Crocodiles & Parasols

Drink It Black

2011-09-12T07:51:00.000-07:00

It has been over a year since I have updated this blog.

How do you measure a year? In *'Rent,' the chorus suggests answers to this question: "In daylights, in sunsets/In midnights, in cups of coffee [...]" And I will try to do the same.

September (2010)

Casey and I moved to Cape Cod, into a townhouse on a quiet residential street in South Yarmouth. Casey started work as a counselor at a residential care facility for children with trauma histories, genetic disorders, behavioral issues, and psychiatric diagnoses, and I took a job teaching rock climbing and belaying at a gym on the outer cape. We didn't see each other much for the next two months, due to our conflicting schedules, but when we did see each other it was to begin unpacking boxes and exploring our new home.

October

My mother came up to visit us about halfway through the month, bringing with her Cobie, the miniature Schnauzer/miniature poodle mix she adopted from a shelter two years prior. Over the course of a long weekend, Mom transformed our house into a home. She replaced our plastic tub with a coffee table; put a wooden television stand under our TV (replacing the milk crates); hung pictures; set down plants; and made sure that our kitchen was stocked. When she left, she left alone: Casey and I adopted Cobie. Near the end of the month, I got a second job working at a community college, in a program that assists high school seniors in their transition to college.

November

Cobie and I spend long Sundays hiking the vast trail system within the conservation land at the end of our cul-de-sac. The trails skirt around cranberry bogs and sand and gravel pits, ponds and tidal rivers. Just before Thanksgiving, I submitted my first application for graduate school, pursuing my MFA in Creative Writing. We spent Thanksgiving down in Maryland, with my mom and sister.

December

I haven't been big on Christmas since I was 18 or 19, but I decided last year that I would reevaluate my feelings again, because Casey loves the season so much. It was a successful experiment: Casey and I were able to create our own traditions and our own memories. Above our TV, Casey hung stockings with our pet names embroidered on them: Schmoogle and Pookie. Cobie even had his own stocking. My mom came up again for Christmas and we spent one of the best weeks of last year together, watching Christmas movies and eating well. It was a happy end to the year.

January 2011

I submitted my fifth and final graduate school application and knew that I would have to busy myself so that I didn't spend every waking minute wondering whether I would be accepted into a program. Winters on Cape Cod are long enough. When I wasn't working both jobs, I was usually at home, with Casey, playing Rock Band on the Nintendo Wii we received as a Christmas gift. At the end of the month, I began two classes at the community college: Existentialism and Conversation Spanish. Consequently, I left my job at the gym.

February, March, April

The winter stretched on. I started receiving my rejection notices from grad programs in February, receiving my last one in April: 0-5. I put on some weight.

May

The semester winded down and I did well in both of my classes. The academic year was also winding down, and we wrapped up our sessions in the schools as seniors approached graduation. I also began working at the same place where Casey works, at the residential care program, as a substitute Life-Skills Counselor, working mainly in the children's program. After Memorial Day, Casey went back for another summer at Camp, and we kicked off the Summer of the Cobie and Bryan Show.

In the wake of graduate school denials and the winter blues, I spurred myself into action again, joining a writing group, becoming a member of the Cape Cod Writers Center , and establishing myself with a writing partner.

June

When I wasn't working, I was reading the final three books of the Harry Potter series, in order to have read them all before the debut of the 8th and final movie in July ... but that really wasn't the big news of the month.

The bigger news of June was that I co-founded and co-created The Chuckwagon Revival with two friends of mine. It is a podcast about bad movies, the current state of the world, and whatever else we want to talk about. NOTE: THIS IS NOT A PODCAST FOR CHILDREN OR OVERLY-SENSITIVE PEOPLE--IT CONTAINS EXPLICIT LANGUAGE AND CONTENT. Even so, tens of people each week download the show. We are on itunes (The Chuckwagon Revival); we have a Facebook page, and an email address ( thechuckwagonrevival@gmail.com ), where you can send us your questions, thoughts, and feedback.

July

I worked a lot in July, but took time in the middle of the month to drive down to Wilmington, NC, to attend the wedding of a good friend of mine from my AmeriCorps *NCCC days. I stopped in Brooklyn along the way to pick up my buddy Stabone, and we drove down for a weekend of drinks, laughter, ocean, and Frisbee golf.

August

There were only about 7 days in the entire month of August that I was home. I spent two weeks volunteering as a counselor at Camp, and a long weekend on the North Fork of Long Island for another wedding weekend. Mom was watching Cobie for the duration of this month, so at the end of the month, when Camp wrapped up the end of the summer, Casey and I drove down to Maryland, beating Hurricane Irene there with a couple of hours to spare. After the storm passed, there was some water in my mom's basement, and a few limbs to pick up in the yard, but that was about it.

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And here we are in September: my New Year, each and every year. I am applying for graduate school again, for starters. Rugby season has started, and we began the season with a "W." I'm also trying to lose that weight I put on in the beginning of the year, which means exercise and diet. I'm cutting everything extraneous and useless out of my diet, including the half-and-half I usually put in my coffee. I'm learning to drink it black.

*words and lyrics by Jonathan Larson

Close This Summer Like a Music Box Clicking Shut

2010-09-05T07:30:00.000-07:00

What January seems to be to everyone else (besides the Chinese), September is to me: the beginning of a new year. It's the time of year I move someplace new, begin the next great job hunt, and make resolutions.

My fourth summer at Camp has ended, and I'm spending the majority of this week closing the summer like a music box clicking shut. I'm house sitting, spending the majority of my days in my underwear, eating out of a tub of Edy's Smores ice cream (with great helpings of peanut butter and caramel sauce thrown in for good measure), watching marathons of Project Runway. When I sugar crash, I take naps. When I leave the house, it's usually to walk the dog in a nearby park. But that's about all the exercise I'm getting this week.

I'm also applying for jobs. (For those that don't already know, Casey and I moved to Cape Cod last week.) In the last couple of weeks, I've applied to wrestle alligators at a used car lot, be a private investigator, as well as applying to be a life coach. I'm still waiting to hear back from all of them.

As far as September resolutions, top among them are to learn Spanish, become more involved in the community, and to become more politically aware. I also need to get back to writing that book.

Zen & the Art of Freeland Maintenance

2010-04-21T19:06:00.000-07:00

I started sputtering yesterday. Something was wrong. Off. And, instead of figuring out what that thing was, I ignored it. Went to bed with it. And it was worse this morning.

While I still don't know exactly what it is, I'm sitting down. Meditating. Pulling out the plugs, the sprockets, everything. I'm going to blow dust off everything. Grease what needs to be greased. Make sure every piece is in it's perfect form, before reassembling it.

What exactly does that mean?, you may be asking. Well, it will take various forms: fasting, then a vast change of diet for a while, starting with citrus fruits and then foods with more caloric complexity, until I know what's working for me and what isn't; a return to a spiritual center; taking time to be alone with myself without feeling the need to hide or fix something; maybe a long walk; writing again; reading again; tea instead of coffee ... Well, not too much too soon.

What do I know now? I know that, although I never really liked it before, I've developed a taste for ginger. And, I only told one lie today. And it was a small, correctable, one.

Traveling Too Rare

2010-04-20T14:05:00.000-07:00

This past Saturday, on my way to my university alumni rugby game against the youngin's, I was pulled over for my first time in a while. True, I may have been going a little quickly, and it was true that I had sped up to make two yellow lights through an s-like intersection, but I've been pulled over for a lot more. At least I was in my own car.

I spoke with the officer, who was pleasant enough, who told me he hadn't liked the way I had come through the intersection. He stated this to me the same way one would state that they hadn't liked the olives in their Greek salad. I justified to him that I felt I had committed myself to the intersection and that hitting the breaks, especially on wet pavement, through a circuitous intersection seemed to me to be more dangerous than making the light. I apologized for the maneuvering in and out of traffic I had done to make the lights, and he gave me the impression that my answer was thoughtful and somewhat reasonable, given the situation.

