fries and it’s back to work. I don’t

even think about grabbing a pint at lunch – a good IPA or Ale to wash down

the burger. No, sir. That just wouldn’t fly for this particular gig. Give me a

diet coke and water. Make it two waters – try to stay hydrated you know.

Quick is the order of the day. Go fast and furious, make every second

count and hope that time drags during the work. Every second is precious at

this point. There’s only 1.5 days left of work before the big presentation.

Lunch is a cost center of time.

How can I get the day to not end so soon?

63
 How can I get this morning to end! 3:31 and I’m sick of this valet lot.

Sick of the lot, my fellow patrons pacing about, my wrinkled thrice worn shirt,

and my shinny brown shoes. I just want to get inside the hotel. Get inside the

hotel just like the crowd of people going through the hotel doors right now.

Wait. Check that again? Yes, there are people going in the hotel.

Halleluiah! Salvation at 3:33 AM. Salvation from the witching hour and from

my never-ending day. Most of the people are still looking around, shell

shocked that the ordeal is indeed over. There is disbelieve, as if this would

never end, and many haven’t even made the first step towards the door. Not

me. I shake off the cobwebs and double time it into the lobby while people

look at each other waiting to see who moves forward first. All the while, I’m

climbing up the stairs, passing people left and right. Out of my way, my bed

awaits.

Sleep, wonderful sleep!

Wait a sec……there’s still something wrong here. Yes, yes of course.

The alarm is still blaring. Ok, that could be a problem. I make it to my room,

up four flights of stairs in a matter of seconds, taking two steps at a time the

entire way. I sprint down the 4th floor corridor, weaving down the hall a left

here, a right there until I am outside of room 400. My room! I throw open the

door and announce my arrival – home sweet (temp) home! I open the closet

door just to check on my robe. Yep, unharmed and unused right next to my

unburnt wrinkled shirts for the next two days.

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 I plop in bed. It’s 3:39. My phone knows all. It also tells me that I

need to wake at 6:00 AM. Two hours from now. That’s quality sleep in my

book.

The alarm is even louder in my room – the whole “confined space +

loud noise” thing. I took the physics of sounds & light once. There’s probably

some theory or law or whatever that explains this. It’s just damn loud and

common sense tells me so.

No way am I sleeping through this, so I grab the paper from Monday.

The San Jose local paper. I take off the wrinkled shirt, wad it up and toss it to

the floor. Nothing a good dry cleaning back home can’t fix up. Plop in bed

and stare at the paper. I stare but at 3:40 in the morning I’ve forgotten how to

read. These things happen.

How can I focus on what is in front of me?

It comes down to focus when you’re in a tight spot. Focus is what

separates the wheat from chaff – it is our ability to act decisively in a situation

that defines us, grace under pressure. And this is a tight spot professionally.

On the grand scale of things, yeah, it’s small potatoes. Not like the world is

going to end if I can’t finish the work or build out these infernal OpsFlows.

There are far greater responsibilities held by far greater people in the world –

folks that deal in life or death on a daily basis – than what I am charged with.

65
You have to keep things in perspective no matter what and I certainly try. Still,

for what responsibility I have professionally, this is a tight spot and I need to

be razor sharp and focused. Like Sam L. Jackson at the end of “Pulp Fiction”.

I need to be the Bad Mo-Fo and get it done. No distractions, no external pulls

– all concentration is on the matter at hand.

Scott runs out and picks up a mocha to assist with my focus. Two

more shots on top of bad house coffee. I feel rot gut coming on, but I’ve got

no time for that. Maybe later, I’ll have all night to shake off the pains of bad

eating on the road and I’ll turn in early for some good sleep. Scott likes to turn

in early, and given how important this Client thing is, there’s no chance at

being out late. It’s all work this week and that is fine by me. I’m thinking bed

by 10:00 so I can get a full 8 hours of sleep.

I’m cranking away like there is no tomorrow. Like the fate of the

world is relying on me to get this stuff built. Integrations are flying left and

right. It’s starting to come together, I can see progress. The dashboard is

starting to light up. Metrics are being collected, Flows are running. Thursday’s

presentation is starting to gel in my mind. I can start to see how the final demo

will go and what story we can weave to bring this thing to a close. I can see it

all happening now, the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel, but I shake it

off. I must keep my focus on the here and now.

66
 3:43 – ALARM NOISE – 3:44. Tick-ALARM-tock. Infernal noise.

Make it stop…make it stop….make it stop. I’m in my room, yet still no sleep!

No sleep for the weary or wicked or whatever. Am I hungry? What time did I

have…

…Diner time. Scott has suggested going to downtown Palo Alto to

find Nola. The Nola is some place he used to eat at when he was down here

every week in a previous life. I’ve never been to downtown Palo Alto before,

so I’m quite happy with his restaurant pick. We’ll see if his suggestion is a

good one or not.

Downtown Palo Alto is, surprisingly enough, is a lively strip of

restaurants, bars, and cafes. My whole opinion of the Valley is starting to

reshape. What, to me, was once just an endless sprawl of office buildings,

campuses, strip malls and chain restaurants is starting to morph into an area

where, if you dig under the surface, there is some real character. As with any

place, if you are willing to go beyond the first impressions, you can find the

distinct character the quality of a town or area. Take San Jose for example: the

much maligned town, where the sprawl of tract homes and office parks seem

to define the character, is actually a very interesting city with its own flavor.

The downtown area mixes new business towers and the gleaming glass & steel

with circa 1900, squat stucco buildings, renovated shops, trendy restaurants
67
and bars. Palo Alto falls into that category. Defined by Stanford University

and by tech campuses, the downtown area in Palo Alto is an attractive and

profitable place, to run a restaurant or trendy bar. With all the money the

Stanford students and nearby techies have, you’re going to get decent traffic

and business. And with a clustering of restaurants, bars, galleries and assorted

shops, you can define and invigorate a downtown.

That’s what you can find in Palo Alto. Parking is a bit of a hassle and

we end up at the far end of the downtown hub. The long trot back to the

main drag becomes a lesson in California pedestrian etiquette. The whole West

Coast vibe is typically laid back and easy going. Folks on foot are, typically,

respected for walking vs. driving and drivers will yield without incident.

However, throw in talking on the cell while you jaywalk will get you honked at

mercilessly. Roza finds this out as he hops across a street in front of a car. As

the driver honks as if there has been irreversible damage done, I come to

Scott’s aide and give the “laid back” driver the finger. Astonished at my moxie,

the driver scoots off without any further horn activity. Scott, quasi-oblivious

to it all, finds Nola’s just down the street – his reason for breaking the law.

Nola’s happens to be a swank, Cajun-fusion type joint that is wall to

wall people for a Tuesday night. The interior has a deco, New Orleans juke

joint feel with vibrant colors, soft lights and artwork that can be described as

‘fun”. We head towards the back of the place for a table and take in the sights

and sounds. Nola’s is bustling and loud for your typical conversation, but

68
certainly a good choice to unwind after the action packed and productive day.

Given my background and being raised on good Southern food, I tend to be a

bit of a hard ass when rating Cajun joints. My palette tends to be tuned to

good gumbo, jambalaya and my red beans and rice staple. A quick glance at

the menu has me praying that one of those Southern Grandmama’s made the

migration West and started up a restaurant. It is up to us expatriates of the

Great South to bring our cuisine with us and educate these here foreigners!

“Let’s start with some oysters,” suggests Scott, “I need the zinc. Did

you know oysters have the highest concentration of zinc? I can feel it when I

don’t get enough zinc in my diet.”

Interesting. Is this something grown men should talk about? I never

can tell when I’m not getting my zinc intake. Guess I’m not in tune with my

biorhythms or maybe my free radicals have finally overthrown my internal

government. Damn them all to hell! I say “Yes” to the oysters and grab a

Hurricane for myself. Nice fu-fu drink to get the night rolling. There’s a 60-

ounce “Moron Bowl” version for this drink, but I settle for the regular size.

No sense in going over the top, but it is tempting. How can you resist a menu

item that reads “Moron”? Alas, I’ll need to be back to hotel for an early to bed

evening. Tomorrow is the critical day – everything has to get wrapped up for

our final Thursday morning presentation. So, I’ll need to be rested and fresh.

No “Moron” for me tonight. Sigh.

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 Diner comes and goes, decent food that would get a “C-“ ranking in

the South. Sigh. I miss the great food from that area. The oysters were

wonderful, the meal I had was passable, but not memorable. All in all, it is a

place I would revisit for another chance and a solid recommendation from

Scott.

Back to the Montgomery and time to fully decompress. I’ll get into

that Zen-state and tune out all the distractions. I ignore the piling email from

the last two days that is starting to fill my Inbox with subject lines like

“ATTENTION” or “URGENT” or “Where are you?” Instead, I turn off the

TV, ignore any late night writing and hit the sack at 10:00PM to get a good 8 ½

hours of uninterrupted sleep.

The room is nice and dark, the bed extremely comfortable and the

hotel is eerily………….

…………silent. Silence? It’s oh so quiet.

3:49. I know this because my hotel-provided-iPod-speaker-alarm-

clock-thing tells me so. Its 3:49 and completely quiet. Silence is golden.

I can now sleep again. My day can finally end now that it is a new

morning! Let’s get two more hours in and start again with even more energy

than the day before.

Enjoy the silence while it lasts.

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 Tokyo

Morning Run

At some point, no matter how tired you are or how desperate the need

for rest, you realize that there is no sleep left in you. I awoke at 2:30 AM to

unfamiliar, dark Sheraton Miyako hotel room tucked into the 8th floor corner

nearest a fire escape. No sudden sound stirred me from my sleep, no heavy

footsteps from the room above or noise from the television in the adjacent

room nor was it voices from the hallway. I awoke to stare at the ceiling,

straining to make out the modern light fixture dimly lit by city lights creeping in

through a gap in the heavy curtains. I awoke this early because my internal

clock told me it was 10:30 AM Pacific Time and that I should be up, active and

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in motion. It is early morning in Tokyo, Japan and it is my first day in this city,

and country, some 5,000 miles away from home.

Finding the television remote, I absently click through the local

channels the hotel has on tap. However, local means everything is in Japanese,

rendering this English speaking listener unable to understand even the basics

of the language these stations unwatchable. Luckily, the very last channel

available happens to be CNN and I welcome the familiar sound of English

bringing the news of untimely deaths, political campaigns and unrest in the

world. It seems an eternity since I heard English – except for Eric, once we

got on the plane, English went out the window and now hearing words I can

actually understand is sweet, sweet music.

Watching the news is predictably a bore, and given the time difference

between where I was yesterday and where I am today, I can’t tell when this

news actually happened. Was it yesterday? Is it today? It’s still too early in the

morning to do the math, and I rather not bother thinking of time right now,

especially thinking of the time back home. I want to believe that where I am

right now, in this place, at this time is where I should focus. Calculating PST

would make me think of home and what Kristen and Katie are doing in their

daily routine. And having my thoughts drift homeward would make me long

for being there instead of embracing the here and now. Sigh. There will be

plenty of time for homesickness, as there always is when traveling, later on in

the week.

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 I put on my old running shoes bought eons ago in Charlotte, a nice

pair of New Balances, which have been both comfortable and dependable over

the years (stress years). But now, way too many miles later, they just plain look

tired and worn out. As an avid fitness guy, I know better than to keep shoes

around this long – exactly the way you develop shin splints, heel/arc problems

and all sorts of leg aliments. However, being a cheapskate means I milk gear

until it falls apart and these damn shoes refuse to die.

Outside of the room all is quiet and unawake at this hour. I wander

down the hall, decorated with a very “Western” flair, including the deep red

carpet with gold trim, various stock prints hanging on the wall and tables with

little floral arrangements. I decide that this is the right time to explore the

hotel – my temporary home for the next few days in a strange new land.

Nobody else, save the occasional staff, is out and about this early in the

morning. The hotel fitness spa (that’s what they call it) is closed – the entrance

is gated until 6:30. Great. I check the time and realize I’ve got about an hour

and a half until the gate comes up. What am I to do in an unfamiliar city in a

strange country where I know no one and don’t speak the language?

How about a nice morning run to get the blood rushing? As I’ve

discovered, one of the best ways to explore a new city is by running. When

traveling, running tends to be a low cost method of getting in a workout and

making sure you do not stay holed up in a hotel room wasting hours away.

Road veterans (I hate the term “road warriors”) tend to share the common

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belief in “packing light” with the serious outdoorsman or backpacker. We

agonize over the bulk, and weight, of our gear. For me, one criterion for road

items, other than the necessities of the job (i.e. laptop, external hard drive,

cords, cables, etc.) is that they must have two uses. A shirt should be used

twice, a pair of shoes should work for client meetings and after work wear.

Running shoes are a high return item (the fun factor of exercise and

exploration!) while adding very little weight or bulk to a pack, so they tend to

make the “cut”.

So, with my running shoes on, my Under Armor shirt and my trusty

new iPod Nano (the prize for winning “Best Sales Engineer” a few weeks ago),

I step outside the friendly confines of the Hotel Miyako. The new iPod (I’m

affectionately calling it “Little Silver”) is perfect for a runner. Small enough to

fit in your hand or in a pocket, but so lightweight that it won’t drag your shorts

down or bump your leg during a run. Well, Little Silver has a very cool

stopwatch feature that I decide to put to use. With the clock running and the

playlist on “random”, I hit the street eager to burn off whatever energy I have

in the proverbial “tank”.

But which way to run? Left or right? Uphill or downhill? With a

sudden start, I realize I have no clue where I am in Tokyo! In a city this vast, a

land mass of Los Angeles and a population greater than New York City, I have

no idea what is where and directionally where anything is. There are no

familiar landmarks – buildings, parks or streets – that I can use as milestones.

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To me, Tokyo is a blank slate. And with that comes an epiphany of sorts, a

sudden clarity that I am free to see Tokyo how I’d like to see it, to explore

what I want to explore, to go in whatever direction I see fit. This can be my

Tokyo, my adventure. I am a stranger in a strange land and that can be enough

for me right here, right now in the present.

A deep breath, I choose left and uphill I go. Rush’s “Finding My

Way” is playing on Little Silver – appropriate music to start with.

“Look out I’m coming

I’m finding my way back home!”

Geddy Lee sings with youthful excitement (and a screeching falsetto)

on their first album. “Finding My Way” is the opening track from the

eponymous album and captures the spirit of three very young musicians getting

in the studio for the first time to record their work. 33 years later, and a world

away from Toronto where it was recorded, the song drives me up the hill, past

the hotel and with long, springing strides taking me into the unknown cityscape

of Tokyo. The morning air is crisp; the dampness of dew is mixed with the

scent of blooming trees and the fragrance of azaleas caught on a light, warm

breeze. Along the street, the neatly trimmed boxwoods and hedges are

dwarfed by small leafed maples and mature rosemary scrubs. The sweet aroma

of the jasmine bushes growing in boxed containers turns my gaze to the left, to

the row of stores where these bushes offer a warm welcome inside. As I

continue down the street, I notice these stores range from convenience to retail

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to offices, some of which are unknown as their signs are in Japanese and they

give no visual clue as to their purpose, wares or use. I push forward, my gaze

darting to the left and to the right, straining to take in everything to commit the

vision – the landscape, the detail, the color – to memory.

The cross section at the top of the hill stops me – a red no-walk light

tends to be universal in communicating its message – and I have a choice:

cross to the left and take a new street or continue down this path? The light

turns green and stick to my current route keeping the way back an easy, straight

shot. No matter how invigorating or inspiring this adventure may turn out, it

is always important to find your way back home.

Soundgarden’s “Superunknown” is next from the same titled album.