He took my license and registration with him back to the car, and I waited in mine, listening to Van Morrison and nodding at the gentleman across the street who was half-working, half-checking out the scene in front of his business; the expression he wore was one of curiosity more than accusatory. The officer returned a few minutes later and handed me a written warning: traveling too rair. (It took me a few minutes to make out what the offense was, until I remembered the average intelligence for police officers is around 100.) For the first time since law enforcement officers have been writing me citations, fines, tickets, and court appearance dates, I smiled in light of my transgression.

Traveling too rare. I still like the sound of that.

Pickle Smoocher

2009-12-19T08:05:00.000-08:00

Well, dear readers, subscribers (all 13 of you), and SmileyNDE (I know you're out there), it's been a long time since my last blog post, this is true. When last you read, I was picking up dog poo at and Animal School in Warren, Rhode Island, and that was about it. Well, my professional career has improved. I now work for a Fortune 500 company as an administrative assistant in the rehabilitation departments of three different nursing homes, as well as for the district as a whole. It's a lot of work, but it pays the bills and provides me plenty of time for my personal life.

But all of that news is just an update. I realize it's boring.

My Sunday mornings as of late provide the real entertainment in my life. I have been meeting on Federal Hill in Providence, the "Little Italy" of the city, to play afternoon street hockey with some colorful characters. For the most part, I would describe them as hard-working, hard-drinking, blue collar, hockey superfans. Several of them wear Boston or Providence Bruins jerseys over their hooded flannel sweatshirts. One guy always plays in a thin black leather jacket; another guy, Mikey Nails, is missing all of his top teeth from bicuspid to bicuspid. They affix soccer shin guards to the outside of their grey sweatpants with electrical tape. The goalies play with second base gloves.

We congregate behind an elementary school, and play for 2 - 3 hours on a portion of a back parking lot. I was invited my first week by a friend on the Providence Rugby Club, Meaty, and have been going back ever since. I'm known as, "the guy in the pink hat," for the Goorin pink knitted hat I wear each week. Street hockey is not at all like field hockey, or ice hockey; it is a sport entirely unto itself, especially in this company. I'm constantly being rotated between forward and defense--it seems I haven't found a position where either the team or myself is entirely comfortable.

We play, usually, with a hard yellow plastic ball, which is always sailing over one of the fences and into the houses or cars on the opposite side of the street. After temporarily losing the yellow ball last week, someone threw in a pink ball, which was almost immediately thrown back in disgust. "We don't play wit' no pink balls out here," one guy in a running suit adamantly shouted back at the sidelines. "We don't got no pickle smoochers on this team!" A few of the guys looked at me and then up at my knitted hat.

"Pickle smoocher." What an inventive term, I was thinking. There was a sense in the air that I should reply. The game play had temporarily stopped and everyone seemed to be looking back at me, as if this was my moment to stand and defend myself, to come back with something that would affirm my place on this parking lot, my right to be there. The moment was becoming too long. I shifted my stance, pushed up the brim of my hat with my ice hockey glove, tapped the ground with the end of my stick twice and shouted back, ... "YEah!"

Filipino DemiGod in the Days of Friendster

2009-09-15T09:47:00.000-07:00

There have been so many new social networking sites develop in the last few years that now many people have multiple accounts; I, myself, have one on Facebook and Myspace, although I rarely ever use the latter.

Does anyone remember Friendster? Does Friendster still exist, I don't know. The one thing I remember about Friendster--that's happened to me nowhere else--is that I was befriended by a large number of Filipinos, who I had never met, nor spoken with. I only have two Filipino friends, brothers, and neither of them knew any of the people who had befriended and were following me online. Their belief was that the name "Freeland" must be closely related, and therefore easily mistakable, to one of the demigods within the Filipino pantheon. I couldn't find a better explanation for it then, or since.

This phenomenon only happened on Friendster, failing to happen anywhere else. Maybe it was a system glitch. Maybe the world got too big and the amount of people online and logged in to social networking sites became too massive, too diluted with people. Maybe the world got worse, and demigods don't cut it anymore.

Dog Day Afternoons in Poo Corner

2009-09-11T08:15:00.001-07:00

There is pee on the floor.

I'm sitting with three dogs underfoot: two labradoodles, and one blue heeler. There is a brown-spotted dalmatian, Balzac, who is walking around sniffing the floor, most likely waiting for one of the other dogs to crap. So he can eat it.

In the other pen, the Puppy Pen, most of the dogs are laying down for their afternoon nap.

Yes, my latest occupation: Pooper Scooper extraordinaire! I'm sitting for dogs at a daycare and animal school in Warren, Rhode Island. While I'm still aggressively searching for work, this job pays the bills and allows me time to read, write, and continue drinking copious amounts of coffee. I'm learned to almost ignore the smells.

A Tribe Disbanded

2009-08-31T06:34:00.000-07:00

The summer is over, and I have again parted company with those glorious individuals I have had the pleasure of living and working with these past few months. Camp has demobilized its summer force, sending them across the globe from which they came. Most have returned to college life, but some are beginning new lives, unemployed and focusing on that next horizon, whether that be an Australian one or an Iowan one.

And my tribe, my Hero's Journey tribe, which disbanded months ago, has settled into their new lives, as white-green as spring buds, in West Virginia, Washington state, Oregon, Colorado ... My fellow shepherds, all of us without a current flock, still standing with crooks in one hand and coffee mugs in the other, not wondering where our sheep have gone, but wondering instead where our next pasture lands will be.

For the next 9 months at least, my pasture lands will be close to Bristol, Rhode Island. I have interviews and meetings arranged for employment, but nothing definite yet. As for residence, I am waiting to hear whether or not I have been approved for a studio apartment two miles north of Roger Williams University. In the mean time, I am reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance and Pride and Prejudice in tandem, starting rugby practice with the Providence Rugby Club again, and taking free yoga classes, all in the hopes of trying to find a center again from which to work, from which, I hope, creativity and design will wellspring.

Gang Aft Agley

2009-08-12T06:06:00.000-07:00

It's been long, too long, since I've published a post. Those both of you who are waiting for me to write again may even be disappointed with this post as well.

There is no such thing as "me time" when you are working at Camp. The best intentions I've had to publish something small over the last few weeks have, ultimately, gone awry.

I can tell you that there is a strong possibility that I have found a job, post-Camp, and that I will most likely be living in Bristol, RI, for the next 9 months. Once I've had a chance to settle in somewhere, the writing will be more frequent and, hopefully, more consistent.

If I hope to accomplish anything with this blog, it is to provide all both of my readers with a humorous thought or image to carry with them for a second, a minute, an hour, or the day. That image today is ...

I cut myself shaving last night. I was exhausted and not being careful, and when I brought the razor back up to my lip, I came across my upper lip, sideways, and sliced two, neat, inch-long cuts into my upper lip, on the left side of my mouth. Now, for the next few days, I anticipate all food and drink having to enter through the right side of my mouth before it can be masticated and swallowed.

Defining "Haussome"

2009-06-17T06:54:00.000-07:00

Session 3 of the Hero's Journey program wrapped up two days ago, and tomorrow we will be heading into the woods for another Session. There are so many observations, reflections, and stories from the week--too many to post now. The one thing I will say is that we taught the participants the meaning of the word "hauss," and likewise what it means to embody "haussomeness." Some examples include:

-A girl who came into the program with both a fear of cooking and of insects, helping to make dinner for everyone on the second full day, as well as ridding her own space of the forest creatures that had managed to find themselves in there.

-A muscular, able, strong, 6'4'' lad raising his hand to ask for help.

-A stand-in-front leader, who was able to take a step back and lead from the side.

-A shy, quiet girl, who spoke up when things needed to get done immediately.

-Another girl, afraid to descend from a 30' tower, zipping into the rainy darkness, blindfolded.

There are stories about all of them, how they successfully met and triumphed repeatedly on their Road of Trials. I speak for the rest of my fellow counselors when I say, "We are all very proud of you."

Graduation Déjà Vu

2009-05-19T15:27:00.000-07:00

It seems as if I graduated with my Bachelor's degree in English last year. After all, I did complete all of my graded assigned requirements, bought my cap and gown (skipped on the Honor's tassels--$14?!), participated in Commencement, received my empty diploma, smiled for pictures, had a party, etc. ... Oh, wait a minute, that's right, I never turned in my ungraded Writing Portfolio! The Writing Portfolio for Eastern Connecticut State University consists of a collection of an English major's writing over their time at ECSU, as well as a 300-word essay on what being an English major means to them. Well, I thought it was bullshit, so I never did it. Until March of this year.

I just got a letter from Eastern basically stating, "Congratulations! You've now passed all of our requirements for graduation." So now, instead of having a printing of a 2008 graduation date, my diploma will be printed with a 2009 graduation date. Big deal. I still graduated a year ago. Chalk another score under the "W" column for this guy.

Stand Up and Rock the Boat

2009-05-11T05:45:00.000-07:00

As fate would have it, it turns out that I'm going to be in an off Broadway production of Guys & Dolls tomorrow evening. My girlfriend, as some of you know, is a theater major at Roger Williams University. A mutual friend of ours, who was also a RW graduate, had some folks drop out of the show a week before, leaving him scrambling to fill their places. Now, the last time I graced the stage was over a decade ago, for our high school play ... Guys & Dolls. I know the music, some of the dance movements, and I have a pretty good idea of the blocking, which, apparently, makes me an ideal last minute candidate for the role of "Male Chorus Member."

Luck, be a lady these next two days?

On Belay!

2009-04-29T04:29:00.000-07:00

For my position as a Wilderness Counselor this summer at Camp, I am spending two full days, along with a dozen other Camp folks, receiving Tower training for our adventure component of the Hero's Journey program. (To read about a good friend currently on a hero's journey, click here and make sure you read his post for April 22, 2009. *If you are Skip and reading this, three things: 1) Conserve your chi, (2) I love you, Brother, and (3) I'm proud of you.) I've been climbing since my year in AmeriCorps, when my roommate took me outside the dorm on our first night there to show me how to traverse bouldering routes on holds that were held fast to the side of the building. Climbing on the Tower at Camp however is a lot different, and I am improving my ken of the sport of climbing by learning about the ropes, knots, and tools of climbing, as well as how and when to use them. Yesterday, we went over identifying routes and belaying; today, we are going to learn more about repeling and rescue climbing.

After a day of climbing, the four other members of the HJ program and I walked down through our sites, and some areas of the Connecticut wilderness we hope to incorporate into the program this year. The sun was low in the sky, gildering the fallen pine needles on the forest floor. Brad, one of the staff, dug up some bulbs of a ramp, a wild scallion, and a few of us delighted in this garlicky treat. The Bigelow Creek was gurgling below us, and above us, the wind was strong enough to make thin pine trees dance. For me, it was a moment of spring bliss, and I look forward to calling these woods my home this summer.

The Manny Diaries

2009-04-27T06:35:00.000-07:00

I know, I know, it's been weeks since my last post. In the past five weeks, I have managed to find a part time job as a "manny" (male nanny) for a five year old girl in Warren, Rhode Island, two days a week. Spring has come to New England, so we try to spend as much time outside as we can, coloring the pavement with chalk, identifying plants, trees, and insects, and running around the playgrounds of Bristol County. When the weather is not cooperative with these activities, we build forts and play with dolls. I have played "Barbies" more hours this month than I have in my entire life. ... That's not completely true.

When I'm not playing with Barbies, I've been working on the "Little Shop of Horrors" set at Roger Williams University. The set itself is like a life-sized dollhouse, so I had plenty of insight and recommendations on its construction. I attended my first show last night and the production is a theatrical, and technical, success.

Bolos for Breakfast, Before Pounding the Providence Pavement

2009-04-01T16:43:00.000-07:00

Bolos are Portuguese versions of the English muffin and they are delicious. I slather them with butter every morning, and then watch Lifetime for the remainder of the day; this is luxury for the unemployed in East Providence, Rhode Island.

Today however, after my nap, I drove around Providence, getting to know my new city, while stopping in at various restaurants to fill out applications. There is a burger joint that looked kind of fun...

Yesterday, Casey and I spent part of the day volunteering at the Covenant Soup Kitchen in Willimantic, Connecticut, the town which hosts my alma mater, Eastern Connecticut State University. After lunch was over, I went over to the university and finally submitted my Writing Portfolio, which means that I can now be awarded my diploma, even though (not officially) I graduated last year. I guess I won't know which year I technically graduated in until I see that diploma. It feels weird to have nothing, officially, hanging over my head anymore.

Of the jobs that I have been applying for, one would be driving an ice cream and lemonade truck all over Providence, while another job I applied for would entail constructing 50' of Connecticut stone wall on private property. I am qualified for neither of these jobs, but they both sound like fun. I think now would be a good time in my life to hold down the three simultaneous part time jobs of my dreams: Butcher, Baker, Candlestick Maker.

East of Providence

2009-03-30T11:32:00.000-07:00

prov⋅i⋅dence

–noun

1.	(often initial capital letter) the foreseeing care and guidance of God or nature over the creatures of the earth.

2.	(initial capital letter) God, esp. when conceived as omnisciently directing the universe and the affairs of humankind with wise benevolence.

3.	a manifestation of divine care or direction.

Origin:
1300–50; ME < class="ital-inline">prōvidentia foresight, forethought. See provident, -ence

Prov⋅i⋅dence

a seaport in and the capital of Rhode Island, in the NE part, at the head of Narragansett Bay. 156,804.

I packed my car and drove up to East Providence last Tuesday; knowingly, I was not feeling well; unknowingly, I had a fever of 100.9. By the time I arrived in Bristol, RI, it was all I could do to give Casey a big hug, before passing out in her bed for the next three days. She is a good nurse. After a trip to the doctor's and some strong antibiotics, she pushed fluids and rest on me till I was well enough to move into my own place. While I will still be on the medicine for a few days, both my appetite and strength are already returning to me.

I have not yet acquainted myself with my new city, nor has Providence seen my true face. From my vantage point over the bridge in East Providence, Providence seems like one of those cities set in a snow globe, only substitute rain for snow. There are few skyscrapers, and a lot of bricks--I like bricks.

Although I have only been here less than a week, I have seen two shows already and opted out of a third. Friday night, I attended a Millis, Massachusetts, community theater performance of Grease, unedited, with 14 year-olds delivering lines about "gangbangs" and teenage pregnancy. It was awkward. After that experience, I opted out of a Saturday night performance of The Bald Soprano at Roger Williams University, as an Absurdist play would have drained the little bit of strength that had returned to me. Last night however, I saw a very powerful perfomance of The Secret Rapture by the Trinity Repertory Company, and my faith in live theater has been restored, a little. I'm sure after tonight's show by members of the Second City troupe, I should be recommending live performances again.

Wax On, Wax Off, Wax Philosophic

2009-03-17T05:58:00.000-07:00

Within the week, I am moving to East Providence, Rhode Island, where I will be renting a basement apartment from a Rabbi and his wife, who has purple hair. The apartment needs some work: the ceiling has exposed pipes and water-damaged tiles, the carpet could use either a good vacuuming or a good tossing (I'm not sure which yet), the single bed needs to be replaced with the wobbly futon which sits just outside, etc. My hope is to turn this apartment into a hookah den, with an Arabic motif. Hang a tapestry over the exposed pipes ... ... I really don't know much about Arabic interior decorating.

The reason I am moving to Rhode Island is to be closer to Casey. It's been hard being apart for all of this time, and the more we have to say "goodbye" to each other, the more difficult it becomes. We've become even closer since our travels through Europe; we now have the kind of intimacy where I can lay on my stomach chatting with her roommates while she waxes the patch of hair on the small of my back. True story.

So, once again I am making my preparations for another big move. In the midst of packing, a lot of things are getting donated to Good Will, items that have not been used or worn in years, and have only lasted this long for the scant sentimental value they hold. It's good for the soul to get rid of these things. Years ago, when my OCD was worse than it is now, I used to keep my finger and toe nail clippings. I did this for years, every one. There is an actual DSM-IV medical diagnoses for this condition, but it escapes me now, although I know that it is categorized under Compulsive Disorders. Yep, finger and toe nails. My urine, for a short time. A bag of feces outside under the deck--only one time.