One of Seattle’s finest from the ‘90s heyday fills my earpiece and I’m

momentarily transported from Tokyo back to Asheville, N.C. where I’m in my

early 20’s again and the world seemed large and new. It is summertime and I’m

hiking the Blue Ridge Mountains, near Shinning Rock, and enjoying the view

from one of the craggy mountaintops. The air is light, humidity free compared

to the valley below and the soaring temperatures of this unseasonably hot

summer. My best friend Tim is accompanying me and we’re talking about the

great music we’ve discovered and are listening too. Tim has moved down to

South Carolina for work and I’m working on my C.S. degree, so we don’t see

each other often enough to swap stories and music.

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 “Soundgarden? You’ve never heard of Soundgarden? Tim, you’ve got

to check this band out – if you don’t know, I’m letting you know. I’ll make

you a tape, man. They’re from Seattle like Pearl Jam, Nirvana and Alice In

Chains are.”

Tim nods his head and says sure he’ll give them a listen. Seattle is so

far away from where we are right now in the middle of the wilderness, it might

as well be on another planet. I catch sudden movement to my right, off the

trail, and my eyes dart to catch a glimpse of….

……an old man stepping out of the front door of his shop, with two

full white trash bags in tow. I’m back in Tokyo, running along the street again.

“If you don’t want to be seen

Well, you don’t have to hide
And if you don’t want to believe
You don’t have to try
To feel alive”

And I am hidden; I am invisible to the few people on road this

morning. There are a few other runners out, some tired looking people

walking their dogs a few business owners getting their stores ready for the

coming day, but they all pay no attention to the foreigner jogging by at this

early hour. I had wondered if I would be subjected to stares by the locals –

would they keep their distance and show any reservation upon seeing a

Westerner in their midst? Would they immediately distrust me at first glance

because I was different? The things we tend to take for granted in the states,
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or are not subjected to because we “fit in” to the culture’s norm, are suddenly

front and center when we are out of our environment, our element. How

many times have we measured a person by their appearance – developed a

framework of what the person is or bias based on the visual indicators of

culture, race or creed? What would it feel like to be on the other end of that

judgment? How does it feel to be an outsider, different from the “usual” or

cultural norm? It was certainly an aspect to the trip I took into consideration

and, to some degree, worried about. But, for now, during this early morning

run, I can sense no bias, no distrust and no acceptance either. I am just a

random person out for an early run. To the people of Tokyo, I am invisible –

a neutral figure that is of now concern or not worthy of a second glance – and

for that I am grateful. I will relish this anonymity!

Jumping over a garbage bag in the middle of the sidewalk, I weave in

and out around the cans, and (familiar) orange pylons surrounding a break in

the walk. I start to feel a sweat coming on, a great sign that I’m warming up

and my legs are feeling good. With a rush of blood to the quads, I bear down

and pick up the pace and move past the sidewalk hazards onto a long,

unobstructed pathway off the main road. My first detour and a step out of

comfort zone of running straight. I make a mental note to “hang a right at the

corner of ‘random store’ and ‘random road’” Ahhh, freedom!

Little Silver understands this brave new world I’m heading down and

queues up an anthem of defiance and rebellion to honor the moment. The

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familiar opening synth notes of “Baba O’Reily” by The Who comes on. Pete

Townshend’s popular epic is a great soundtrack for the unknown path ahead

of me. Over the course of the week, I would find out Little Silver is in “tune”

with my thoughts and biorhythms and would, uncannily play the right song at

the right time.

Pete says it best:

“Out here in the fields

I work for my meals
I get my back in to my living
I don’t need to fight
To prove I’m right
I don’t need to be forgiven!”

Amen. I work for my meals, buddy. And that’s why I’m here in

Tokyo, or so I keep telling myself. It’s not the defiance expressed in this song

that resonates at this particular moment, but instead the sheer volume of this

track. No matter what this song is played through – FM radio, big speakers,

little iPod earbuds, this song just sounds big. For some history, “Baba O’Reily”

was a bit of a lost track on the perfectly crafted “Who’s Next” album. It was

initially lost when the album hit the stores, but at some point, AOR (album

oriented radio) picked it up and never let go. When I was growing up (the

formative years), The Who were known, but not a ‘big” band for myself or my

musical circle of friends. We tended to be more on the Led Zeppelin, Pink

Floyd, Yes track. It wasn’t until later in life I discovered the brilliance of Pete

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Townshend’s compositions combined with Keith Moon’s insane drumming,

John Entwistle’s solid, booming bass and Roger Daltrey’s powerful voice

making it all come alive. Today a new generation of listeners know this song as

“that theme song to CSI:NY” and one can only hope a few of these listeners

will take the time to pick up “Who’s Next” with an open mind (“Yuck! That’s

Dad’s music!”)

“I seem to recognize your face

Hauntingly familiar yet, I can’t seem to place it
Cannot find a candle of though to light your name
Lifetimes are catching up with me.”

The Who gives way to one band that cites them as a major influence

and happens to proudly call Seattle “home”: Pearl Jam. “Elderly Woman

Behind A Counter In A Small Town”, on the “Vs.” album, happens to be the

longest title in the ever growing Pearl Jam catalogue and is a personal favorite

of mine. A short, underappreciated song that captures the feeling of “have I

been here before?” In this setting, the song takes me in a new direction and

the sentiment moves from the richness of the lyrics to the sound and texture of

the music itself. The acoustic guitars and mix of fretless bass and deft touch

on the drums serve to calm my nerves and slow down my pace. I soak in each

note, each chord change and the movement from verse to chorus back to verse

and pay attention to the landscape around me. I am still in what appears to be

a business hub, however the offices and retail stores are now mixed in with

larger apartment/condo buildings, not unlike the Belltown district in Seattle,

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and my gaze is drawn to the small balconies jutting out of each unit displaying

assortments of bicycles, tables, chairs and other familiar patio items. Half the

world away you can find that people here live strikingly similar lives to the

people you left behind.

I pick up my pace, pushing ahead faster to get my heart rate back up.

The morning dew is starting to burn off and the sun is already poking holes in

the cloud cover. Sweat is running down cheeks and I feel the time is right to

move faster and see more of this unexplored country, to see the richness of the

city and the 27 million people living here. The road in front of me winds down

through an obvious residential area with smaller, multi-family buildings – a very

Queen Anne type neighborhood – and I make my way downhill, peaking down

each alleyway that separates the buildings. The garbage cans are all neatly lined

against the building walls, leaving a clear path down each alley. I notice for the

first time just how clean the city is, how clean and crisp things are arranged.

There is very little stray garbage on the sidewalk, on the street or around the

buildings – no plastic cups, food remains or wadded paper absently thrown out

the window of a moving car or over the shoulder by a random pedestrian. It

strikes me that Tokyo seems to be a very “tidy” city in both absence of litter

and neat arrangement of buildings all seemingly lined up in perfect order and

harmony with their surroundings. There are signs all over most stores, in

windows, on doors and hanging off lampposts. Yes, they’re all in Japanese

which is complete lost on me, but on occasion you’ll find an English word in

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an advertisement or even a store name. For example, a few block back I

passed a place called “Used Machines” selling, you guessed it, used machines of

all types. Old sewing machines, record players and industrial strength cooking

gear that looked like it had been out of circulation since the 1950’s. Used

Machines, and its mix of kitsch and randomness, just adds to the strange new

world I’m exploring. I’m now down off the hill and back on the corner of a

big intersection, going straight ahead under a highway overpass and keeping in

tune with my “constant motion” versus pausing to decide my next direction.

The overpass sounds relatively quiet, with the occasional roar of a car

drowning out Little Silver’s music. I reach the other side and start a gradual

climb up the next long hill, re-entering a business district. The buildings are

taller now with glass and steel being the primary make-up and a tell-tale sign

that these are of relatively new construction. A few older, brick buildings are

scattered about providing an interesting contrast to the clean, glossy texture of

the newer construction. There’s less green going uphill, save the random tree

planted in a container or a group of shrubs and low bushes lining a bench. For

its size and density, Tokyo does strike me as a lush, green city versus the

relative gray and brown hues one would find in Los Angeles. Already during

this run, I’ve passed a handful of stores that sell plants, small shrubs and

miniature trees.- a testament (I hope) to how the city, and her people, loves all

things living. And with that, I’ve been so lost in though the past few minutes,

a few songs have come and gone without notice – the music reaching my ears

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but not strong enough in volume and message to capture my thoughts. Words

and sounds casting their net, but failing to catch anything and instead falling

away.

Shaking out the cobwebs, I focus on the here and now, paying close

attention to both my environment (with the ever increasing size and density of

office buildings) and the music shaping my view of this environment.

“I like that song

About this wonderful world
It’s got a sunny point of view
And sometimes I feel it’s true
At least for a few of us”

Ah, a new track from my old favorite – Rush. The run started with

“Finding My Way” and now, here we are in the middle – the “Point of No

Return” of the run – with the latest and greatest. “Bravest Face” is

tremendously crafted song by the (arguably) the best trio in rock (ever) and

strikes a great balance between the softly sung verses (as quoted above) and the

melodic chorus of:

“In the whole wide world there’s no magic place

So you might as well rise and put on your bravest face”

It is an engaging song that does require the listener to put forth a bit

of effort in order to digest the words. At first glance, a listener may dismiss the

lyrics as a pessimistic, negative outlook on the world outside, but I instead see a

realistic acceptance that why the world may be unkind, even cruel to most at

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times, there is beauty out there and it is up to us to embrace the good. As Neil

Peart says, “Though we might have precious little, it’s still precious.” Good words to

remember when experiencing the “bad” life may throw your way or when the

news becomes one grim story after another – it makes sense to put on your

bravest face and just deal with it. You may cringe in angst at the injustice in the

world, but that doesn’t mean acceptance. Nor should it paint our world view

(however broad, or narrow, that may be) “black” and cause us to miss the

genuine good we stumble across each day. Put on your best bravest face, enjoy

the wonders of life and handle what comes your way. Roll the dice (bones).

Back to the song, Alex Lifeson’s got a very understated solo here – not too

long, almost a slow blues breaking the chorus with the middle-eight section –

and really provides a great calming counterpunch to the light-to-dark melody

Rush managed to achieve in this song. But it is the words that provide a great

lens for me to view Tokyo through. Not all in this city will be straight, neat and

tidy. I’m sure there are quite a few of the 27 million that experience “precious

little”, but they still have a voice and are still a part of the city’s pulse. There

are no homeless folks wandering about the streets asking for spare change or a

hot meal, no cardboard boxes pitched in near dumpsters or in alleyways.

There are no encampments or people living under bridges along my run route.

There are none of the obvious signs of the downtrodden that one would find

in any random city in the U.S.A. On the ground, on this morning, everything

is in its right place (as Radiohead would say).

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 The song is over, I decide to stop in my tracks midway on an overpass

bridge. The volume of cars is starting to build below me on the highway and

behind me on whatever road I’m on (“That four lane road” as I would start

calling every road”) Little Silver has Def Leppard’s “Kings of Oblivion” on tap

for me – a quasi-recent song from Euphoria and an attempt at recapturing the

classic Pyromania/Hysteria sound. Joe Elliot has some inspired singing on this

track and belts out a falsetto at the end of two verses that rival some of his best

work. However, I’m in no mood for Def Lep right now, and I break my “no

fast-forward rule” this morning. So much for randomness, I decide to override

Little Silver on this one and move on. Next up is a familiar drum intro, a boom-

crash-boom-boom-ba-boom-crash. It’s Faith No More’s “Midlife Crisis” from 1992’s

Angel Dust. An absolute classic album, and essential, music for anyone that

grew up in the ‘90s.

“You’re perfect, yes, it’s true

But without me you’re only you”

Mike Patton almost grunts these words out and they come out with

such force and conviction, you’re convinced – this guy is sincere and means

what he’s saying. I love artists, true artists that put it all out there in their work.

You know Mike has something to say and isn’t just tossing words around.

Patton has always been regarded as some “avant-garde genius”; you never

know where he’ll appear next or what his next project will sound like. It could

be with Faith No More (surprisingly his most commercial work) or Fanthomas

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or some odd work of random noises and sounds put on disc. “Midlife Crisis”

was the most accessible song on this great album. Mike Bordin provides a

booming, but solid, rhythm to hold things down. Jim Martin gives a steady

guitar riff, tailor made for MTV back in that day. But it is Patton that gives the

song the bite, and edge, to keep this track from straying too much into the

“pop” territory.

“What an inheritance
The salt and the kleenex
Morbid self attention
Bending my pinky back”

With lyrics like this, you’re not going to get that much airplay! Yes, to this day,

they lyrics are a bit of a puzzle, but it’s that conviction in delivery that hooks

me on the song. And it’s a great song to begin my long trip back to my

temporary home. Now, do I take a right or left at the bottom of the hill?

Should I go down through the alley and then follow that side street back to the

main road? I’ve always hated backtracking when running (or biking, hiking

and, in general, any motion) and will go out of my way to make a loop versus

going over the same ground twice. In fact, this tends to be a metaphor for my

life – I hate covering the same-old thing when I could be exploring the new or

un-experienced. So, I set forth with a purposeful stride. Legs moving with

Mike Bordin’s beat and pushing ahead at a fast pace (a fast pace for me that is)

The landscape is starting to come alive all around me. There are more

people on the sidewalk, more joggers out, a few walkers with a cup of coffee in

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their hands, and there’s a shopkeeper stepping out on the street in front of

me………I swerve and manage to side-step him, barely missing wiping out

him and the box of wares he’s carrying. Spinning around, I manage to slightly

bow my head and say “Sorry!” without missing a stride. Glancing over my

shoulder, I notice he’s going about his business, seemingly unaffected (or not

even noticing) by our brief encounter. A planet and a meteor that combine for

a near miss on this day at this hour.

Army of Anyone is up next on Little Silver! A track from their

eponymous 2006 album, “Disappear” is a mid-tempo “bright” rocker from this

new supergroup (such an overused term; really, other than Cream, give me the

name of a real supergroup? Audioslave comes close.) Army of Anyone is

made up of Richard Patrick (ex-Filter and brother of Robert Patrick from

“Terminator” and “Sopranos” fame) and Dean & Robert DeLeo (ex-Stone

Temple Pilots). Their debut album is surprisingly good, if not a bit rushed and

shows that they haven’t quite gelled yet as a band.

“Don’t look
don’t look at me now
I watch how the world works through here
I love how the world works from here”

“Disappear” talks about how, well, it’s not too deep lyrically, but it is a darn

fun track to run too and that’s all that matters on this morning. The smooth,

melodic guitar of Dean DeLeo, as brilliant as he ever was in STP, provides a

great audioscape for my run back to the hotel. His brother, Robert, is as solid

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as ever on the bass, locking in with drummer Ray Lutzier to create a strong

backbone and musical “canvas” for Dean to paint on. These two were

underrated while in STP – always overshadowed by Scott Weiland, his voice

and his antics – and you certainly can hear the classic “STP sound” front and

center on this new project. Richard has a phenomenal, big rock voice and

really sounds good paired up with the DeLeo’s. I’m hoping for new material

after they get a year or two touring together. As in music, the more you work

with a person or group, the better the results are with time.

With “Disappear” as my traveling music, I run faster back down the

hill and crossing over to the residential area. There’s an alleyway to my right

and shoot down this path, throwing some “new” into the route back. All at

once, I reconnect to my environment and push the music to the background –

the alley is full of new images, different scenes from the road I had just been

on and had become accustom to. I pass by ground floor apartments with their

curtains drawn and neat planters hanging from the windows. Again, there’s

not trash scattered about or empty boxes laying in the way – it’s a clear, clean

path through the buildings. To my left, up a block or so, I can see the main

road, my main path back, and decide to keep moving ahead until I’m forced to

turn back to the familiar. The apartment building to my right abruptly ends

and a park takes its place, giving my eyes something new and green to examine.

The park is surrounded by a low stucco wall – tall enough to block the “hop

over the fence” I enjoy doing (or usually forced to do when I take a wrong turn

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during a run in an unfamiliar city), but low enough that I can see into park.

There’s a sharp drop off about 100 feet past the wall, ravine-like with heavy

underbrush and dense tree growth, which would explain why the city turned

this into a park. Ravine land is basically unusable to even the most voracious

of developers, so it’s easier to keep it natural instead. Perhaps Tokyo, with its

eye toward preserving the natural landscape and providing a greenspace to her

inhabitants, claimed this land for a park independent of any potential

development plans. My attitude, being shaped by our typical land-use policies

here in the States, is a bit more pessimistic and I get the sense that even half

the world away, developers had first crack at this land and only after they

shrugged their shoulders and turned their back, did the city protect this space

for the people. At any rate, it’s a great green space to run past – even on the

other side of the wall. Up ahead, my alleyway is coming to an end and I turn

uphill towards the main drag, back to the familiar path

Back on the street and out of the cool, shaded alleyway, I’m now in

full Tokyo morning sunshine and feels like a hot day ahead (a “scorcher” as the

weather folks might say). Sweat is now pouring down my face and I realize it

might be time to go retro with my running gear and put on that circa-1975

headband. Maybe go for that “Bill Walton/NBA look”. Army of Anyone has

“disappeared” from Little Silver and next on tap is (drum roll) “Raining Blood”

by Slayer.

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 Why does one carry Slayer on an iPod? Well, it is just for this reason –

if you are running or biking or engaging in any activity where you feel at some

point you’ll need that “kick in the rear” for motivation, any random Slayer song

will provide that instance boost. Lyrically, if you can keep up with the intense

pace and discern the rapid-fire words, it’s nothing but forceful words against a

crushing, brutal musical backdrop. If there is a soundtrack in hell, Slayer is on

that multiple times. “Raining Blood” is the quintessential Slayer song. It is one

of the most brutal songs ever written and includes the famous (and signature)

Slayer guitar riff – the chord structure that was once banned by the Church and

proclaimed “diabolus musica” (Latin for “devil in music”) for the effect it had

on listeners. Now, I’m not sure I agree with the banning (one likes to believe

in the freedom of music; any and all music), but do agree that the descending

5th’s and the note structure, when played at the speed Slayer plays it, has what

can be described as an uncomfortable effect on the listener. This is not music to

sleep or relax to and is exactly the reason I carry it on Little Silver. It is pure

motivational music and serves the purpose well when you need that extra burst

of energy while running. On the road, I dig down, grit my teeth and push

faster. I pass by a small police station, really just a shack that holds one or two

officers, and give a quick nod and wave. With thumbs tucked into the belts on

their neatly pressed uniforms, they make no return gesture or even

acknowledge my presence. To them, I’m invisible or, at best, another western

tourist.

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 The motivational (and, gasp, devil music) has ended. I have no idea

how far I’ve run this morning, but it certainly has been a stunning landscape

thus far. The city is waking up all around me, a strange and foreign land with

different people, language, food (and beer). Eric and I have a full schedule of

meetings and training, but with this amazing, and unexplored, city before us,

we will need to carve out some time to see the sights.

Jeff Buckley is up next with his rendition of “Hallelujah”. In a word:

masterpiece. I, like many, had never heard of Jeff until many years after his

untimely drowning in a Memphis river. His lone album, “Grace” (yes, this

inspired, indirectly, Katie’s middle name), is widely considered genius. Even

Rolling Stone got it right when they put “Grace” on the list of “Essential Albums

of the ‘90s”. Jeff’s soaring voice is better left to the listener and something I

won’t even try to describe. I still have no idea how I found this album – I

know it was 2003 at Classmates.com when I first heard “Mojo Pin” and

decided to pick up the entire album. I remember being on I-405, stuck in rush

hour traffic as usual, and listening to “Hallelujah” for the first time. Music has

always been “at the core of my being” – I simply cannot go through the day

without it painting the landscape or setting the mood of the day. It had been

quite awhile since any “popular” music grabbed my attention, and to me,

current music simply was a drool canvas, almost (gasp!) becoming background

noise! Sitting in my car, in traffic, on that rainy evening, listening to Jeff sing

those words with such beauty really struck a chord. I felt that song. And I’m

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not ashamed to say that I wept right there, the tears streaming down my face

hidden from the outside world by the rain coming steadily down. It was

wonderful to have a song bring out that kind of emotion in me again.

“Once I heard there was a chord

That David played and pleased the Lord,
But you don’t really care for music, do ya?”

And now, four years later in Japan, listening to those words again, I

again felt the song. The music, the words…..my God, the vocals! I stopped for

a second and gave a brief laugh at the counterpoint of “Hallelujah” coming

after Slayer. It seems my new Little Silver has a great sense of humor. I start

running again and the slow, bright notes of Jeff’s guitar fill my ears and his

voice, his beautiful voice, covers me like a familiar and reassuring blanket.

I put this song, and “Mojo Pin” on Eric’s new iPod last week in

preparation for the trip. “Hallelujah” was put on two of three playlists I

created for him (the third being my “Demo Prep – Aggression” playlist) and

specifically told him to listen to this song. I told him it would change his life.

Up ahead, at the edge of sight, is the hotel. My run is nearing an end

and what better way to wrap up my first morning in this wonderful new land.

My legs are a bit rubbery and I can feel the pull in my left hamstring – a

nagging “runner’s injury” – as I stride down the hill towards my destination.

“It’s not a cry that you hear at night

And it’s not somebody that’s seen the light
It’s a cold and broken ‘Hallelujah’”
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 I turn into the hotel and weave my way through the waiting cabs and

shuttle busses as I catch my breath. I check the stopwatch (great feature on

the iPod!) and see that I’ve gone for 53 minutes. Not bad for day one and I’m

not feeling any jet lag, nor am I tired with only a few hours sleep under my

belt. The morning stillness has melted away by the steady flow of cars on the

highway. With the few, wispy clouds clearing out, this is going to be fantastic

day weather wise.

The day ahead will be full with work as we kick off a POC at IIJ

Networks and meet our Japanese Opsware colleagues. We’ll be challenged

with trying to get from “point A to point B” and all the difficulties that come

with not understanding a word of Japanese. Add that to the challenge of any

POC and you’ll get a pressure filled day. But, I will face what comes of the day

with grace.

As I’m walking through the lobby, I realize that I’ve forgotten to take

out my ear buds and the genius of Jeff Buckley fades out as “Sweet Home

Alabama” comes on next. I step on the elevator, press “8” and smile from ear

to ear. You can take the boy out of “redneck”, but you can’t take the

“redneck” out of the boy. The doors open wide and I stride down the hall

with a swagger only an old Southern boy can make.

Music and motion – these are two of my favorite things. Motion can

help make a song you’ve heard hundreds of times take on a special meaning by

providing that moment. In turn, music provides the soundtrack to the landscape

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of motion. My own landscape, for this one week, is foreign and yet familiar.

It’s an untouched canvas, empty and full, but ready to be explored.

There’s going to be more to see in this city that I can possibly imagine,

but I’ll be out there with my swagger and my eyes wide open, taking in all the

sights, sounds and smells. Each morning, I promise myself, I will run in a

different direction and never run the same route twice.

In my wildest dreams, I never thought anything would bring me here.

Get ready Tokyo, here I come.

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 Detroit to Charlotte

Insomniac

I can never sleep on planes.

It’s been almost two years of solid flying with well over 100,000 miles

of miles and still no sleep on an airplane.

There’s always something that pulls me from the brink of sleep.

Maybe it’s the mechanical drone of the plane’s engines, filtering in through

those cheap noise cancellation headphones. Or it could be a slight bump of

turbulence that shakes me while I’m dozing off. Or it could be the flight

attendant that asks you if you need something right when you are closing your

95
eyes. Then again, it might be the person next to me, shifting in their seat,

getting situated better and fast asleep while I’m struggling.

Whatever the reason, when I fly, I know there’s going to be no sleep.

And to make matters worse, you’re shamed from keeping your reading light on

or cracking open the computer to do something like, heaven forbid, write your

book. No, the dull glow of the laptop screen is just too much for the other

slumbering passengers. That means you sit and suffer in an uncomfortable

silence for the duration of the flight and calculate how many more miles you’ll

need before you hit MVP Gold.

Ding, ding. That means we’re up above 10,000 feet. The use of

approved electronic devices is now approved. Nice.

Looking around the first class cabin, most of these passengers were

out and snoring before the plan hit its cruising altitude. The guy next to me is

snoozing with his seat back straight up and still wearing his tweed coat.

So, here I sit in boredom trying my best to force my eyes shut and find

some rest to pass the time. I’ll scoot my butt forward in the seat, with my seat

back just slightly inclined so as not to disrupt the person behind me, trying an

awkward angle that deep down I know will make sleep impossible. I’ll shift my

weight from one side to the other, cross my feet, uncross my feet. I’ll rest my

arms on the miniature pillow in my lap, and then move the pillow under an

elbow to give my arm a break.

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 Ding. Folks, we’ve now hit our cruising altitude. Feel free to walk

about the cabin. Remember, this is a non-smoking flight. Ok.

I’ll try anything to sleep on a plane. Count sheep or try and dream of

something calm and relaxing. I’ve even tried the Zen-master approach and

tried to still my thoughts. This works for a few minutes before I quit in sheer

frustration. As soon as I get still and reach that Zen state, my first thoughts are

“Great! This is working!” or “Did I bring my toothbrush?” and the stillness

escapes me. Or, if I tempt fate and take an isle seat, inevitably the person next

to me just has to go to the bathroom at the very moment I start to doze off.

The one thing that might help put me to sleep – a constant stream of

rum-and-Coke – is the one thing I’m not able to do since I have to go straight

from the airport to a customer site.

I don’t often fly red-eyes. My travel sticks to routine flight schedules

here on the West coast – going down to San Francisco, San Jose, Los Angeles

or Phoenix. There’s an occasional trip to Texas or maybe an international

flight that breaks up the routine. However, I’ve had a few cross country flights

thanks to the startup life – some sales related and some personal travel. And

while no one likes the dreaded red-eye, you either red-eye it or you spend an

entire, wasted day trying to get from Seattle to wherever East Coast. So, you

learn to love the red-eye in order to shave a day or two off your trip.

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 The one nasty thing about flying West-to-East is that you’re going to

be awake for around 30 hours straight or so. I knew this when I signed on for

the trip. I figured 30 hours and no sleep was a fair trade.

This flight was a last second job I took on my way to New York and

visiting the family. Seattle to Binghamton, New York by way of Detroit,

Charlotte and Philadelphia. For most, that might raise an eyebrow or elicit a

“Why would you….” response, but I don’t even blink. For me, all I see is the

dollars saved by getting a free flight to the east coast and being able to expense

meals and some parking. Fair trade for a day’s worth of work and some lost

sleep on a red-eye. Plus, with my airline status, I get a free bump up to first

class for the trip. So, I settle in my oversized chair next to some random

stranger that I won’t talk to during the flight. I work my way into the seat as

we leave Seattle at 11pm.

No sleep and a long flight is giving me a chance to think about the

opportunity I was offered to get out of sales and go work under product

management. That’s the benefit of going from a startup into the larger,

acquiring company – it’s becomes a big land-grab and all of these new

opportunities float your way.

Now, this would be a significant career change and I tell the person

who offered the position that I’m tempted. But, can anyone honestly picture

me riding behind a desk? Thought so.

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 In order to keep the dogs at bay, I tell them that I’ve got this Charlotte

job and then vacation. You’ll have to wait for two weeks while I sort this out,

I say. There’s no way I can make a decision like this in haste.

I’m tired of all this work crap and really, really just want to sleep this

flight away. I’m tired of thinking about my career future, tired of getting

bought and sold, tired of being a just another pawn in the scheme of things.

But really, all I can think about is how I can make a buck off the trip.

Ding. Seat belts please, we’re experiencing turbulence.

Sigh.

These thoughts are on my mind as we hit our cruising altitude and all

those around me are asleep with their heads on their undersized pillows.

Here’s my chance to hang up the travel bag and stay at home to earn a salary.

Stop living life sitting next to some random stranger wide awake on a red-eye

across the country. Stop spending hours and hours in an airport terminal or in

some local restaurant eating diner alone for yet another night in some suck city.

Think its fun and games? No, but you can carve out a nice living if you are

good at what you do and willing to put up with the travel. And I’m the best.

A wise man once told me that if you’re willing to get on a plane,

there’s money to be made.

I am a salesman. I am a traveler. It’s time I accepted this truth.

And then something unexpected happens.

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 I fall asleep at 36,000 feet, probably somewhere over Montana. And I

stayed asleep all the way to Detroit. I was asleep until the very moment those

wheels touched down on the tarmac with my electronic devices still powered

on and a headset still resting on my ears.

I was asleep and only the landing of the plane could wake me.

It was a restful, dreaming sleep.

And in my dreams I am on my bike, riding down some Washington

back road on my way to Portland. The sun is blazing hot, beating down on my

back and my focus is down to the road immediately in front of me. I’m

focusing on the pavement as it speeds by – a blur of motion under my front

tire.

Even at rest I am in motion.

100
 Pennsylvania

Everyone from the Northwest is a Serial Killer

“Have you ever seen a pair of shoes strung over a power line? You

know, that means it’s a drug neighborhood.”

I hear this thin, but confident, voice coming from the backseat and

I’ve got to call bullshit on Theresa, who I just met two hours ago.

“No, really – honest truth, my brother’s friend is a cop. Or maybe it’s

his friend’s brother, but anyway, the cops say that it’s a sign you’re entering a

drug neighborhood.”

The rest of the ladies in the car nod their heads and utter “Oohs” and

“Ahhhs” at this revelation. Theresa, an educator from upstate New York in

her 50’s, is now this car’s foremost expert on drug neighborhoods and how to

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tell the difference between typical suburban sprawl and a place where you can

buy your illegal goods. Come to think of it, I’ve always wondered why people

felt the need to lob a pair of shoes over a power line. And now I know.

“The coolest thing about my job? Well, I gotta say it’s putting on a

Hazmat suit and waking into a house to figure out an ‘unidentified smell’ or

‘unknown white substance’. It’s a great bonus getting to walk into a place

where police and investigators fear to tread.”

This new voice is coming from Jackie who I’ve known for a very long

time. You can call us five-hour-old-best-pals. We were seated next to each

other on the ill fated US Airways flight whatever from Philadelphia to

Binghamton. Jackie and I started out as single-serving friends (see Fight Club)

but now we’ve established a deep bond that comes with spending three hours

together on the Philadelphia International Airport tarmac in a hot prop-job

plane. Thanks to some nasty thunderstorms coming in from the north, every

flight out of Philly was significantly delayed and many flights, including all

those going to Binghamton, were flat out cancelled. After two plus years flying

for a living, I’ve just gone through my first flight cancellation on the one flight

I needed the most.

While we sat on the tarmac, I got to hear about Jackie and her story.

For a living, Jackie is in forensic science – a CSI in Binghamton - and she’s

already had to answer 20 questions, from me, about how much her job

resembles the TV CSI’s. In case you’re wondering, it’s not like TV.

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 “Field work beats sitting in the lab going through stacks of case files.

There’s a huge backlog of cases, even in Binghamton. You should see the

stack of homicides I’ve got on my desk waiting for me when I get back. It

takes close to a week for each one, but it keeps me busy.”

Heck of a way to have job security. You get killed and the sum of all

you are ends up as a case file that a Jackie works on in between coffee breaks.

Or maybe you have to sit and wait in a pile for Jackie to get home from her

vacation in Alabama.