I have a chronic condition in which my ears produce an excessive amount of wax. Every 4-6 months or so I have to flush them out, and every time, a black mass, a little smaller than a dime, washes out into the bowl under my ear; I used to keep these too. This week, I took a picture instead, threw the mass away, and thought about how healthy I've become. :)

Zen and The Art of Rolling Silverware

2009-02-12T06:53:00.000-08:00

I'm realizing that in order to find peace with my current occupation, I must strive for perfection in everything I do; I realized this yesterday while rolling silverware into dinner napkins. Every day is a lesson in humility.

As I stand at the server's counter, waiting for customers, doing the daily crossword puzzle, and calculating my overtime to infinity, Bruce McCulloch's "That's America!" resounds over and over in my head. Each nice day that I spend inside serving eggplant parmesan and braciole to unappreciative customers, I think that maybe, when this caged freebird flies again, maybe I, too, will walk. The AT, from Maryland to Connecticut, looks pretty good right now.

Stand Up Eight

2009-02-03T06:47:00.000-08:00

There is a Japanese koan which states, "Fall down seven times; stand up eight." I've applied this principle to my life so many times that I must be standing up close to nine times by now.

I have a conditional training today as a server in a small Italian restaurant in town. I have no former experience as a server, but the senora said she would try me out anyway. I have a decent memory, steady hands, and oodles of charm. Offsetting this however, I was reminded, is my impatience for stupid people and the mouth that has gotten me into trouble all of my life. If I learned anything from my time with Skip, maybe I'll be able to keep that mouth in check long enough to save up enough money to get back up into New England.

I was told to wear all black when I report at 10:15; I am wearing at least four different shades.

Also, I decided to start my daily tasks over, again. Too many continual days of interruptions went by and I was thrown off course. Today I'm asked to throw something away that I like. Maybe it will be my attitude ... but probably not.

Betwixt the Diver and the Astronaut

2009-01-27T13:01:00.000-08:00

I figured as long as I am doubling up on my daily tasks this week, I might as well double up on my posts as well. It's not like I have a job on which to attend instead.

Day 20 is a Poetry Day, and the prescribed task is to compose a line in iambic pentameter and submit it to Benrik, the authors, on their website, to enter into a collective of metered lines, in the hopes of creating a mass poem. The first line of the poem is, "Mercy, cried the popinjay to the pope." My line is the title of this blog, and it was composed using Day 26 (yesterday) as its muse; Day 26 reads, "Today choose what you'd prefer to be reincarnated as," and then provides a page of silhouettes for one to circle. There are animals, mud-flap type trucker girls, inanimate objects, etc. The silhouette that stood out for me was the astronaut.

Think about astronauts, and the fact that maybe 2% (I made that percentage up, but it's still low) actually get a chance to see outer space. The ones that do have an entirely different perspective on our world. Most of us only get to see one plane of this planet.

Then there are divers. The divers that plunge down, or crawl into the planet, and look back up see Earth from another entirely different perspective. They get to see the world from the inside out, while the astronauts are looking from the outside in. The astronauts that also dive get to see it all, I guess.

There are astronauts, and astronomers, and architects, and ornithologists, who all spend their lives looking up, and then there are geologists, and grave diggers, and deep sea marine biologists, and vulcanologists who spend their lives looking down. It made me think about how I see the world. As a writer, I think my perceptions of the world derive from introspection and extrospection, and the continual interplay of these two; it's like breathing, only I breathe out in words.

Without pondering too deeply the nature of reality, ask yourself: How do I see the world?

...

How do you see it?

"Though pompous, he was an entertaining person."

2009-01-27T09:57:00.000-08:00

Although these words could aptly be said of me (or a friend of mine) in a eulogy, this was actually the first question on an assessment form I needed to fill out in order to be considered for part-time employment at the local Blockbuster. Phrased in this way, "_____ pompous, he was an entertaining person," I next had to fill in the blank with one of these four choices: Before, Never, Though, and Despite. I never expected grammar to be so highly valued by Blockbuster, especially when considering the employees with whom I have been in contact. See, there it is again, that darn pomposity of mine.

I Hate A Hiatus (And I Bet You Do Too)

2009-01-26T11:52:00.000-08:00

It's been about a week since I did my last daily task for This Book Will Change Your Life and I'm thinking that this next week will be pretty interesting as I try to double-up on tasks in order for me to be back on schedule.

Saturday was the Polar Bear Plunge, an event sponsored by the Maryland State Police, my old friends, to benefit the Maryland Special Olympics. The final tally isn't in, but it was announced at 3pm on Saturday that they had raised approximately 11 million dollars. Not a bad chunk of change.

When I rode the bus into Sandy Point State Park there was ice slush accumulating on the shores of the Chesapeake Bay. Earlier that morning, snow flurries had been blowing in from the side. The water was somewhere in the thirties, the mid to low thirties by the feel of it. I met up with my rugby mates, and for the next two hours there was hilarity in the parking lot as we built courage for The Plunge.

We went down to the beach when it was our hour to plunge. A guy in a red cod piece ran in front of the crowd, a la Braveheart, psyching everyone up. The count down began and after we yelled "ONE!" everyone was making a mad dash for the frigid water. As soon as my delicates hit I achieved something I didn't think was biologically possible--I was reduced to two raisins and a second belly button. There might have even been the beginning of a nub of a tail.

If was chaos, and it had been far too long since I had participated in some good chaos. Some celebrated The Plunge with bourbon and cheap brandy; I chose to celebrate with a good cigar and my love by my side. To misquote Kafka, it's what I needed to break up the frozen lake inside of me.

Overtime at the Olfactory

2009-01-17T20:25:00.000-08:00

"Day 17: Eat nothing but asparagus all day long to ascertain just how noxious your pee can get" (Benrik).

With no one in the house today but me and the mutts, I was able to get a lot of work done on the house. My biggest accomplishment was painting the runners on the stairs, which took about 6 hours after two coats of paint. Between the sauteed asparagus, me stewing in my overalls all day, and the odors from the john after having eaten aforementioned asparagus, the house was pretty ripe. Even the mutts, who are almost always underfoot, decided to leave me alone most of the day.

The asparagus was tasty. My recordings of the smell? Well, let's just say I'm still working at finding the right words to convey the actual smell which emanated from the porcelain all day. From a personal maxim I borrowed from poet Kim Addonizio, "Always be a student of something," I'm sure something more creative than a blog post will develop from today's events.

Smoke Letter

2009-01-14T08:39:00.000-08:00

"Day 13: Send a letter to a mass murderer" (Benrik).

After getting past Day 5, this is where I normally stop. However, I found a way around this yesterday and I am now successfully on Day 14, which is a lot easier (pay someone a compliment). Although the book provides a list of nine mass murderers, complete with their addresses, it does not specifically state that I have to mail the letters. So, I decided to write a letter, and then burn it, hoping the smoke would send a form of ethereal message to the intended. The Native American Indians used to signal each other with smoke--granted, they weren't burning a letter they had written first--why couldn't I?

If you had been standing in my backyard, or on the highway ... If you had been the neighbor, resting on the adjoining fence of our properties, taking a moment to remove your knitted hat to let your head breathe, steam rising from your wet black hair, leaning on the fence for a brief reprieve from picking up sticks in your back yard, and you looked over to the neighbors, you saw Cassie's full grown son, almost 30, standing above a flaming pan on the ground, maybe 6 feet from the house. Maybe you saw the black smoke first, and you wondered what a fire was doing so close to the house? And then you see him, standing above it, an odd look on his face. You ask yourself, what is he burning? And why? Out of all of the possible conclusions you would have run through your mind--No. In fact, I was burning a letter written to a not-so-nice person.

This Blog Will Change Your Life

2009-01-09T05:46:00.000-08:00

Well, OK, that might be a bit of an overstatement. ... But it might!