“I just got in from Dublin. Three weeks of ‘nursing study’. Honestly,

we didn’t learn shit. It was really about drinking and seeing the sights.

Actually, all we did is drink. I really didn’t see anything except a castle and

some boring museum. Can’t say I remember the museum much, I was pretty

much drunk from the night before. You know, even now, I’m either really jet

lagged or I’m still drunk.”

The final voice comes from the young lady seated next to me with a

thick New York nasal drawl. Her name is Deb or Darlene. Something or

another with a “D”. Or maybe it was Melissa? Mental note to start listening

more, but you’ve got to cut me some slack – I’m operating on 30 or so hours

without sleep after flying cross country and being in four different airport

terminals. And now I’m in a rental car with three strange women on a four

hour drive from Philadelphia to Binghamton. Odds will tell you that there’s a

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good chance one of the three will be an irritant during the trip. I’ll take the

over/under on this girl sitting next to me.

It cannot be said enough - the trick to travel is to keep moving. Never,

under any circumstance, find yourself at rest until you hit your final destination.

That’s why the four of us are together in this car right now, we’re intent on

staying in motion no matter what.

“How do we know you’re not a rapist or killer? You’re from Seattle?

Oh shit – isn’t that where all the serial killers are from?” asks Deb or Darlene.

I’m really too tired to answer this one, although I like the fact anyone

from the Northwest is labeled a mass murderer. If you’re going to be

stereotyped, might as well be for something cool. Incidentally, at what point

does one go from being a serial killer to becoming a mass murder? Is it

volume alone or do style points count?

I decide not to throw this question out to the field. Focus on keeping

in motion and keep the car on the road in the middle of this monsoon.

“You could talk to my wife and she’ll vouch that I’m most certainly

not a killer.”

At this point, I’m really hoping they don’t call me on this one.

Chances are the wife probably wouldn’t want to get a phone call from three

strange women at night asking her if I’m a killer or something.

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 We’re cruising along at a good 65 MPH on a toll road north of

Philadelphia. It’s pissing rain off and on and I’m white knuckling the steering

wheel like it’s a throat to choke. Not that I’d choke anyone, but it has been a

very long day.

“How could you not have toll roads in Washington? Who the heck

pays for the roads? The money has to come from somewhere. Bet your taxes

are like outrageous”

Again, Deb or Darlene with her questions. I think we’d get along

great if she’d just shut up for more than two minutes. Although, I did ask

everyone to converse and help keep me awake.

We left Philadelphia about two hours ago with a burning desire to put

distance between us and that infernal airport. The four of us became an on-

demand family with a single goal in mind – get to New York before the other

passengers of our cancelled flight get there.

Before the flight attendant muttered the word cancelled, I had booked

an Intermediate class car through Hertz. There was a SUV for the same price,

but I opted for the plushy feel of an American-made generic sedan. I wanted

to feel the road in my Chevrolet Impala, or, a similar vehicle.

Before the other folks on the Hertz shuttle bus made it to the rental

counter, I was loading luggage into the ample trunk of a dark green Pontiac

Grand Am located in the Hertz Gold Member section. Membership does have

its privileges.
105
 After loading three ladies worth of bags, suitcases and assorted crap, I

Andretti’ed my way out of the rental terminal and Earnhardt’ed up Interstate

81. Going north, north, north as fast as I could push it without freaking out

my newfound friends. I just wanted to get somewhere that I belonged.

Quietly I prayed everyone took a leak at the airport, because this ride is non-

stop to New York.

The important thing with travel is to never stop moving. You must

always stay in motion. An object at rest is useless or dead and a file on Jackie’s

desk.

Waverly, New York – your adopted prodigal son is trying to get home.

Theresa or Jackie asks how I’m holding up. Am I ok with driving all

the way? Do I mind driving the entire trip they ask?

I get the feeling this is a rhetorical question. They’d rather have me

drive so they can keep their eyes on me. This strange guy from Seattle, they

want no sudden movement. Here’s this guy that, only a few hours back,

stormed off the plane with luggage in tow and announced he was getting a

rental car and making the drive. And he had three open seats for whoever

wanted to come along.

See, I made what is called a command decision. I needed some

company, and directions, to Binghamton and was fed up with airports at this

point. I was going to finish this trip off behind the wheel of a fine automobile.

All on the company dime. Bonus and style points.

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 Deanna, I’m starting to think that’s her name, gets a call every fifteen

minutes from her father who’s waiting at the Binghamton airport. He’s been

there since 5:00 and, from what everyone says, you’ve pretty much explored

that terminal in the first 30 minutes. Its 10:30 now and I have no sympathy for

dear old Dad.

“The people in Ireland were really rude”, Deanna says as she channel

surfs looking for whatever Classic Rock station can be picked up in Nowhere,

Pennsylvania. “We’d go out to a pub or bar or club and these guys would just

throw off attitude to us. Nobody would buy us drinks or whatever and when

they found out our group was from America, they really started being jerks.”

Truth be told, we could do without Deanna. Mentally, I calculate the

speed at which she’d have a fighting chance if, say, she was to exit the vehicle

before it comes to a complete stop.

Hypothetically speaking, of course. Duck-and-roll, baby.

“Yeah, there’s not much nightlife. Clubbing was like soooo boring.

Drinking got like old by day three. I saw a castle or two, but that got old. I

think you have to be Irish to like Ireland. I mean with all that rain and cold in

the winter, I bet you’d like it being from Seattle and all…..”

In between bursts of static and snippets of country music, I hear a

couple of chords of a REO Speedwagon “classic”. “At last, some real music!”

Deanna says.

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 I focus ahead and measure my breath, slowing down and taking deeper

intakes. Calm thyself, calm thyself as “I heard it from a friend who, heard it

from a friend who, heard it from another that you’ve been messing around.” I

am Zen. Focus on the road ahead. Each mile is one mile closer to home.

Theresa pipes up from the back, “My husband and I love to travel.

We try to go to a new country every year. Of course, we haven’t been

anywhere outside the states since we went to France ten years ago, but we do

tend to get around the States quite a bit.”

God bless Theresa, she’s there to change the subject and give me that

much needed break from the one riding shotgun. Now the conversation

moves towards the subject of travel and who’s been where. Alabama, Dublin,

Charlotte, Italy, San Diego, Jacksonville, Rochester, Manchester (England),

Dallas, San Jose, San Francisco, Atlanta, Phoenix, Washington D.C. are all

names that pop up in our car.

“Now Seattle, I’ve never been out that far. It rains all the time right?”

asks Theresa and now the 800 pound elephant is standing in the room.

Damn, I could have done without this question.

When you’ve spent time in the Northwest, you learn to deal with the

response because you hear it over and over and over again. If you’re new to

the Northwest (I’d say less than two years a resident), you answer with a

defensive “That’s the stereotype, but it’s not that bad. It doesn’t rain all the

time – if it did, we’d be under water!”

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 However, once you become a “native” (i.e. over two years), you learn

how to answer, by reflex, in the correct manner. The words slip out of my lips

as they have a number of times before. It’s automatic.

Yes. It rains every day and every night constantly. You never see the

sun and I guarantee that you all would hate traveling out there and don’t even

consider moving to the area and driving up house prices and clogging our

roads.

We’re doing just fine without you, so please stay where you are.

Ok, that’s not the answer I typically give. Unless I’m talking to a

Californian and then I just punch ‘em in the face to speed things up.

“I hear it’s real pretty out in Seattle with the water and trees, but I just

don’t know if I could stand the rain……” and now the conversation turns to

home. My knuckles crack as I tighten the grip on the wheel and I suddenly

hate the Bad Company song playing on the radio. How much prison time

would one get for strangling someone?

“Methadone is pretty bad out there” says our resident CSI, “It’s

starting to grow in the greater Binghamton area, so we’ve been studying other

heavy meth areas like Seattle to understand what we’re up against.”

Great. I’m a serial killer on meth that hasn’t seen the sun. Not that

I’m sensitive to labels or anything, but my medium starched collar is starting to

press tight against my throat. Good thing I can make that shoe throw over the

109
power lines with my eyes closed. I shift in my seat and feel the cabin close in

around me. It is getting harder to breathe in here.

And then there’s a sign: 20 miles to the New York state line.

Someone from the back says “We’re almost home!”

Hoo-freaking-ray. I’m tired.

Jackie’s on the phone talking to her husband. Since they live so close

to the interstate, I’m going to drop her off across the New York state line

where he’ll pick her up. I’m scared to ask if this is because it’s a time saver or

if she’s sick of being trapped in the car with us. No problem for me: pit stop

at Exit 1, up to the Greater Binghamton Airport, drop off the other two girls

and then on to Waverly.

Theresa talks about her son and how he’s drifted off the past few

years. He’s moved out and between his moving out and her personal travel,

they’ve lost touch. This is not the time for me to play counselor, so I could

give a crap less. Yet, the entire car nods in sympathetic unison as Theresa spills

her story to us. Her son went off to college somewhere, studying something.

They used to be so close to each other and then he left the nest. Sometimes he

forgets to call and weeks go by without contact.

We’re collectively one big shoulder for her to cry on. Our little family

unit, right here and now in a rental car. Our little world for a brief moment in

time.

110
 The twenty miles goes quickly and New York’s Exit 1 is right in front

of us – Jackie’s stop. I whip off the exit and onto the shoulder and pull up

behind a beat-up old truck with radio station and Yankees stickers all over the

bumper. Out pops a big guy with a hat and we all venture a guess that this is

Jackie’s husband. And without fanfare and only an over the shoulder

“Thanks”, we leave Jackie with her husband and bid her a good life as I gun

the car and speed back onto the interstate. She’s left the nest of our makeshift

family and gone forever.

Deanna starts chattering again. This time about the radio and what

stations are playing what, how long it has been since she’s seen her father, how

crappy Ireland was and how much work she has at school. This girl will not

shut up for one second. I lean further back into the seat and take a deep,

calming breath. Jackie might have a new case file on her desk if this girl keeps

it up much longer.

Theresa is completely silent at this point. I’m not sure if it’s because

she’s sitting in the back by herself or if the reality of hitching a ride with a

complete stranger has just sunk in. Or maybe she’s exhausted from sharing.

We reach the Binghamton Airport, located smack dab in the middle of

absolutely nowhere. Find B.F.E, dodge a couple of deer, and then keep going,

and you’ll hit this airport.

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 There are a couple of random cars scattered around the parking lot

and in front of the terminal as I pull up. Before the car even stops, both are

out of the car and collecting their bags from the trunk.

With a few hurried “Byes” and a “Yup”, my other two passengers are

gone. And I’m on my own heading towards two weeks of vacation.

I’m heading home.

Two years of startup stress melts away as I leave the airport behind me

and I loosen my grip on the wheel. In less than one hour, I’ll be with my wife

and kid. My real family.

My God, I am almost home. For the first time in a long time, I am

almost home.

112
 Waverly

My Summer Vacation

Did you ever have to write about your summer vacation in school?

Think back, to when you were in elementary school and the teacher gave you

this assignment. At the time, it didn’t seem like this was throwaway work and

you attacked the job with such passion, going into detail about everything you

did, everywhere you went and everybody you met. Yes, you said, you had a

great time with Cousin Jimmy at the pool. Your paper started with, “I had lots

of fun on my summer vacation” and you wrote volumes about how you went

camping or saw Philadelphia, PA for the first time and even included a social

commentary on the homeless situation since you saw your first homeless guy

just outside the Franklin Institute.

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 “I think we should do something for those people that do not have a home because it

is not fair.”

Great social commentary it was not. But give me credit for trying.

Yes I had lots of fun on my summer vacation. But, I couldn’t translate

that into words with much skill as a 10 year old.

Personally, the great thing about these little homework assignments

was that I had a chance to make myself look cool. I remember agonizing over

these stories and it wasn’t the writing about the places I’d visit or things I did.

Instead, I’d spend hours trying to figure out if “my steel-blue eyes glistened

against the raging sea as the ocean spray dampened my ever growing sun

drenched blonde locks” was laying it on thick.

Brian didn’t just go to Charleston, no, he hung out down at the Battery

in his black muscle t-shirt and just chilled. In my mind, all the chicks wanted

me. Here I am this mysterious blonde rockstar from Asheville and a ladies

man at age 11. God, I was such a dork.

But, I digress. This isn’t a stroll down memory lane through the eyes

of a husky pre-adolescent hick kid. Instead, it’s a story about an all grown up,

mature and seasoned husband and father. And, hopefully, age has brought a

bit more skill to the writing and a seasoned lens to see the world through. So,

without further ado, let me tell you about my summer vacation……..

I had lots of fun on my summer vacation.

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 Two weeks. For the first time in nearly two years, I had two weeks

without work, without that faded, downward spiraling circus that is my career.

It was just me and the family spending some quality time together doing

nothing but listening to crickets chirp and fireflies light up the summer nights.

Of course, getting there was another story, but then you may have

already read that one. Is it irony, or just life, that a traveler had to travel across

the country to get some rest and relaxation?

For one glorious week, the entire family was there, under one roof

living a communal life together. We’d take turns washing dishes, making

breakfast or making diner. If there was a baby crying, someone handled it

regardless of whose kid it was. We sat around the kitchen table, playing board

games reading the local paper or simply doing nothing. I finally got to meet

my new beautiful niece and my new handsome nephew. I went hiking,

watched Dr. Who and just hung out with brothers, friends and the extended

family. If there’s a better definition for inner-peace, I’m unaware of it.

Back at work, the swirl continued without me and that was fine. A

buddy of mine had to take a last minute trip to Tokyo as a fill in for me. The

sales rep over there asked if I could fly over to help close some deals. Like I

was really going to bust up my vacation to help their corporate machine?

Right.

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 Every now and then I logged in to see what was going on. Not

answering any emails that began piling up in my Inbox, no just being a

detached voyeur. There were a few email threads about product problems,

some pricing issues with an account of mine and also another thread about

finding Brian a new career within the company.

That conversation I tuned into. After all, what’s a vacation without a

career change? Everyone needs some drama from time to time I say to myself

as I wipe the sweat off my brow. Phisher the newly shaved cat nods his head

in approval and goes back to stretching out in the sun.

The whole career change thing could be a great ending to the book I

thought. “Death of a Salesman” would be the chapter title and it would have

all sorts of 11th hour contract negotiations and haggling about salary, bonuses,

title, etc. There would be the added suspense of me threatening to walk out if

my terms weren’t met. This could work out nicely and I cut another dead vine

out of the rosebush and toss it into the yard.

A writer is always looking for material – especially when he is out front

sweating to death in a 90 degree, humid NY summer pulling stubborn weeds

out of a plant bed. But even a writer has to put the brakes on sometimes and

this whole career thing, well, I shrugged it off. I figured it was one of those

things that can sort itself out on its own. Instead, I wanted to live in the now

and enjoy each second of this vacation while I could.

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 In a rare creative moment, I lopped off a handful of daisies that had

taken over a patch of land near the driveway and planted them in a rusting

watering can filled. Who said I didn’t have an artistic eye? It was my goal to

un-weed the front the yard flower and shrub beds over the course of my

vacation and I’m happy to say I did just that.

My daughter pulled her first weed in the yard, but mostly my job was

to keep her from picking up dog shit or falling off the rock wall. And while

she avoided picking up any doo, her Dad stepped in it constantly.

What else did I do? Besides pulling weeds?

My nephew taught me how to play a game called “KanJam”. This

thing consists of two thick plastic boards you fold into cylinders. Each

cylinder has a slot, a hole big enough for a Frisbee (included) to get through.

You play KanJam by setting up your cylinder and then trying to get a Frisbee

either into the can, through the slot (automatic win) or just clang it off the side

of the can for a point or two.

During the first best of three series, I got my butt handed to me by a 9

year old. If he brings this up 20 years from now, I will still blame the humidity.

My daughter and I caught our first Candor parade and festival. Then

we spent the rest of the day at Aunt Elaine and Uncle Ken’s place eating great

food and enjoying some family time with that side of the family.

Who else did I see?

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 I also got to meet a cousin for the fist time and catch up with his Mom

and Dad at their beautiful place on top of Talmadge Hill and discovered

something wonderful. Dad, that’s Scott, built this enormous train set. This is

a train set dreams are made of. One that has mountains, tunnels, lights and

towns with stores and little people scurrying about. A train set that neither you

or I can build on our own. Scott happens to be among the 1% of the

population that has the vision and skill to pull of this feat. Impressive.

What else did I do during my summer vacation?

I went to see a blockbuster summer movie at a Mom-n-Pop movie

theatre in Athens, PA. The movie was, as expected, spectacular, but I fell in

love with the theatre more than the movie. In the world of big brands and

faceless corporations, here’s this little theatre run by a cranky lady and her

husband, with their kids shelling out the popcorn and candy, making the movie

experience memorable. Their place, their passion and a bit of small town

Americana that should be experienced and supported. And that popcorn

tasted better than any popcorn I’ve ever had for some reason. Scott (the other

one) and Kendra pushed everyone aside and landed our group the best seats in

the house. And that big bag of cheap popcorn? I dusted that off before the

movie even started.

The wife and I scored $2.50 Dead Guy Ale’s at the Railhouse in

downtown Waverly. That’s about $2 less than we can get it back home and a

steal. Plus, I was able to catch up with Chucklebutt.

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 Kyle and I helped Israel move this ridiculously heavy iron claw-foot

tub from the 3rd floor of one building, down the street to their 2nd floor

apartment. We managed to move the tub without breaking anything, but the

next two days were a very real reminder that I am no longer 25 years old.

Vacation, or what we overworked Americans call “decompression”

nowadays, is a that rare time when you can just forget about the clock and let

time progress naturally, being in the moment and not on a set schedule. It’s

your time and you make of it what you will. With the constant demand of

work and the always-on, always-wired world of technology, it is a struggle to

unplug and simply enjoy life. But I managed to do just that during this

vacation.

I took every-other-morning runs to keep in shape for my upcoming

STP bike ride. I’d start out from the house as early as possible to avoid the

heat of the summer days. My running took me up the hill, past the farmlands

and this animal testing facility with a strange looking pond and a gaggle of

ducks. Their numbers seemed to decrease as the weeks went on, but I can’t be

certain. I’d run past old houses and barns, down windy country roads with

sweeping views of the rolling hills. Just me in motion on the road with my

music.

At nights, we’d all go out on the deck and enjoy the evening air. Or

light a fire in that new fire-pit table Mom and Dad Vergason scored at the

store. We’d all gather round the table breathing in toxic fumes from the fire

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logs, drinking our wine, rum-and-coke and whatnots, and talk about everything

and nothing until evening became morning with the starry New York sky as

our canopy.

I spent my mornings making coffee and trying, unsuccessfully, to find

real coffee in the Valley. My sister and I went on one ill fated attempt at a coffee

run on a Sunday morning only to find out every coffee shop was either closed

for good or just during the morning hours. Have you ever heard of a coffee

shop that is only open at night? It is not a myth, I have seen one.

By the way, I looked cool the entire time.

Work continued to swirl. What are you going to do, Brian? It said. I

yawned and replied in silence. Instead, I watched the Mariners get within 2

games of first place and checked out lake property near Ithaca. Not that we

can swing a lake house, but it sure is fun to dream about owning a spread on

Cayuga right on lake where you can sink your feet into the rocky, clear lake and

watch the clouds go by on a summer day. And there’d be more than enough

room for everyone to stay with us. Ah, it is fun to dream.

There was a great day trip through the wine country, where we loaded

up in the van and headed out to explore two of the bigger Finger Lakes –

Seneca and Cayuga. I think there were about 6 hours of driving – an eternity in

the van – but the sights of the lakes and the rolling hills packed with grapes,

apple trees and green grass made for a great time.

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 At the end of the trip, I was ready to come home, back to the

Northwest and the rapidly fading summer. Ready and recharged at last, with

bruises on my legs from moving that claw-foot tub, blisters on my feet from

running and a few scratches on my hands from pulling weeds. But finally

relaxed.

Yes folks, I had a great summer vacation!

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 Seattle to Portland

A Day’s Ride

Every year, in mid-July when the summer is in full swing and the long

weeks of rain are a distant memory, Group Health puts on the Seattle to

Portland Bicycle Classic – or STP for short.

Every year around 10,000 riders of varying ages and riding skills

mount their bikes and begin the long 204 mile trek from the University of

Washington campus down across the state line to the beautiful city of Portland,

Oregon.

Every year, at 4:45 in the morning, wave after wave of cyclists leave

the campus and wind their way down Lake Washington. Sleepy headed riders

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with filled water bottles, clean cycles and pristine fresh smelling cycling clothes

begin the long trek full of optimism about the road ahead.

Riders in full cycling gear.

Riders in ballerina costumes.

Riders on recumbent bikes.

Riders, like Bob and I, in cargo shorts and t-shirts.

All of us pack the streets of Seattle, smiling and full of energy. Eyes

forward and eager to take flight.

The ride takes you through rural towns with names like Bucoda,

Tenino, Vader, Roy and Wilson. Here you’ll find real people out on their

porch, in their rocking chairs like something out of a Normal Rockwell

painting, waving you on as you sweat in the afternoon sun with 100+ miles of

road grime on your face.

Little kids will clap and cheer you on.

A family working hard on their chicken farm will look up from

weeding their squash plants long enough to smile and give you a thumbs up.

A teen with shaggy hair in Centralia will look at you with disgust and

snarl. Youth really is wasted on the young.

These small towns hold bake sales or setup soda and drink stands in

order to raise money for their local middle school. Or scout troop. Or

baseball team. For two days, their small town is on the map as total strangers
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ride by on expensive bikes through places they’d never think to visit by car.

Towns that became a very small dot on the map with the rise of Interstate 5.

Bob and I started doing this ride two years ago as our “annual rite of

passage”. When I agreed to ride the STP, my one stipulation was that we do

the ride in one day. I had no stomach to spend a night in Centralia, get up and

ride another 100 miles on sore legs. I wanted to do this all in one day.

Ride 204 miles in one day for fun and exercise.

I have to admit there are easier ways to get your exercise in.

How do you train for a 204 mile one day ride? You spend lots of

hours on the bike. Lots of hours. Hours spent working on your sprinting pace

or cornering work. Maybe rides that are dedicated to uphill routes and getting

your “hill legs”.

I’m no expert, but I really believe the key to the one day ride is not

training by doing long, long rides, but just spending lots of time on the bike.

Bike every day, 10-20 miles per day and you’ll develop a butt callous and the

ability to tune out the constant aches and pains of riding.

Pain is just weakness leaving the body, Bob says.

Of course, those short training rides, no matter how frequent you take

them, aren’t going to be enough to get you prepped for the STP. You’ll need

to bag a few “centuries”, or 100 mile rides, before the actual ride. Bob and I

do the Flying Wheels Summer Century as our big training ride prior to the

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STP. Supposedly, doing the Flying Wheels 100 mile route is your litmus test

for whether or not you can ride the STP in one day. We ride the hilly course,

meet up in the parking lot afterwards and say “Yep, we’re ready.”

See, we’re not gear-heads or hardcore bikers. In fact, we strive to be

the anti-bikers. That’s why Bob wears his cargo shorts with pride and boycotts

spandex. We try very hard to not get caught up in the bicycle culture where

your gear and a training regiment define you. Bob and I go out of our way to

avoid getting lumped into the biking scene, the mass of riders that measure

their calorie intake or work on their “group rides” and clock their pace. Riders

that follow training regiment as if it was a religion. Go to church on Sunday,

only bike 50 miles around Lake Washington to break in your new clicker shoes.

These are bikers that talk about drafting like they were NASCAR veterans.

Every year, you’ve got 10,000 or so riders with varying skills hitting the

road at the same time. The hardcore ones mixed with novices or weekend

warriors like I am.

When you put that many riders on the road at the same time, accidents

are going to happen and it becomes an annual part of the ride to hear the

stories of those that don’t make it to Portland in one piece. You’ll hear about

the rider who collided with a curb trying to avoid a pothole outside of Puyallup

and how he broke his collarbone, but his bike is ok – just needs a new rim.

But the rider is out for a good 6-8 weeks.

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 When you hit a food stop, you’ll hear whispers of a male rider, looks

to be in his mid 40’s, being loaded onto a gurney. Two ambulances and a fire

truck called to the scene and there was “definitely” blood on the highway. He

must have gone endo and face-planted. You’ll hear this and uncomfortably nod

and shuffle, then you’ll move on. No one wants to be reminded of what one

simple mistake can bring.

Take your eyes of the road for a second and you too can be on the

ground with your arms and legs skinned up bad. Most of my rides are defined

by what almost happened. Last year was the year of being “almost pinned on a

bridge between the railing and a dump truck”. My STP last year was the “near

slip in the dark on Lake Washington Boulevard”.

Riders always bitch and moan about cars. Too many cars on the

highway, too many distracted drivers with their cell phones in one ear and

driving too fast. Cyclists are always quick to point the finger at cars as the

source of all problems. These are the same cyclists that’ll blow through a stop

sign in Renton, take a left through a red light in Kelso into on coming traffic

and also line up with 20+ other riders in a seemingly endless pace line.

Let me tell you a secret: the real hazard to riders are other riders.

Load us on a bicycle, make us ride for 70 miles or more in the heat

and we become dangerous to ourselves and each other. We’re little missiles

just waiting for a target and then….boom! Accidents waiting to happen.

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 We’ll start checking our clock or seeing mileage signs and panic –

“we’re not on pace for an arrival at such-and-such a time” or “I’m not going to

make my 8pm rendezvous with my ride at the finish line”. That’s when it gets

ugly. That’s when a rider will start to press harder and ignore things like

“taking water” or “road hazards” or “each other”. Pace lines will start to get

longer. It’ll start as a 5 person line, where the group has ridden together the

months prior to the ride and know how to work with each other, keeping the

appropriate distance between the bikes and also work out their formations and

their signals.

During the ride though, these pace lines will pick up quite a few

tourists. Party crashers that jump in the middle of the line, hoping to get a free

“tow” for a few miles. Drafting in these pace lines can increase your average

speed up past 20 miles an hour. If you’re tired, this is the way to get back on

track. And, if you’re not careful and experienced in a pace line, it’s a great way

to cause an accident.

Riding along highway 507 through Fort Lewis, one tourist jumped into

a 15 person pace line, panicked and hit his brakes. The ripple effect caused the

last guy in line to bump tires with the rider in front of him. His front wheel

locked and he went over the handlebars, screaming “Oh God, Oh God!” The

bike bounced twice and came to rest two feet in front of my bike as I

screeched to a halt. The rider bounced once on his shoulder and stuck on the

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pavement. Luckily, the Chevy Suburban going 50 mph saw this wreck unfold

and stopped well short of hitting the guy.

I jumped off my bike and ran over to the rider who was mumbling and

moaning.

“Stay down! Stay down, man!” I yelled at him.

The rider who he bumped into was also stopped and was fumbling

through his backpack for a cell phone. “I’m gonna call 911. I’m calling 911.

Hang on, just hang on,” He says.

I want to tell him that pain is just weakness leaving the body, but I

keep my mouth shut for once.

The rider’s wife pulls up, starts sobbing and puts a gentle hand on her

husband.

It’s a scene no rider likes to either be involved in or see. A fallen

comrade that has trained long and hard for this ride only to see it end by riding

too close. It’s a reminder that you too can be ground beef in a split second.

A platoon, in full military gear, jogs by on the other side of the road.

Their eyes are focused straight ahead without a second glance to the scene not

more than 50 yards away.

Every rider presses on, but is reminded to keep a watchful eye out for

what each other is doing.

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 The halfway point of the STP is located in the appropriately named

Centralia, WA. You’re 102.3 miles into your ride with another 102 miles to go.

Welcome to Centralia and the famous midway stop at Centralia

College.

For the majority of the 10,000 riders, Centralia is their day one

destination. They’ll arrive in Centralia, smelly and hot, and call it a day. These

folks split the ride and have back-to-back centuries. Centralia hotels, 2-star at

best, are booked solid a year in advance. Those that don’t get a hotel room

camp roadside or have a husband, wife, girlfriend or buddy drive down so they

can crash in a car.

$3 bucks buys you a 5 minute shower in Centralia. Enough time to

wash off the grease and sweat and stink.

Every year, in mid-July, Centralia becomes one of the smelliest places

in Washington State. The spandex capital of the Northwest for a day or so.

Ever seen a few thousand men and women in spandex?

Here you can rest on the campus quad, under the shade of a tree near

the “famous” clock and refill your water and load up on more PowerBars and

other fuel food. You’ll get so sick of packaged carb & energy food that you’ll

want to punch Cliff and his son for those mealy Cliff Bars.

There are 3,000 riders that continue on past Centralia. Like Bob and I,

everyone uses Centralia as a 30-minute pit stop on the way down to Portland.

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Around 3,000 of the STP participants will make the trek in one day. And

Centralia is just a break in the action to load up on food – mostly carbs - and

fill up the water bottles before pushing off towards your final destination.

For $5 you can get all-you-can-eat spaghetti that benefits the Lion’s

Club. $5 buys you an endless supply of Hunt’s spaghetti sauce and overcooked

noodles. Or you can grab a loaded potato or a nitrate-heavy hot dog.

It’s over 90 degrees and you’ll find the longest line here is at the

Starbucks tent. 100 miles of riding and we still need our caffeine.

You can eat all sorts of food during the ride and not have to worry -

you’re burning those calories and then some.

$2.50 buys you a great tasting Polish sausage in Wilcott at mile marker

127. I forget what organization my cash benefited this time.

All the best nitrates, served up with a smile.

80 miles left and my hands feel like they’ve been punching a wall for

the past few hours. Hands and shoulders act as shock absorbers and mile after

mile of rough pavement rocks your body until you cringe at the sight of a set

of railroad tracks or a bump that you can’t avoid.

At this point in the ride, you start to take inventory as to what works

and what doesn’t on your bike and your body.

Look around at your fellow riders. Nobody is smiling now. “Are we

there yet?” is the most common thing out of anyone’s mouth.

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 Pain is just weakness leaving the body, Bob says.

A random guy with a bandana says, “I’m hittin’ a wall man. My

hammies are toast.”

Ibuprofen is the drug of choice for the STP and there is a healthy trade

going on. Three red tablets for some of your sunscreen.

Back on the road, there’s a girl riding ahead of me with a picture of the

Energizer bunny on her back and a bunny tail on her bike shorts. She just

keeps going and going and going.

As I pass her, I take a swig of my hydration-tablet-water-mix and

gracefully miss my bottle holder. Ka-thunk as I bounce over the bottle. I think

the bunny girl hits it at full speed, but I’m too tired and embarrassed to look

back and check on her. Adding insult to injury, I’m down to one bottle of hot,

stale water and a half empty Camelback to stay hydrated in the heat of the day.

Now I’ll definitely need to hit the next rest stop. And I won’t be able to look

this chick in the eye, or at her bunny tail, if she stops.

As you head through Longview and Kelso and across the Lewis and

Clark Bridge into Oregon, you begin the last long leg along Highway 30. A

stretch of road that is as welcome as a mauve Salvation Army sweater gifted to

you during an office holiday party. 50 miles that stinks with rough pavement,

speeding cars and a constant uphill grade.