To keep myself occupied and to generate some new ideas for writing, I have been following the daily guidelines set upon me by the book This Book Will Change Your Life (Benrik). It is 365 instructions for little things you can do--little odd things, such as "eat nothing but asparagus today to see how noxious your urine can become"--that, in the end, will result in a life-changing experience. As if I needed another one of those.

Bee gave me this book years ago and I have stopped and started it many times, sometimes without any reason at all, and other times with very good reason, such as the time Day 5 got me arrested. Day 9's mandate? "Do something before breakfast." Well, Dear Readers, this blog is it. At the very least, I hoped this blog changes your day.

Castle, Nursery, Prison

2009-01-07T16:12:00.000-08:00

I've been back in Grace a little over a week now and what once was my nursery is now becoming my prison as I roam from room to room of my childhood home, sensing my coffee getting colder, sensing my unemployment stretching out.

I did have an interview yesterday, and I will have a second interview with the same company on Friday, but it's a job for the money and no other reason. I've come home to two neurotic dogs, a missing box of books (containing my Austen novels), and a small mountain of mail I've neglected to open in months. Somewhere in there are past due college loan bills.

I need a hobby. I need friends that don't work during the day. I need inspiration, a muse ... preferably naked. If your hobby is being a naked muse for freelancers that need inspiration, call me.

To the Motherland, My Bonnie Prince!

2008-12-20T05:03:00.001-08:00

Heading to Scotland tomorrow from Milan! I'm going to love on some sheep and eat some neeps and tatties!

The Pope Is Tired Today. Also, Expected Scattered Showers.

2008-12-16T04:38:00.000-08:00

Greetings from Florence! Just a quick post to let everyone know that C. and I are safe in Florence and heading to Pisa for the obligatory phallic photo, then off to Zurich maybe? Will post more later in the future. Ciao Ciao!

Mean Time

2008-12-04T21:43:00.000-08:00

I've begun the practice of living on Greenwich Mean Time here on the East Coast in preparation for my upcoming trip, as a way of preemptively battling jet lag. It's like living on Bar Time multiplied by 20, which would have bouncers putting me out on the street at 8:30pm (which has happened). Coincidently, that is also the time I went to bed last night. Still, even for London, it's early.

I got home to Havre de Grace, Maryland, safe and sound Tuesday evening. (I plan on blogging about my reflections on the trek with Skip either later today or sometime in the near future.) It was no surprise to Mom, who had the front light on 10 minutes before I pulled into the driveway. (I hate being predictable.) I've notified the bank that I will be traveling abroad. I have my international driver's license and passport folded away in a book I plan on bringing. I've packed my pack; later today I will be taking it out onto the trail to see how it fits and what adjustsments, if any, need to be made. Every practical consideration has been accounted for, and yet, I can't sleep.

I'm going to see my Love in two days, after three months of being apart, which is longer than we've actually been together. It's a little weird and we're both a little nervous about it. Neither one of us knows what we're going to do or how we're going to act when we see each other. I've envisioned every scenario. All of them, I know, will be irrelevant when I see her beautiful face. I'll look at her and it will all make sense again.

At a Loss in Gainesville

2008-11-30T11:57:00.000-08:00

It's been over two weeks since my last post, and for this I apologize. I have been doing a lot of writing, I just haven't been posting. A good friend of mine wrote to me, telling me, "When we don't hear from you, we assume you're in jail." So, I post. And no, I haven't been incarcerated ... yet.

Skip and I have been in Gainesville, Florida, since early Thursday morning. After a Wednesday of walking in the wrong direction in Alabama, Skip decided that we would just leave that night and drive down here for Thanksgiving with his good friend, A. We're still here. It looks like Skip is going to set up camp for a little while here in Florida. He plans to make headway on his book before getting back on the road in a few weeks. By that time, I will be somewhere in Europe.

A few weeks ago, hearts fell on Alabama when I told Skip that I would not be rejoining him after my return from Europe. There are a number of reasons why I won't be rejoining him, both practical and sentimental. While it's true that I do have to start paying back my student loans, this time away from my love has been difficult.

My original plan was to drive back on Wednesday, December 3rd, but I might leave before then, as soon as I can finish up some work for Skip. There are still some things we need to shoot. After that, though, the work will not be over. I plan to do whatever I can from wherever I am for the organization, even if Skip can only give me an arbitrary title for my imaginary seat on his Board of Directors. (Too much IRS paperwork, I'm told.)

Where does that leave me and my writing? I will conitnue to write, updating here and there throughout Europe, if I'm given the chance. When I return to the U.S., I will try to be more consistent with my posts.

Thank you all for your patience and your desire to read more of my life. I write for you.

Quantus Solari

2008-11-15T08:29:00.000-08:00

It's amazing what a good night's sleep and a country breakfast will do for the soul. Skip and I are staying here in Newnan, Georgia, one more evening, with relatives of a friend we made in Chapel Hill. I'm looking forward to my day of helping B. and E. plant tulip bulbs, which makes me ask: What is better than having roses on your piano? ... Having tulips on your organ.

Sadly, that won't be the case for another couple of weeks.

Ooh Georgia, No Peace I Find

2008-11-14T12:34:00.000-08:00

It took all the funk The New Mastersounds could muster to propel Skip and me out of Atlanta. We’ve been circling the drain for the last week. We’ve met some awesome people and had some really great times, but it is not a power place for either of us, and we needed some borrowed soul in order for us to leave.

Skip has this theory on “Power Places.” For him, Power Places are areas of the world where things come together for an individual, making that person feel empowered. The possibilities are endless, but it’s a place where a person may be successful in business as easily as in romantic endeavors. There may be one or several of these around the world for a person. For Skip, Prague was a place of power for him. When I think about it, northeast Connecticut and that fraction of New England feels like a power place for me.

This has not been the case for either of us in Georgia, especially in Atlanta.

1/2 a Bird

2008-11-10T11:47:00.000-08:00

Skip and I are trying something different to our traveling, and after a few days of this test-run it feels like I am caught in a vortex between Atlanta and Skip's starting points for the day. Each day though we keep getting closer and closer to Atlanta, like a pair of mariners who are circling a whirlpool with the flotsam and jetsam our travels have created.

We made it to our host's flat yesterday evening, and after dropping off some of our things we ventured back out into Midtown for a late meal. Our host had directed us to a Tex-Mex place with cheap food, but on the way there we saw a place we could not pass: Fat Matt's BBQ. Skip and I walked in and the smell of smoked and grilled meat made both of our stomachs grumble and our mouths water. The menu was on the wall right in front of us and looked something like this:

1/4 slab
1/2 slab

1/4 bird
1/2 bird

"rum" beans
sweet potato pie

sweet tea
coke

There wasn't much else to the menu. We smiled at each other. Skip ordered the 1/2 slab of ribs and I ordered a 1/2 bird for dinner. We sat down at a table and looked around the place. There were some tables, and a stage was at the end opposite of where we were sitting. Pictures of blues musicians lined the walls. Behind the stage, there was a rendition of Mt. Rushmore, only with the blues greats instead of the Presidents.

When the food came we didn't need silverware--I don't think we even bothered to unwrap it from the napkins. The bone pulled right out of his slab and my bird. I haven't had meat that tender since [There are so many ways I want to end this sentence. Less for taste and decency and more for the fact that I want to retain my summer job, I will leave your imaginations to finish the sentence for me].

Georgia Biathlon

2008-11-08T09:13:00.000-08:00

Ask Brad Spence if he remembers a scene similar to this:

It’s in the evening when you come home. You see wet clothes, covered in mud, at the doorstep. There is also a shovel. The canoe isn’t lying where it normally does. You think about the creek nearby.

It was a warm afternoon in Athens when I emerged from our host’s house and stood out on the back porch. The Oconee River is about 200 meters down the steep slope of the back yard, and as I approached the railing of the deck I noticed a canoe laying in the grass below. I told Skip I fancied some canoeing, he told me he was going to take a nap. So, I humped the canoe onto my shoulders and walked down the steep slope of the backyard to the water’s edge. I didn’t notice a paddle lying around. I walked back up the hill and circled the house, but there was no paddle. I went back inside and looked around in the garage, but there wasn’t a paddle or an oar in there either. There was however a spade shovel. Good enough.

To set the canoe in the water, I had to balance myself on a log and walk down the trunk about 7 feet. I balanced myself, picked up the canoe and counterbalanced, then walked out and set the canoe in the water. I went back and grabbed the shovel, got in the canoe and pushed off without incident.

The water was a little too shallow for me to navigate the canoe successfully without having to get out in certain places and lift the canoe off of mossy rocks. One of the time I did this I heard a rustling by the bank and saw a fawn struggling to stand. As I watched it became apparent that something was wrong with this fawn. None of its limb appeared to be broken, but its legs shook whenever it tried to stand, and it would make it a few feet before tumbling headlong, landing on either its head or side, depending on its positioning. I concluded there must have been some neurological disorder affecting it, which is typical of animals with Lyme’s Disease, as so many white-tailed deer are. As it became ever aware of my presence, it began to panic, and doing so caused it to make desperate lunges towards the forest, but between the muddy embankment and its malady it only succeeded in getting closer and closer to the water. I didn’t know what to do to help it. For a minute I considered killing it with my shovel to put it out of its misery. I then reasoned that it wasn’t my place to make such a decision. I knew that it would be dead soon anyhow, most likely from a predator, and it wasn’t my role to be part of that cycle, but if I stayed any longer the deer would surely wind up in the river, where it had a good chance of drowning, and I didn’t want to be the cause of that either. It is in my nature to help things that can’t help themselves, and I felt that by not doing anything, by letting nature take its course, I failed both the fawn and my true nature. Even whispering the Serenity Prayer to myself didn’t help to rectify the powerlessness I felt in that instant.

I turned around and paddled back upstream to the house. I got out on the log and steadied myself. Still thinking about the fawn, I lifted the canoe out of the water but in so doing lost my balance. Before I even realized what I had stepped back into, I was sinking. It took me maybe half a second to realize I was in quicksand, and by that time it was up to my mid-thigh. There were a few thoughts I had in that moment, the speed of the quicksand grudgingly slow in comparison to the firings of the synaptic centers of the brain. Reflecting back on it later, these were the thoughts I had:

1. DO NOT PANIC. Skip told me that in survival school he learned about the 3 seconds, 3 minutes, 3 hours rule; most people who panic die within the first three seconds of a situation, depending on their response to it.
2. DO NOT PANIC. Reiterated from Douglas Adam’s The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.
3. My good friends Nick and Andrea Pentz bought me a book years ago that chronicled what to do if caught in quicksand, and I utilized that knowledge next.

With the silt almost up to my waist, I pushed down on the log next to me and slowly, slowly, and calmly, emerged from the muck. I laid on the log and panted, exhausted but with the adrenaline still coursing through my system. I only had one thought then and in the fraction of a nano-second my thoughts left that bank in Athens, Georgia, crossing the state, the Atlantic, to rest in London, on the image of my love.

We’ve all read, seen, and heard about this phenomenon, and I wonder that, had I not been drunk in my previous life-threatening encounters, would I have experienced this before?

The prevalent theme in all journey stories and quest narratives surrounds the change the traveler makes during that journey, during that quest. Questions I’ve been asking myself for weeks, decisions I’ve been on the fence about, have been answered, as I hoped they would have been somewhere along this trip. I never expected I would have been hugging a log along the banks of a river when I had made them. Then again, it was along the banks of a river when Siddhartha Guatama discovered his Golden Path.

Lesser-Known Olympic Games

2008-11-07T16:40:00.000-08:00

Only a few short hours after entering Athens, Georgia, I was tossing beanbags of corn through the air behind a hipster bar called Little Kings Shuffle Club. It had been at least six years since I had played Cornhole, and I hadn’t expected to play again in Athens, of all places. I don’t think of Georgia as much of a corn state, but then again my favorite clear corn whiskey is named “Georgia Moon”—it’s sold in mason jars. The last time I had played Cornhole was in a bar called Tuba’s in Batesville, Indiana; I think my picture still hangs behind the bar.

My host, Cristal, and I registered our team name, “The Capricious Couchsurfers,” and after losing the first game but winning the second, we were thinking we had a shot at the trophies—a giant Styrofoam ear of corn spray-painted gold, and two smaller ears of corn, one painted silver, the other bronze. We had our asses handed to us the third game. The team we played, “The Christ-punchers,” shut us down in a matter of minutes. That was pretty much the end of our evening.

Two Devils Went Down to Georgia

2008-11-06T09:29:00.000-08:00

We are always looking for souls to steal, and it seems we might have found one. A girl contacted skip via Couchsurfing and asked him if she could join him on his walk across the country. We don’t know much about her other than her name, C. (for now), and that she is 20 years old and from Westport, Connecticut. I’m not going to lie, I have more than a few reservations about the possibility of this addition, and they all stem from me being an elitist. However, for the sake of a good story, I’m willing to stay at the table while the dice roll a little longer.

I realize it has been a week or more since my last entry. The world has changed considerably since then, not just for me, for everyone. I woke up yesterday feeling inspired again. My vote—okay, I never got my absentee ballot in, but my state was way blue. If I had been in a swing state, I would have worked harder to get that paperwork in; nonetheless, my candidate one. But my vote, like so many others, was based on wanting a change. I’ve been keeping in my pocket the paper tab of a Celestial Seasons teabag for some time now; on it reads one of Gandhi’s most famous quotes, “Be the change you wish to see in the world.” I’m cautiously optimistic about the future of the United States now. I don’t believe that now that we have elected a black President for the first time in … forever, it necessarily follows that butterflies with erupt from lotuses and puppies will dance on rainbows all across the U.S., as I’ve heard in the rhetoric of so many people these past two days. Am I happy that Barack Obama is our president-elect? I am elated. That does not absolve the fact that the U.S. is still in a world of shit.

In my immediate family there are no clear politicians. We have some interesting dynamics—what family doesn’t? —but in mine politics and religion were never firmly discussed or practiced. (Side note: I, nor my sisters, never got “The Talk” from my parents either. The consequences of that decision could fill, if there had been such a public medium, another daily blog dating back to the mid-90’s or before.) My dad took us to the church with the better softball team, and when it came to politics, my father is a registered Republican, my mother a registered Democrat, and that’s all we knew of that. I was so grossly misinformed when I turned 18 that I originally registered as a Republican also, because it held a better aural ring. (I am now registered as an Independent. Shocker, I’m sure.) And, while I love discussing religion and my religious views, I am still not as informed as I probably should be about politics. Thanks to adamant and passionate professors in college, I feel I am more informed than the average voter, but I still don’t know how the Electoral College works.

* * * *

I was only a few miles into Georgia yesterday when I saw a cow with two tails. I drove another tenth of a mile before I realized, Holy shit! Did that cow just give birth? I hopped out of the car and sure enough, not 30 feet from me, a newborn calf lay, black and steaming, in the tall grass. It looked in my direction, sensing something, but its eyes were still too new to open under the sun. Still, it kept its face to me. I would like to believe that when it breathed, vapor rising from a wet nose, it breathed hope.

Animis opibusque parati

2008-10-29T15:13:00.000-07:00

We passed into South Carolina today. Unfortunately, between the three of us—Skip, Bee, and me—and the two lovely people we spent the night with, M. and C., we managed to oversee Skip’s computer charger sitting on the ottoman in the living room. Skip and I were in Gastonia when we realized this. So, after we shot our roll at the South Carolina border, I turned around and headed back to Charlotte.

The drive was pretty though, and I stopped frequently to take pictures of signs I found humorous, as well as the sight of a goat tied up in the front lawn of a trailer. I took a photograph, but it might have well been one of the infamous Bigfoot photographs of yore, with a blurry and disputable subject. (Side note: I read in a book recently that, based on my birthday and year and phase of moon and all that jazz, my power animal is supposed to be a Sasquatch. I don’t know why, but I kind of like this, maybe even enough to get a tattoo of it.)