If you’ve got any painkillers left, take them now.

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 There’s a great food stop at St. Helens High School where you can get

a bag of popcorn and fill your bottles up with energy drink mixes. It’s your last

food stop and a must to get some quick burning food in your system in order

to make the final push into the city. I fist the popcorn down my throat and

apply a thick layer of lip balm to dull the salt sting on my cracking lips.

You’ll want to enter into Portland with some vigor. No sense

dragging across the line with all the well wishers and onlookers cheering you.

It’s embarrassing to ride in looking like 204 miles of bad road with your head

hung low and seemingly beaten. So, you put on a brave face for the cameras,

peddle faster and cross the line.

A few years back, Bob says he saw a unicyclist jump out of a car a mile

from the line and ride to the finish.

One day I swear we’ll cross the finish line smoking our Monte Cristos.

Blowing smoke to the smiling and cheering crowd. We’ll be pictures of health

with cigars in hand as we finish our one day ride.

This year, I have to hop a set of railroad tracks, to get past the train

blocking the route, and walk up to the bridge crossing into the heart of the city.

No way is Burlington Northern going to keep me from the finish line.

I can’t find Bob; he’s probably a few minutes back stuck on the other

side of the train tracks and waiting to make his final sprint here.

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 $7 buys you a Fat Tire at the finish line beer garden. Too much

money for crappy travel beer.

I put on a fake smile like a hooker doing her laundry and stream pass

the clapping throng. Clap, clap, clap.

Wiping my salty, greasy hands on my eight year old workout shorts

that I refuse to throw out, I pass over the finish to my 204 mile journey.

And I slow down enough to collect my “one day rider” patch. My

badge of honor and medal that I can wear with pride or just shove into a

plastic crate in the garage.

I meet up with the family – it is pretty easy to spot a tall blonde

pushing a stroller – and wait for Bob to make his regal entrance.

He comes in about five minutes later with his patch in hand.

“Why do we do this to ourselves?” he asks

I say we do this because we need to feel alive. We need to have a

weekend of pain to wake us from our dull buzz of our daily lives. It’s an

annual affirmation we have to do.

Pain is just weakness leaving the body, Bob says.

By the way, $3.75 will buy you a Terminator Stout at the nearby

McMenamin’s Pub. And you’ll wash your Ibuprofen down with the best beer

you’ve ever tasted.

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 The best beer you’ll ever have because you are young and alive again.

It’ll be the best drink you’ll ever have in your life.

At least until this time next year…

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 Los Angeles

Learn To Swim

I always stick out like a sore thumb in El-Lay. In a land of plastic

models, the ugly guy is king. All hail me – The King of Ugly.

It’s a bright, bright, sun-shiny day in Southern California – as it is

300+ days out of the year - just outside of the City of Angels in downtown

Santa Monica. I’ve just been kicked out of a prospective customer’s building

and now I’ve got the rest of the day off. I’ve been told to pack my stuff and

then escorted to the elevators by some Lisa Loeb-looking granola with pointy

glasses saying “Um, ok?” every other sentence. The perfect ending to another

job in my least favorite place in the United States.

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 The good news is that it’s well before lunchtime and now I can spend

the rest of the day figuring out why I have this intense dislike for Los Angeles,

Southern California and California in general. I’d like to know why every time

I have to travel down here, the thought fills me with dread. Heaven forbid, but

there are times I’d rather go to Cleveland.

There’s been this big chip on my shoulder about California for almost

two years now and now it is my mission to find out why.

But before we begin, let’s clear a few things up:

1. San Diego is not a part of SoCal; it is the 2nd best city in my book
2. Let’s confine the dislike to SoCal; San Francisco and Silicon Valley
get a free pass this time

With that in mind, and embracing the old adage of “walking a mile in

someone else’s shoes”, I will spend the day as if I was a native non-San Diegan,

Southern Californian.

I shall walk the streets of Santa Monica in my dress shirt and dress

pants and mingle with the locals at the pier or in the coffee shops. This will be

my path to wisdom.

I will stand on Venice Beach with a polished shoe in each hand and

the sand creeping through my dress socks to warm my soles. And, through

this simple act, the ocean will reveal herself and I will find enlightenment.

I will drive up to Laguna or south to Newport Beach to soak in the

warm sun and wander around those gold plated streets.

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 Of course, Santa Monica, Venice, Laguna and Newport are not Los

Angeles. No, these are high-end riche ‘burbs far removed from where I need

to be to truly find understanding.

The problem is that I am too frightened to walk on any street

anywhere in Los Angeles or drive around aimlessly around the city. So, I’ll

spend my spirit quest not in the heart of SoCal, but out here on the periphery.

Instead, I walk around the market in Santa Monica and search for the sublime

at Restoration Hardware. Ok, it’s less of a market and more of a high-end

outdoor shopping complex.

Here in Santa Monica, there’s a shirtless white guy with dreadlocks to

his waist sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk and playing some very bad

acoustic music. He’s asking for some spare change.

$79 buys you salvation and a handcrafted bamboo side table at the

Pottery Barn. You won’t find a deal like this straight out of Compton.

The same shirtless white guy is now surrounded by no less than five

police officers picking him up by his wrists.

The way of the righteous is paved with $4.50 soy mochas at The

Coffee Bean. After all, you can’t have an epiphany unless you are caffeinated.

There’s no sight of the ugly shirtless guy, or the police officers, and

now the space is occupied by a bunch of young, beautiful people cheerfully

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laughing and smiling at each other. All these kiddies are on their cells or

texting away to some other beautiful person on the end of the wire.

My mocha suddenly feels hot in my hand and I want to dump this

drink out on the clean pavement right in front of the crowd of pretty people

and watch the foamy goop splash up on their $200 jeans. My mocha - an

epitaph of dirty for the guy who was just removed. Instead, I turn my head

and put my nearly full coffee into the trash.

It tasted like slow suicide anyway.

This entire trip has been less about business and more about

understanding why I feel the way I do about California. Call it my spirit-quest

while on an expense account.

The questions I’m trying to answer: Why does the mention of Los

Angeles turn my mood instantly sour? I’m pondering that thought as I dunk

another piece of freshly baked bread into a killer shrimp bowl at a place for

locals called, aptly enough, Killer Shrimp.

Obviously, anyone from the Northwest is going to dislike California

for at least three reasons:

1. The weather
2. Directly causing home prices to rise in Washington
3. Having the largest contingency of beautify people per capita

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 Guess what? If you’re from California, don’t go flashing your drivers

license anywhere in the Northwest, especially at a bar or restaurant. If you do,

make sure you’re up to date on all your shots and try to avoid any soup.

The fact that I’m unable and unwilling to spend time in Los Angeles

proper is irrelevant, or so I tell myself, this is about Southern California and

not solely an LA thing. One can glean understanding, and therefore wisdom,

from where I’m sitting out in the posh towns surrounding Los Angeles. It’s a

shrinking world in this digital age and you can wax poetic about places you’ve

never been and sing songs you’ve only heard through tinny computer speakers

and talk at length about cultures you’ve only read about from the Wikipedia.

Of course, I decided to do some research and talked to two co-

workers that live down this way – both in different towns between Los Angeles

and San Diego. I asked them what it was like to live in SoCal and be

Californian.

JC, I ask, what’s it like being from Los Angeles?

JC puts down his Sierra Nevada and wipes his hands of peel-and-eat-

shrimp mess and takes a long look across Marina Del Ray from our balcony

table. “Dude, I’m not from LA. I’m closer to San Diego, not LA. I used to

live this way, but I got out.”

Ok, JC. Fair enough I say. I check with Jason, another Californian.

Jason, I say, what’s it like to be a Californian?

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 “Hey, let’s get something straight, I am not from here. I still consider

myself a Washingtonian. I’m just here thanks to work and because my kids are

in school. But I don’t live in LA and I’m not a Californian.”

So far, no go on finding any locals from work. No one will admit to

living here. At least JC was helpful enough to turn me onto Killer Shrimp.

The owner is a local lady, maybe mid-30’s, with a warm, genuine smile, covered

in tattoos that knows just about everyone coming into her restaurant.

I left Killer Shrimp with a Zen-like calmness. Maybe this place isn’t so

bad after all?

Earlier this year, I met some locals at a bar in Venice Beach. This

couple had been around since the mid-70’s, transplants from Colorado, and

have seen the area grow from an oddball, unique town to yet another faceless

overcrowded suburb of LA.

Gone, this gnarled looking guy tells me. Gone, Venice Beach is.

Nobody learns to swim here anymore.

I forgot this guy’s name before I left the bar, that’s how bad I am with

names. He had this weathered, beef jerky look to him. Sun dried to hide his

true age and just looked like he was cut from wood. Wild eyes that roamed

around the bar as he spoke. His wife, sun drenched and wrinkled, nodded and

hung on his every word – her eyes never left his and she listened to his story

like it was the first time she’d heard it.

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 Oh, yeah. Venice has lost the heart and soul we once had. Man, dude,

this place was happening back then. Happening, he said. It was all happening

and flowers in your hair, strumming guitar on the beach type stuff. The artist

studios and old curiosity shops have been removed in favor of high end

condos and chain stores.

“It’s all about your home price now. How much the guy in his BMW

can afford. It’s about the material and not the spiritual, dude. It’s getting to

where I don’t recognize my home anymore.”

I met a transplanted couple from Boston hotel and asked them about

their SoCal experience so far. They were 3 weeks new to the area and had

bought a place six blocks from the ocean in nearby Santa Monica. According

to the husband, who did most of the talking, they are lifelong renters, so the

house prices weren’t an issue. He’s paying $200 bucks more a month, but can

walk to the ocean and no longer has to worry about below zero temperatures.

So, again, what do you think of SoCal Mr. Boston?

Well, he said, it’s less of a neighborhood from what I’m used to, but

you know I lived in that old neighborhood since I was born. It’s home – I

knew all the kids and even their kids, but then they started moving away and

the place wasn’t familiar anymore. It’s like that everywhere now anyway.

Nobody knows anybody anymore, so I might as well live where I want instead

of suffering another freezing winter. I mean, the beach is a few minutes walk

from my house and there’s no more frozen winters anymore.

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 Still, I persisted, what do you think of Los Angeles? Is it what you

expected? Has this place become home?

Well, he said, it’s too early to tell. But, it’s different.

Now we’re getting somewhere I thought. Different. Exactly, how I

feel about the area, but haven’t been able to put a finger on why it feels

different.

Is it the people, Mr. Boston? Well, he says, could be. They are a

strange breed and I can’t tell if they are friendly or fake, but they all seem to be

about appearance.

What about LA itself? Do you explore the city?

“Oh no, never!” he says with wide eyed panic, “LA is a dangerous place.

We stick to Marina or Santa Monica or Venice, we won’t be going into the city

unless we absolutely have to.”

You know, he’s right; Los Angeles is a dangerous place. Not one

you’d want to walk around at night. Everyone has seen the movies, seen

flashes of Compton and Watts. We’ve all seen those dramatic high speed

police chases and footage of the riots.

This guy from Boston, he’s struck gold. My epiphany came between

sips of Fat Tire and watching a lady desperately try to get directions to the

nearest Wells Fargo.

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 For $18 that was expensed back to work, I was able to get great

barstool therapy. You know, this place is just a bunch of transplants. A bunch

of folks that have moved in, too scared to live in the city-proper, that have

crowded out any sort of uniqueness and quirkiness these little towns once had.

It’s just a bunch of upwardly mobile, pretty people that are leveraged beyond

belief. Buying their million-plus-dollar 600 sq. ft. condos with composite

countertops and stainless appliances and driving their fucking BMW’s to their

crummy little job. On the weekends, they cruise to whatever club or bistro is

the flavor of the month and drink their $15 martinis while they talk to bedposts

looking for a free ride in life.

One trip down here, we was waited on by some drunk waitress who

told us all about how the hostess was Jim Carrey’s daughter. Honest, she said,

she just wants to hang out with us real people and make it, like, on her own.

Later on, she and her photographer boyfriend Gabe, invited us to a friend’s

birthday party. Gabe gave us directions down the back streets of Santa Monica

while smoking a joint and going on and on about how he lost his license.

License for photography, I asked?

“Uh, no man, license to drive”

That evening was spent at a posh restaurant where we sat outside

drank overpriced, bad German beer and laughed at nothing funny in particular.

Just a bunch of strangers acting like long, lost friends. I heard on guy ask the

bass player from Fishbone for advice on how to break into the music business.
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 “Man, you just got to be real. Real to yourself, man, just real”

With all due respect to everyone around the table, if you ask me for

advice, I’d give you this: learn to swim.

Everyone has a script, an angle or some inside angle they’re working.

The folks around the table that evening were working each other to see who

knew whom and where the cool party was going to be this weekend. Everyone

knows someone that knows someone. Everyone is too busy trying to be

somebody important and ignores who they are – they’re all too busy trying to

be somewhere other than where they are right now. Everyone seems to live

down here, but nobody will admit to living here. Everyone knows everyone,

but no one knows anyone.

Of all the people I’ve met down here, only one has less than an hour

commute. Only one. Two had one-way commutes of nearly 3 hours. Almost 6

hours each day in a car, stuck in endless traffic surrounded by other frustrated

Californians that came here searching for their own private nirvana and found

that they were most certainly not alone. Where does the suburban LA stretch

too? It goes all the way south to the border of San Diego if you ask the locals.

From Ventura, to Corona, to Riverside – it’s one big blurry sprawl called the

Southland and known as “the agglomeration of urbanized area around the city

of Los Angeles” that some 18 million people call home.

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 I hate to generalize, because there are good people I’ve met. They

have wives, kids, dogs and fenced in yards. Some even have bars on their

windows to keep bad people out at night.

I’ve even met Californians, like the ones you see in the movies – the

ones who spend the days at the beach or just hanging out and seem to drift

from one day to the next. Yes, they do exist. Harmless, but they exist.

And I’ve met some not-so-great people. Ones that talk down to you,

speak slowly so you can understand the profound words of wisdom rolling off

their pierced tongues. Pearls of wisdom like “Booya-bitches!” or “Cali-fo-

shizz-nit” that are thrown your way. Maybe I’m dense, but I just didn’t get it

then or now.

Or that spectrally thin lady with the perfect tan tint to her skin

standing in line at a coffee shop. Her hair looking perfect, her exercise outfit

looking perfect and giving you the evil eye as she turns her nose up - cradling

her toy dog close it barks and growls at you because you smiled and said

“Awwww…” at the damn mutt.

Freakshow, and everyone here is on display.

So, learn to swim…y’all.

Face the facts; the dream that was California is dead. It’s been killed

with suburban sprawl that extends from the ocean to the desert. Slaughtered

with SUVs clogging 12, 14 lane highways. Destroyed it with crazy high home

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prices, ridiculous numbers that people call “Monopoly Mortgages”. All these

people have taken the sun-drenched paradise and squeezed it dry. Anything

that could be green and living has been paved over with concrete and neon

signs.

There is no such thing as paradise.

You call some place paradise, kiss it goodbye said Don Henley.

We’ve loved it to death.

So, I say to hell with this place. It’s time to push the big red button

and reboot Southern California.

But please spare San Diego, there’s a glimmer of hope….

It is predicted that one day most of modern day Southern California

will slide into the Pacific and there will be ocean front property in Arizona. If

it doesn’t slide in, it’ll be underwater as the ice that blankets the top of the

world melts – 40% of our ice cap by 2050. Not that SoCal will be underwater

in 43 years, but the ocean shall eventually claim us all. After all, nobody can

have paradise for free.

Embrace the evitable and kiss your ass goodbye. No more sitting on a

packed highway for hours in traffic. No more self righteous, eye rolling fake

people bumbling about and complaining about how bad they have it because

they couldn’t find that perfect outfit.