It doesn’t take long for South Carolina to distinguish itself from its northern counterpart. I laughed when I saw the Piggly Wiggly in Blacksburg. I craved peaches at the first stand I passed, and lit up like a roman candle at the first fireworks stand I drove by—come to think of it, it might have been the same stand. I considered all this while relishing the fried bologna sandwich I had for dinner when I finally met up with Skip.

I arranged for Skip and I to spend the night next to the Valley fire station in East Gaffney. (A big thank you to Craig who stayed outside and chatted with me in the chilly October evening, inviting Skip and I to come over to his house and shoot guns the next morning if we felt like it, and to Chief Happy who gave us the permission to camp there in the first place.) Skip arrived around 10 and I was wrapped up like a mummy within the hour, with only the hair on my chinny-chin-chin protruding from my sleeping bag.

Charlotte Harlots

2008-10-26T10:53:00.000-07:00

BJ and his friend, Skip, Bee, and I stood out in front of the downtown public library of Charlotte on Saturday from 10-1, greeting people and networking. Thanks to a short piece written in The Charlotte Observer, people came to sign BJ's book and to meet both him and Skip. We interviewed a few people for our documentary, and even managed to collect some minor donations. Skip and BJ interviewed each other for our mutual projects, and when that was all over we did some fun filming for our documentary. I know that it would have kept me in college another five years but, sitting on the ground filming, I wish I had gone to film school. There was one summer I tried to convince my mother to send me to a summer program at NYU film, but it was expensive and she had already contributed to many of my earlier endeavors by posting bail money. I had thoughts and images exploding like fireworks in my head about how I wanted scenes to look, shots I wanted to shoot, sequences I wanted to film, etc., but without the direction, discipline, and experience for which film school would have provided a foundation. Skip had a very clear idea of how he wanted things shot; his experience comes from having viewed more movies than anyone I have previously met. This was one of the more difficult hours in my week, and it reestablished for me that I am performing in a capacity, as a cameraman and documentary filmmaker, in which I have neither formal nor informal prior experience. It is not my preferred method to learn--like learning Spanish by being kidnapped in Bolivia--but I'm learning at an exceeding rate, and I hope this is reflected in the shorts that will be posted from time to time of our experiences. I did have a chance to talk shop with a fellow freelance photog who arrived from Channel 14 news to film us and our endeavors to meet and greet the Charlotte public.

Bee and I left with Lindsay, our host from Couchsurfing who came to hang out with us for a while downtown, to fetch lunch at Burger King for Skip. On our way back through a plaza, we passed a legitimate pimp yelling at one of his girls. The passing comment we heard was something like, "Y'need to work during the week too, not jus' on the weekends!"

After all of the filming was wrapped up, BJ, Skip, Bee, and I went down to a pizza place to get an early dinner and watch the news, hoping to see a clip of us all on Channel 14. During our two hour stay, hordes of people in costumes kept walking by on the opposite side of the street, ostensibly on a Halloween pub crawl. From the looks of it, it was a well-organized event, and the collective costuming was impressive. The pervasive impression--I'm not complaining--left on me, and I have witnessed this tradition developing over the last few years, is that Halloween is becoming more and more a spectacle for women to parade around in scantilly clad costumes, as if it were an excusable novelty to dress as a seductive French maid or superhero strumpet, to later dismiss on a holiday whose tradition has been progressing more and more toward this result. I think my real issue with this is the general observances of holidays. Those who know me best know that I have issues with holidays, but that I generally appreciate and uphold traditions I believe in. Halloween was always a bigger holiday in my home growing up because it was also my sister's birthday. But, the older I get and the more time I passes, I am realizing how things change and how I'm not always comfortable with those changes. Still, the Alice's-in-Wonderland held my attention until I realized I was only sucking air out of my fountain soda.

Hooters & a BJ

2008-10-26T10:06:00.000-07:00

Skip and I worked most of Friday uploading video (check out our "DC Relections") and writing from Java Jackson's, across from UNC Charlotte. While there, one of my closest friends, Bee, drove up from her home in Greenville, SC, to meet us. Bee has been working pro bono for PFEE since I briefed her on this adventure weeks ago. Thanks to her, we have media in Greenville locked down.

Skip and I are keeping a running list of things that we would like to do on this trip (will be posting in the near future). While something like "Witness a bris" is on my list, one of the things on his list was "Go to Hooters;" you know, for the burgers. This is also the venue we chose to finally meet up with BJ Hill [Skip's note: The Happiest Place on Earth], who is also walking across the U.S. with a book of messages he intends to pass on to our next president. Bee and I know BJ from our AmeriCorps *NCCC days. (Read earlier blog entry.) There was a little reminiscing of that time by the three of us, but the dinner was monopolized mainly by Skip and BJ smelling each other out.

During the conversational butt-sniffing, I had to retreat to the bathroom. It seems that my body has not quite readjusted to eating meat again, especially meat marinated in Hooters hot sauce. Remember that scene in The Goonies, when that whats-his-name jerk is sitting in the public restroom when all of the public water facilities in the town decided to explode all at once? Well, it was kind of like that.

A Day in the Life of a PFEE Pilgrim

2008-10-24T07:28:00.000-07:00

7:o1 am - First car pulls into the parking lot of the furniture warehouse where, in the front lawn, I decided to set up camp the night before. Skip thinks that I like to set up camp in conspicuous places because it forces him to get up early. I peer out from the tent see the guy eyeing me; I know I have about 45 minutes until the sheriff pulls up. have a precognitive ability for these things. Sure enough, 45 minutes later, almost to the exact minute, the sheriff pulls into the parking lot and up next to my car, where I wait for him.

7:45am:

I greet him first. “Good morning.”
“Is this y’all’s stuff right here?” pointing to the tent and my car.
“Yes, sir. It’s not a problem is it?”
“Yessuh. This here’s private property. There’s a public park jus’ down the road.”

The rest of the conversation is pretty much the same. It turns out that the warehouse has been robbed a few times and the people there get “might prickly” seeing stangers about. I tell him we will be moving along, and then ask him to apologize for us for getting the employees “prickly.” Once the sheriff explains who we are to the person who phoned him, the gentleman doesn't mind at all if we stay. He even tells us we can leave the tent there to dry off if we like, while we go into town to have breakfast. I think this is might charitable of him.

10:30 I stand in the middle of a cotton field with the camera waiting for Skip to walk by so that I can get my shot.

10:50 Skip walks by.

10:53 I make my way out of the cotton field, camera in one hand high in the air, coffee in the other hand higher than the camera. Cotton pods are sticking to my pants as if they are telling the fibers in them to come back home.

11:30 I write a story about my experiences in the south from an old-fashioned drug store that still serves malts and ice cream in the back. “Rich is getting lost in what you do,” is written on a piece of art in the back of the store.

12:30 I meet Skip for lunch at a Hardee's along the road he is walking on today. As usual, we talk about the plan for the day.

12:50:03 Skip whines about walking.

12:50:27 I refer to Skip as "Nancy" and tell her that I can get a tampon from the car if she needs it.

1:30 I get back in the car and head for Charlotte.

2:12 The road where I am supposed to make a left does not exist.

3:37 After driving around in every possible direction, I pick up the trail again and find my way to the condo where we are staying this evening.

4:18 Even though I am at the right address (I think), I can't seem to find the building number. I decide to find a coffeeshop to work from.

4:29 I set up at a coffeeshop.

4:31 I get a phone call from a reporter at The Charlotte Observer. I take the phone call outside, give him the information, and direct him to Skip.

4:35 For the next twenty minutes I call 8 radio stations and 1 television station. Meanwhile, Skip is doing his interview for the Observer on the road.

4:45 I text Skip and give him the number to call for the radio station that has agreed to put him live on the air, but only within the next hour.

4:51 Skip calls me and tells me he was just on the air and that the Observer is going to post a story online tonight, as well as post a printing tomorrow morning. He tells me, "good job."

5:39 I show up at the address where we are staying for the night and knock on the door. The kids inside tell me that Lindsay doesn't live there anymore.