Freakshow.

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 Learn to swim folks, see you down in Arizona Bay.

That’s what the band Tool once said. And I say again - learn to

swim….

With that, I leave you all with the immortal words of Bill Hicks:

"Ahhh, it's gone, it's gone, it's gone...All the shitty shows are gone, all the idiots screaming in

the fucking wind are dead, I love it...leaving nothing but a cool, beautiful serenity called

Arizona Bay. That's right, when L.A. falls in the fucking ocean and is flushed away, All it

will leave is Arizona Bay."

– Bill Hicks

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 Phoenix

Desert Rhythm

Here’s the scene: it is 10:00 pm at The Martini Ranch in old town

Scottsdale, Arizona. The Ranch sits on the triangle corner of Stetson Avenue

and is really two separate buildings connected together by a great outdoor patio

where, right now, I’m watching the video for Alice In Chain’s “Would?” as it is

projected against the side of the 1st building. The late, great Layne Staley is

about twenty feet tall and staring at me through his jet black shades and

slicked-back hair, frozen in time for a moment on this wall some one thousand

miles away from where he died alone ten odd years ago.

This is where, standing between these buildings in the center of the

outdoor patio, I stand holding a Diet Coke intently focused on the wall as wave
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after wave of locals oblivious to Layne Staley, his music, his legacy or his death,

pass me by going from one part of the Ranch to another with drinks in hand

and smiles all around.

I’m here with a new, old friend I was forced to make just three days

ago and we’re out on the town maxing out our expense accounts for the day.

If you’re keeping score at home, I stuck him with all the pricey customer

lunches that raise eyebrows back in Accounting. This gives me the ability to

drink away my own daily allowance in places like The Martini Ranch, Mickey’s

Hangover, Gilligan’s, Acme and Dos Gringos.

My new friend was reluctant but, nonetheless, game to join me for

another evening adventure. The caveat was that we didn’t stray too far away

from our hotel or stay out too late. He was already starting to look whipped

from the previous nights out and was less than thrilled when I asked him to go

out again. In fact, at first he said he’d be spending the night in his room getting

caught up on trivial things like work.

Times like this are when you dig deep to get what you want.

I explained tonight’s purpose was to find writing material for an as-of-

yet-unnamed-story and that he had to come along. He had to go out with me;

otherwise I’d be unable to explore the town. I needed him to man up this

tonight. Cowboy up, I said, hoping to play to his Texas roots. I had another

cliché cocked and loaded, but by then he realized there was no way he’d win

this battle. Don’t fight with a sales guy, I said.

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 With a sigh, he agreed to tag along and help out in the name of art.

Plus I threatened him with no showing the next day at training and

letting him fend for himself at a hostile customer site. It’s not a nice thing to

do, but sometimes you have to use leverage to get the outcome you’re looking

for. When you’ve got the cards, play ‘em.

Yes, we’re going out on the town again. For those keeping score, my

newfound friend and I have gone out every night this week. We ventured out

to Mill Avenue in Tempe to watch college students from Arizona State

University, well, act like college students living in a college town. We found

ourselves overrun by college kids, standing shoulder to shoulder, pounding

down Jager Bombs and vodka shooters as we huddled around our beers

feeling, well, quite old. A bunch of sorority girls tapped me on the shoulder to

take their picture together and the beach blonde bartender dude rambled on

about how the Cardinals quarterback is a close, personal friend of his and a

“really down to earth dude, man”. Another night, we ate dinner at a nearby

cowboy steakhouse, Rustler’s Rooste eating fried food and charred mammal

flesh in large quantities. We were the only two guys in collard shirts and were

again out of place – this time though, instead of young, club-dressed college

kids, we were surrounded by ten-gallon hats and shit-kickin’ boots. Besides

being wardrobe challenged, that was the night I figured going vegetarian just

might be a good idea in order to combat the meat sweats I was having.

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 The next night we drank way too much beer with a client at the Four

Peaks Brewery. I stuck my buddy with the ½ price appetizers and meals, but

kept the liquid bill to myself. That was the night I drank and pissed out over

$60 worth of handcrafted local brew. Anything for a customer.

It’s easy to get into a nice groove when traveling, a real rhythm of hard

work, sporadic exercise, some adventure and spotty sleep. Your pace is

important for a week’s travel – there’s no sense in burning yourself out by mid-

week, but at the same time you can’t just hold back until the last day for a

blowout celebration. Build up your tolerance instead of a big binge night.

Plus, how can you tune into what is around you if you don’t get out?

Once I was down here during a weeklong gig and decided to spend a

Wednesday evening poolside just resting. I was toast the remaining two days.

Genelle heard a lifetime of bad stories and I learned that bar conversation is

worse than small talk. Instead you get out there and see which way the wind

blows you. The trick, as always, is to stay moving. That way you don’t have

enough time to realize just how tired you really are. The second you feel

fatigue set in when you’re on the road for an extended period, you’re finished.

But this trip, yes, this trip to Phoenix has been circled on my calendar

for quite awhile now. It represents the end of the road for me at this customer

– inevitably one has to do their work and move on – and, most importantly, it

represents my last shot at writing this very story. Phoenix has been a welcome

and literal hotspot for me since the start of my road slog some two years ago

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and I’ve always known that this land of burning sun, cactus, air conditioning

cranked up on high, endless roads and traffic holds a story for me.

But getting that story out has been one frustration after another.

I’ve thrown away more pages of garbage writing about this town than

I’m willing to admit. Discarded: a piece about “Evening Running” talking

about my daily runs in the mountain above my usual haunt, the Pointe South

Resort. Deleted: a story about an insurance conference being held at the

aforementioned Pointe South. Completely Removed From Existence: a fluff

two-pager, and the model of bad writing, on how beautiful the desert is.

Funny thing is that, with all the urban sprawl, I’ve yet to actually see the desert

and for that reason alone, I have no business writing about it.

All of these setbacks left me gun shy to write anything about the one

area I’m always happy to travel to. But then this week long stint in the desert

becomes a reality and I geared myself up for another shot, a final shot, to

knock out a new story. And then, with high expectations and hope, I fell back

into a familiar Phoenix rhythm. I fell into a rut.

For my lodging during the week, I went right back to the Pointe South

Mountain Resort at the foot of (and appropriately named) South Mountain.

I’m sure the mountain came before the resort, but who’s checking facts?

Every time I’m down in Phoenix, I stay here at ‘The Pointe’ because it’s right

across the street from my main customer.

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 Earlier this week, I made sure I visited the normal places – Los Dos

Molinos for truly authentic Mexican, and the Phantom Horse Grill at Point

South for early evening drinks. I even caught up with Genelle, the

aforementioned incredibly short bartender who moved from Chicago to the

area 10 years ago with her husband. She had my Fat Tire poured and ready for

me by the time I reached the bar. I’ve gone native here in Arizona and needed

to do something in order to disrupt my desert rhythm.

That’s where my new friend came in handy.

Since he’d never been to Phoenix before, I figured it’d be a great idea

to show him all the sights. Maybe, just maybe, through his eyes I can see

Phoenix as new again and get inspired. Each night after work, I’d drag him out

into the desert night searching for material, experiences, something, anything I

could use. I picked up the pace from what I was used to during my normal

visits. It was an increase of tempo, and change of rhythm, in order to spark

creativity.

That leads us right back to the present and a late summer night in

Scottsdale, under a cloudy sky with mild temperatures staring up at wall

watching videos from a band that no longer exists and drinking a Diet Coke as

everyone around me pounds $9 “Chili Bombs” and some Vodka/Red Bull

drink that is on special.

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 My new friend has wandered off somewhere – in one of the buildings

at one of the four bars – and left me along outside holding a non-alcohol drink

in my hand, looking really stupid and old.

Ever seen a Grandpa amidst a bunch of kids? That’s me in a nutshell.

My buddy is probably sulking off somewhere ticked that I’ve

blackmailed him in order to come out. Maybe he’s in building #2 sulking

where they have the bombastic club music and two cube risers with stripper

poles in the middle of the dance floor. He clearly enjoys the “have a quiet

dinner and back to the hotel” speed when he travels and another night out is

disrupting his road rhythm.

And I’m pissed because I’m still clueless as to what to write about this

place. It’s my last night out and I’ve got nothing. Zero. Zip. It’s frustrating

enough that I’m contemplating canceling the training tomorrow and coming

home. My dream trip has been a complete loss. I’m the type of writer that

needs an idea, a theme, something to kickstart the creative juices in order to

bang out a frustrating. Themes are easy to come by, yet I can’t even figure out

one that makes sense. It’s that frustrating.

When I laid out the plan for finishing the book, I figured this would be

relatively easy to come up with something. A good 10-15 pager that I’d have

to trim down in order to fit it into the book. Instead, I’ve got nada and I’m

burying my sorrows without alcohol. Apparently, Phoenix has become familiar

enough to me that I’ve apparently gotten caught in a rut – there are no new
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experiences for me, or more likely, I’m too set in my ways to experience

anything new. That’s a deathblow to a writer.

Come on, Brian, think. A theme, a word, something.

When I’m desperate, I always fall back on the one constant in my life,

my own personal safety blanket – music. Alice In Chains continues to fill my

ears.

Rhythm, I think, there’s something here about rhythm. And as

absently drum my fingers on the countertop, in time with the music, I notice

the flow of people from one building to the next – a continuous background

noise with it’s own pace, it’s very own rhythm. Guys are moving past, cutting

their eyes towards the bar and that single lady gulping down her mixed drink as

other girls pass them by in groups of two or four, laughing and trying to look

unapproachable.

Rhythm and motion, in music, in words, in life and all around me at

the Martini Ranch.

And then something extraordinary happens. I can no longer hear

Layne singing or Sean Kinney pounding out the rhythm on the drums. I see

their twenty foot faces on the side of the building, but the music is gone, or I

should say that the music I hear is not coming from Alice In Chains, it’s

coming from a live band inside building #1. I hear a different beat being

played, a pounding complex rhythm that sounds fresh to my ears.

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 Instinctively, I rise from my chair to investigate and make my way

towards the rhythm. And I step in from the night sky and videos on a wall

outside and into a wall of live sound inside. This wall of sound that is dynamic,

fresh and new to my ears.

It’s a local band and I’ve stepped in from the outside door to behind

the stage, just right of the drummer who is oblivious to my presence. He’s too

focused on keeping time and providing this wall of rhythm for the rest of the

band to build upon. I’m so close to his floor tom I could kick it over.

It’s this rhythm that freezes me in my tracks.

He’s playing a see-through, bluish, Pearl drum set – 7 piece kit, with 5

or so Ziljian cymbals. Nothing too fancy, but not a stripped down kit either.

And he’s playing this rhythm, this hypnotic rhythm that grabs by the throat.

He’s switching times – going from 4/4 to a 4/6 back a 4/4 and layering these

drum fills, rolls on the floor tom or shuffling up the snare beat. Giving the

audience a two hit on the snare every other beat. Every tom crash sends a

vibration through my bones. His arms a blur, sticks are crashing down on the

kit with force, but with a deft touch – not just bashing away.

My world has become this guy’s rhythm. From his hands to my ears,

his music strikes a chord and I’m focused in on his movement, watching how

he strikes the toms or works the hi-hat. Stutter-beats, polyrhythmic texture,

this drummer is pulling out all the stops and adding a density to the otherwise

average alt-rock riffs being churned out by the rest of the band.
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 This guy is good.

Great music has the power to transport you away from the present

and I’m no longer in Scottsdale at some random bar listening to live music and

spending an evening people watching. This whole desert experience is in focus

for a moment and I’m finally in step with the rhythm of my surroundings.

This great desert calls to me, from where I stand in Scottsdale, to where I

stood the other day in Tempe to where I’ll stand tomorrow out in the hot sun

off of Francisco Drive.

My eyes close and I feel the rhythm, every bass drum resonates

through my bones and every cymbal crash a soft, warm breeze in my face. The

vast, sweeping valley with the overcrowded mass of people each trying to find

their own rhythm are, for an instance, in step with each other and I with them.

I’ve got my story. Everything is Zen as some might say.

And since everything is right with the world, I start to dance. What

can only be described as “bodily gyration” and on public display. I start to

dance, shimmy and shake my moneymaker like I’ve never done before. I feel

young again, shot out of a cannon and ready to complete my book with this

story. Everything is in its right place

I’m stone sober to boot and I’m dancing like a drunken fool next to

this drummer who has no idea I’m there. But he keeps playing his rhythm and

I keep dancing to my own while the world moves all around us.

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 Phoenix is 180 degrees from Seattle; it’s ridiculously hot, dry, brown,

flat and crowded. It’s a place to find shelter from the coming rain, filled with

dust and cactus instead of moss and evergreens. The desert has a unique

rhythm for everyone who visits or lives here. The key is to stop for a moment

and listen to what surrounds you. The desert is a place of beauty and no

amount of concrete, pavement, subdivisions and people can hide that.

I find my buddy in the back of the bar, as far away from the stage as

you can possibly get, sipping a beer from the bottle and looking, well,

positively lost.

“Pretty good for a local band….don’t know if you heard him or not,

but the drummer sounds like he knows what he’s doing”, he says. “Hope you

got what you needed for your story, I’m about done for tonight.

My friend, you have no idea. See, I’m finished too.

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 San Francisco

The Art of Navigation

The title of this story happens to be the name of a map store along the

Embarcadero in San Francisco. It sits right on the water and has a sweeping

view across the San Francisco Bay over to Angel Island. I came across this

place one magnificent late summer morning while I was out running. Nestled

near a marina, right before you cross under the Bay Bridge, you too can learn

the art of navigation. Looking in the window, I saw your normal table displays,

full of trinkets and items a tourist might buy, things you might buy, shove in

your overnight bag and bring back to wherever you came from. It’s the kind

of store that, for a marked-up price, can provide you with proof that you did,

in fact, come to San Francisco.

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 Unfortunately for me, the store wasn’t going to open for another two

hours so I, Neil Renton from Rapid City, Iowa, was unable learn the secret art

of navigation or buy something to take home to my Midwest family. However,

beyond the catchy name that provides a nice story title, I was sure there wasn’t

a single thing in this store that could help me with the subtle art of navigation.

Navigation, motion, movement, travel. These words describe my life

away from home, they describe the swirl (and sometimes blur) that twirls,

twists and tangles together. Of these words, navigation is the most interesting.

Beyond the obvious meaning of navigation – how you literally get from point

A to B – there’s the subtle art of navigation and how you chart your course

from situation to situation.

For example, for kicks while traveling, I like to adopt a different name.

It helps to pass the time, believe me. And don’t just whip up a name like

“John Smith” or “Richard Head” and expect that to fly. Unless you are damn

savvy and know you can pull it off.

Have fun with it. Create an entire backstory if you have the time.

Let’s take old Neil from Iowa as an example. Neil is here in San

Francisco, on business, meeting with alternate energy startups. Neil represents

a group of small-scale corn farmers that are trying to move out of the “grain

for feed business” and into “corn as fuel.” I actually enjoyed my new

profession…..if only for a day.

Wake up and you’re at the Hotel Montgomery in San Jose.

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 One time in Phoenix, I was Jack McCracken from El Paso. I though

J-Crack was a great way to get street cred. Jack was a wine distributor for the

greater Southwest and specialized in table wines emerging from the Kansas

“Wine Country”. Jack loves to tear it up on the El Paso karaoke scene and,

according to Jack, does a great “Top of the World” (by The Carpenter’s)

rendition.

Once I tipped my hat to home and became Eastof C. Attle, inspired

by an Eddie Vedder pseudonym. Say it slowly with a bit of a Russian accent

and you’ve just got him nailed. He came to the states when he was a small boy

and now is traveling to San Jose to find “appropriate job for Master of Dance

and Fine Art scholar”.

Sometimes it’s hard to keep things straight.

B. Jacobsen once skipped out of a $37.00 room charge in Scottsdale,

Arizona. He had a marvelous time sipping down cocktails with his buddy Eric

by the pool on a hot day at the Fairmont and recommends the place to any

traveler. He even tipped the waiter well.

Wake up and you’re at the Marriott in Marina Del Rey.

You have to invent these personas to pass the time, anything to keep

your sanity. When you’re constantly in motion, it’s hard to keep a hold of

yourself. You’ll need a map and your trusty moral compass to help keep things

anchored and straight.

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 Once, in Tokyo, Eric Hughes bragged about how good at ballroom

dancing Brian Bero was. Yes, Bero-san and his wife are extremely talented in

the art of ballroom dancing. Yoshida-san nodded and mentioned how

impressive an art that was. Picture that, me the dancing expert.

Sometimes, you can’t even be you no matter where you are.

Another cool thing to do is crash a corporate event being held at your

hotel. Bankers and doctors always have the best buffets, but you’ll need your

“A” game before attempting to crash an “Advancements in Prosthetic

Research” three day symposium.

Edward Jones had a great steak and shrimp spread during their yearly

regional sales kickoff. That evening my name tag said I was “Ben” and I

believed it to be so. I would have been “Paula” in order to get a crack at that

spread. However, I can’t say that I stayed too late – my blood pressure was

through the roof thinking I’d be discovered - so I searched the nearby Phoenix

resorts for any stress relief seminars thinking that’d be a bit more low-key. I

struck out at the Phoenician, but then stumbled on a small get together at the

JW Marriott. A few drinks later, I then decided to call it an evening. The rum

and coke at the open bar wasn’t mixing too well with the peel and eat shrimp.

Wake up and you’re at the Pointe South Mountain Resort in Phoenix.

Call me a party crasher, a parasite or worse. Whatever you want to call

it, I do these things to pass the time, hour after hour of dead space to fill. The

tough part about travel is being uprooted from home, having your bearings
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completely messed up. You wake up in Seattle at 4:30am, but then the next

thing you know you’re in a strange city. The bulk of the day is work, of course,

but what happens after your clients go home to their families and home-

cooked meals? What do you do with your time? You’re not here for sights,

you don’t know where the best places are and you’re often by yourself? So,

you roll up your sleeves and make the best of it.

For some, it is having a nice meal in the hotel restaurant and then

ordering desert to go and taking it back to their room. Others like to get out

and explore the nightlife and mix it up with the natives. I know a few people

that like to hole up in their room order in and not come out until the following

morning. Sound like fun to you?

Me, well, I like to run early in the morning and see the city or town I’m

in. Get a real feel for my environment by running the streets, gazing at the

skyline and obeying all crosswalk lights. The goal is to find some interesting

site of local interest or distinctive landmark so that I can remember my time

here. In any random city, I go out on a walkabout and poke my head into bars,

buildings and hotel lobbies just to see what’s going on. And I like to invent

characters every now and then to keep things interesting and to stay sane.

Seeing a town through the eyes of an invented stranger is a great way to get a

fresh perspective on things.

Wake up at the Venetian in Las Vegas. Alone in your $500 a night

room on the 16th floor. Enjoy yourself.

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 I will do anything to avoid sitting in that hotel room and staring at the

tube for hours on end. For me, every waking moment in a hotel room is a

hospital stay and my skin crawls until I get out. If I’m there, that means I have

to spend alone time with me. And that’s not always pleasant.

Here in San Francisco, on a windy Tuesday afternoon in mid-August,

my upgraded suite, at a landmark hotel in the heart of the Financial District,

with two double beds, marbled bath and executive desk felt like a tomb.

Palahniuk was right, this is your life and it is ending one minute at a

time.

To escape, I headed downstairs to the bar with the dark carpet and

mahogany wood and took up a position front and center smack in front of a

ten foot long “Pied Piper” painting that the bar was named for. And I ordered

a drink from Joel who had to hold bottles of wine up to the dim light in order

to tell if they were red or white.

I ordered a beer. The same damn Fat Tire I always have to settle for

when I’m on the road. It tastes like travel.

And I took long, deliberate sips nursing my $6.00 beverage and passed

the minutes in silence, calculating how many of these overpriced beverages I

can have without Leon rejecting my expense report. Just me, my alcohol and

my thoughts all to myself.

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 “Where are you from guy?” says the voice of a man wearing a pressed

shirt, jeans and wearing enough body spray to stun an elk on meth. This guy

slid up next to me unnoticed while I was ordering. Now I’m not one to label

folks, but this guy is so gay.

Seattle, I say. ESPN is showing some random baseball highlights and

suddenly I really care about the NL Central pennant race.

“Nice area. I just love the city with that place where you get the fish.

What’s it called again?”

Just the ‘Market’ is fine, I say. Looks like some footage is on ESPN

from the Cleveland Browns training camp and I focus in on the footwork of

their running back. I’m not picking the guy for my fantasy team.

“How long you in town for guy?” says the voice of a man who has

now turned in his chair to face me with one hand over his seatback and the

other around a glass of house red that Joel carefully poured.

Tonight only, I say. Mariners beat the Twins tonight and I drink to

that. The whole time, I’m wishing this guy would go away.

“So what’s your name? What are you in town for?” says the voice of a

man who has fixed his gaze intently on me, waiting for me to acknowledge his

presence and respond.

I set down my beer, turn and look him in the eye and say:

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 “My name is Bill Nesmith. I’m a worker in the service of our Lord

and I’m in here in San Francisco to save a few souls. You look like a person

that could use my help and give up your sinful lifestyle and return to the

Light.”

And the conversation ends abruptly with the voice of a man turning

away, getting his check from Joel, muttering something about “f-ing

intolerance” and leaving. With a near full glass of wine left behind.

And all I can do is laugh like a madman until I can hardly even breathe

and Joel has to ask if I’m all right. No, Joel, I’m far from alright my friend.

When you’re in motion, it’s always good to have faith I say. You never

know when it will come in hand to stave off boredom or the unwanted

advances of a random dude in, as Joel informed me afterwards, a San Francisco

landmark pickup bar.

This travel thing isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. There’s really no

glamour to being a temporary refugee week in, week out. In fact it sucks.

Wake up at the Hotel Montgomery again.

When you’re in motion, the hotel becomes your reference point – the

new center of your temporary universe. And If I’m going to travel, I refuse to

be stuck at the reference point for my stay. Instead, go outside and take a left

on day one and a right on day two. Keep moving forward into the new and

never backtracking.

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 Navigate from your last known location and there is no telling what

sights you’ll see or the interesting people you’ll meet. Even if only for a

minute, an hour or an evening – get out and explore the world you’re in. You

don’t need a map, fancy shoes or matching travel wear that makes you look

cool. You just need your feet and a desire to keep moving.

As long as you remember the road home, you’ll never get lost. You

might be Bill or Ben or Jack or Neil for a day, but you’ll be you for a lifetime

and you’ll find your way home. A lost dog knows the way back home no

matter how far they’ve run.

But, even the best of navigators can get lost from time to time.

Sometimes you look into that mirror and don’t recognize that face

staring back at you, staring back at me. Those blue eyes don’t look so blue

anymore and I think there’s a few more wrinkles on that face. You look old,

worn and threadbare. You can’t look at the mirror anymore because what is

there won’t stop staring at you.

That’s why you put on your disguise. Because you can’t tolerate being

you any longer. You better be sure you can live with that disguise for a few

days, because it’s all you’ve got.

It might have been Bill or Juan Caesar who, while listening to “All

Apologies” by Nirvana at an empty Tempe dive bar late one very hot night,

missed his home and family so much he suddenly found himself staring down

at a growing puddle of tears. Panicked and red faced with shock and
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embarrassment, he put a wad of cash down on the bar and rushed out to the

safety of his intermediate-sized rental car and shamelessly cried a river in the

middle of a desert night.

Wake up and you’re at the Marriott, but you’re not sure what city

you’re in or even your date of birth anymore, but you know that you reached

“Silver” status a month ago with this hotel which means a free USA Today

outside your door and can recite your rewards numbers for all major airlines

and hotel chains. You’ll be damned if you can remember your anniversary or if

you’ve called your Mother this past month, but you know exactly what you’ll

be doing next Tuesday at 11:15am since it’s in your Outlook Calendar. Your

world revolves around motion, never in one place too long, this vortex and

circus of your own doing and you tell yourself you can always find yourself and

get back home. This constant motion is an addiction, buy you’ll swear to

everyone that you can give it up cold turkey. Hey, look at me – I’m a traveler,

it’s what I do for a living you’ll say. But even that sounds shallow and hearing

that tastes worse than the desert dust in your lungs.

You can pat yourself on the back at how crafty you are at navigation.

Because after enough time on the road, in motion, you will learn the subtle art

of navigation. Yes, you can find your way back home from being Neil or Bill

or whomever you create. You’ll have your war stories and the great tales of

rocking the expense account or negotiating a great hotel deal or getting free

food or drinks from a no named bar on Venice Beach because the bartender

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thinks you’re cute and you play that up. You’ll meet people – some interesting,

some nice and some not so nice. And when you meet these people, you’ll soon

run out of things to say because just below the surface, there’s not much to you

anyway, and you’ll realize this is just noise to pass the time.

You’ll go to all these wonderful, new places, but you’ll still have no

time to really explore them. The catch is that you only have the time to

navigate them and get from Point B back to Point A (home).

Just understand that the true art of navigation is, no matter how lost

you are, to get yourself home. Those that say “it’s the journey, not the

destination” haven’t spent serious time on the road. They’ve never felt like I,

Brian, have felt about the “journey”. They’ve never awoke in some strange

city, in some lumpy hotel bed, wishing they could put their arm around their

wife. They wouldn’t cut a deal with the devil to wake up and see their little girl

waking up in the morning.

Me, I just want to get home. Period.

No more San Francisco and overpriced drinks.

No more Alaska Airlines, with 1st-class and free Rum-n-Cokes.

No more Phoenix and 115 degree weather.

No more intermediate-sized or above rental cars.

No more being someone else.

No more flight delays.

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 No more Los Angeles and California.

No more running.

No more walking.

No more sleeping in an unfamiliar bed.

No more drifting.

I am tired. Please let me sleep.

No more motion…..at least, not for now.

Wake up and realize you…are…finally…..home.

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 Snoqualmie

Drifting Wood

I am home.

Winter is almost here. I can feel it coming. I feel the chill in the wind

as it blows through the Snoqualmie Valley. I can smell winter carried on the

damp marine blowing in from the Sound. I can feel the change coming as the

days grow very short and our feeble sunlight dwindles. Everything is changing

around me and I’m finally standing still.

Motion, movement.

Driftwood is formed from a tree, or tree branch, that is washed into

the ocean. The path driftwood takes to get to the ocean takes, of course, many

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forms. Maybe it’s blown into a river by a fierce autumn storm and crashes

over waterfalls and through twisting rapids on its path to the sea. Or perhaps

it’s a big branch some kid used to build a dam on a hot summer day, then

kicked into the river when he went home for dinner. The trip downriver can

take many routes, different twists and turns and then to sea for a time

Forward, backwards, sideways.

According to Norse mythology, the first humans, Ask and Embla,

were formed out of two pieces of driftwood, an ash and an elm, by the god

Odin and his brothers, Ve and Vili.

Walking, running, driving, flying.

Driftwood carried by Arctic rivers was the main, or sometimes only,

source of wood for some Inuit and other Arctic populations living north of the

tree line until they came into regular contact with European traders.

Distance.

Driftwood that goes to sea makes it back to shore eventually. It

comes home in the form of some beach scavenger picking it up to use as legs

for a homemade coffee table or some handcrafted lamp or some other type of

interesting art. Sometimes, it just washes up on the shore and becomes a great

place for someone to sit and look out over sea. Nevertheless, eventually it

does come back.

And every piece of driftwood that comes home has a story to tell.

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 Motion. Without it, you’ve got nothing – you’re just gathering moss.

With motion comes the chance for adventure, to explore and to change.

And when you stop moving, you get a chance to reflect on what

you’ve experienced. Because, without reflection, what good is a couple years in

motion?

Respond, vibrate, feedback and resonate.

I once heard a rock band describe a grueling touring schedule as a

“train going 200 MPH down the track”. Eventually the tour took on a life of

it’s own and became a test of wills – could they endure the schedule and make

it until the end or would they break before it was over? And once it was over,

one band member felt lost without the tour, the constant motion and

machinery of this thing. They were still the same people that set out on tour,

but yet very different when they got back home.

Traveling for a living is like being on tour. You build something and

then take this work out on the road and sell the heck out of it. And you don’t

stop for air until it’s the end of the year. It’s city after city, hotel after hotel,

state after state, and airport terminal after airport terminal. You just keep

moving until there’s nowhere left to go, until you’ve covered the map a few

times over. Then you come back home.

Like every piece of driftwood that comes back home, it’s not the same

as it was when it left. When it went to sea, life went on without it and world

kept moving in its absence.

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 I am still the same person, but I am very different.

I work in the yard, trimming back those shrubs and bushes that have

taken over in my absence and planning new ones as well. New plants that I

can watch take root and grow. I push my hands into the decomposing mulch

and breath in the musty air and know this is where I should be.

I spend the days around the house, with the family, and the evenings

working on new projects. Projects that I try to make larger than life, but

ultimately will just fade and disappear. All that you build is destined to crumble

at some point. We all really do live as we dream – alone.

Still, we’re all more than just the sum of our days.

I try to find my place in everyday life. A life without travel, yet not

without motion. I am at home and I keep expecting to leave, to travel next

week to some random city and when next week comes and goes without travel,

I am lost. I try not to look into the mirror much, but when I do the face that

looks back is older. I have changed. But, as some would say, change can do

you good. And as two years have gone by in motion, I am not the same

person I was.

I continue my running – through the woods above my house and

down in the Valley below among the tall trees and rushing rivers swelling with

the fall rain. The moss is beginning to hang low and grow dense on the sides

the trees. I see driftwood as it floats down the North Fork on it’s way over the

Falls and eventually into the Sound. And I keep on moving, keep running
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through the wind and rain letting the dampness seep into my bones. The

memory of the all those places I’ve been is still fresh and it is the cold rain that

brings me back home. Even lost driftwood can be loved enough to be brought

out of the sea and rain. Loved enough to be brought home.

I have returned home at last.

And here I will stay, until motion calls me away again.

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 About the Book
A few notes on the book you’ve just read (or are about to read) from

the author himself. Yes, it is a collection of short stories and tales, taken

primarily over the past two years. Driftwood was not the book this author was

intending to write, it just sort of happened. Think of it as one big writing

exercise. Look for number two next year. No promises though.

Some tidbits on the stories themselves and it is up to the reader to

connect the dots:

• Two stories were completely written before the birth of the

author’s first child

• Two stories were written in one take – meaning there are zero
edits except for a spell check. Repeat, there are no-edits on two
stories. Although, it may seem like there’s zero edits on this whole
bloody thing

• One story does not fit in this book and the author agonized
whether or not to cut it completely

• These numbers will not add up

• One story was saved for the last minute before publication and
meant to be spontaneous

• Four stories were an absolute joy to write

• Three stories were not

• If you are reading this, there’s a line, a word, a phrase or reference

for each of you in this book. You have to find it, but it is there.

• One story could have been so much better

• There’s only one story the author is really happy with

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 About the Author

The author lives and works in Snoqualmie, Washington and spends a

great deal of time thinking about what life would be like in Seattle. And the

author has always been interested in the backstory, the story behind the story.

When not writing, the author loves to spend time at rest.

When at rest, the author dreams of motion.

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