5:42 I sit down on the curb beside my car and text Skip. I have a bag of mixed nuts at my feet.

7:00 Skip arrives in the condominium complex; I have half a bag of mixed nuts at my feet.

7:17 We figure out that we are in the right complex, but in front of the wrong building.

7:24 We meet our host.

8:01 We have dinner.

9:09 We have both showered.

9:41 Skip is faced down on the couch; I am snoring on the floor.

I'm Going to Eat Your Brains

2008-10-22T13:28:00.000-07:00

The best thing about deciding not to be a vegetarian for a while is not caring what is on a menu and whether or not you can eat it. Last night was one of those nights where Skip and I didn't even want to look at the menu. It wasn't that late at night, but both of us were tired and we were sitting in a 24-hour diner with a big menu. I was going to tell the waitress to surprise me, but Skip didn't think that was a good idea. I have a way of putting people off sometimes apparently. I didn't expect to see anything new, but my eyes did find one little gem: brains and eggs. Done.

My mother talks stories of my Baba eating scrambled calf brains and cows tongues and the like, and yesterday was the night before her birthday, so in a weird weary way I decided that eating brains wouldn't just be a good experience for me, but it would make her proud too. I was served a big plate of brains and eggs, and a healthy mound of grits. I washed it down with three large glasses of orange juice. An hour or so later, my belly was full and I fell fast asleep in my tent, on the lawn of a Baptist church, by the highway.

Highlights from Chapel Hill

2008-10-21T11:09:00.000-07:00

Thursday, October 16, 2008:

Skip and I finally figured out how to edit some video and he posted it to multiple sites, such as YouTube, Myspace, Facebook, and others. That fine camera work (OK, the first footage going up the Washington Monument is a little rough, I admit, but it was my first day behind the camera) is by yours truly.

Friday, October 17, 2008:

I am taking a break from being a vegetarian for the next few months for the following reasons ( feel free to debate their validity):

1. Skip takes care of the meals and we have completely different tastes. It's more practical to eat where he is eating rather than trying to find a place where they serve vegetarian fare.
2. I could always cook or prepare my food, but there is not enough time in the day.
3. It's The South, where most rural cuisine consists of cow, pig, chicken, deer, opossum, rabbit, squirrel, or groundhog meat.
4. I will be in Europe soon and I know that if I set foot on German soil I will be enjoying weiswurst within that same hour.

I made this decision at Biscuitville, outside of Chapel Hill, where I sat down to the fried pork biscuit covered in gravy (the gravy was extra). When we fall, we fall hard; go big or go home.

still Friday, October 17, 2008:

I heard someone somewhere say that luck is just probability taken personally. But even as a mathematician, Skip wonders WTF? As the more spiritual of the two travelers, I believe destiny has come in play. Let me explain:

A few days before, I received a phone call from Bee that there was another walker passing through South Carolina, and he was going to be in a public place for a few hours signing his book. When she casually mentioned that his name was BJ Hill, my ears perked. I asked her, "Weren't we in AmeriCorps with a 'BJ Hill'?" She stopped a moment and said, "No; do you think?" Readers, it is the very same BJ Hill that Bee and I were both in the AmeriCorps program with years ago. Bj is walking from California to Boston (the exact same opposite direction as Skip) with a book that people from all over the nation are signing with messages to our next president. With a little research, we found out that BJ and Skip are going to be in Charlotte at the same time. Now, the probability of two walkers, whom I both know, being in the same city, at the same time, is weird enough, but there are other coincidences that cause one to wonder about the metaphysical fabric of this human experience. For one, both Skip and BJ taught TEFL and ESL courses. OK, not that weird. But, they also seem to have a preoccupation (in Skip's case read: obsession) with Superman. It makes me want to read more Jung and his thoughts on the collective consciousness.

Saturday, October 18, 2008:

Skip and I saw W. this day. As a movie, I would say it was alright--2 1/2 stars out of 4. As a biopic, especially as an Oliver Stone film, I have to take it with a grain of salt. I almost had some sympathy for W., brilliantly portrayed by Josh Brolin. The most unsettling factors for me in the film were W.'s faith--someone who believes he has almost a divine right to be President of the United States--and the portrayal of W.'s administrative cabinet. Richard Dreyfuss's Cheney is haunting, but Rice's portrayal is almost comical, more an impersonation than a portrayal. I would recommend it as a rental or a place in the top 60 of your Netflix queue.

Later in the evening Skip and I went into Raleigh for a Couchsurfing meet & greet. It was fun; there were about seven of us around a table at an Irish pub-type place, talking about CSing and Skip's trip. The highlight of the evening for me was looking across the street where models stood in the window of a vintage shop, modeling hipster bridesmaid dresses. They reminded me of the last scene of Secretary, when Maggie Gyllenhaal is wearing her black dress and is getting some post-nuptial consummating while bound to a tree. Hot.

Sunday, October 19, 2008:

Skip and I met up with a friend at the Weaver St. Market in Carrboro, NC, for brunch. It was a beautiful fall day and we spent hours there chatting and listening to the Latin music performers.

Later in the afternoon, I met up with another of my friends from AmeriCorps, Andeliene, at the Open Eye Cafe. We sat and chatted and went back and forth between work until we were hungry and went to grab a bite to eat at The Spotted Dog, where even Skip tried the vegan "chicken" wings (he didn't care for them). We then went over to The Southern Rail to finish some work and have some libations before each of us went out separate ways. My way was with Scottie, another friend from here, whom I roamed the streets of Carrboro and Chapel Hill with until past 2 in the morning.

Monday, October 20, 2008:

Skip and I were supposed to get back on the road, but it didn't happen. Instead, we met again for brunch at the Weaver St. Market, and then went back over to the Open Eye cafe to try and get some work done for Charlotte later in the week.

In the evening I went to a meeting, where I met another documentary filmmaker who recently won some recognition at Cannes. She gave me a copy of her film, we traded info., and then I went out with some people for a few slices of pizza at a local place. When I came out of the pizzeria, my car was on the bed of a tow truck. In order for me not to have it towed and pay the entire cost of towing, I bribed the driver to let it down, drive away, and forget about the whole thing.

Bohemian Ravine

2008-10-20T13:44:00.000-07:00

Events from Wednesday, October 15, 2008:

When I caught up with Skip this day, I pulled off the road onto the nicest patch of grass I could find, so that we could have lunch under the trees. What I failed to realize in doing this was that the patch of grass I had chosen happened to be in front of a federal prison. It was not long before security came out to us and asked us what it was we were doing. I had learned by this point in the trip that it is just better if Skip speak with the authorities, instead of me.

On the road to Chapel Hill I passed a “Waterfowl Impoundment.” Really? Is this somewhere personal waterfowl is taken if people fail to make payments on them, or is this a place stray waterfowl is taken in the hopes that they are adopted by families interested in owning them as pets? I suppose I could Google the answer to that query, but it’s more fun for me to wonder.

It’s nice to be able to come back to Chapel Hill. I knew I loved this place the first time I came here, a decade ago when I traveled with the Harford Community College field hockey team, the Hooters, to play in the UNC tournament. There are only good memories for me here; every time I return I realize just how much I love it all over again.

For the duration of this stay, Skip and I crashed with one of Skip’s oldest friends, P., and P’s girlfriend, S. As soon as I walked up to their door I knew that it was going to be comfortable week. The sign, “Hippies Use Side Door,” was posted in the window of the front door, so I walked around and met P on the side. We chatted for a while, with P telling me that I was in what is affectionately referred to by the court as "Bohemian Ravine," before I let him return to his Ph.D. dissertation work. It wasn’t long before I was at the Open Eye Café in Carrboro catching up on writing of my own. Later that evening all four of us went down to the Southern Rail for the final presidential debate and the Season Finale of Project Runway.

What Do You Want on Your Tombstone?

2008-10-20T11:17:00.001-07:00

Events from Tuesday, October 14, 2008:

After a hot shower and a decent night’s sleep, I was pissing fire, ready to get some work done. The first two phone calls Skip wanted me to make were done before I left the hotel. The third item on my agenda was to contact the local newspaper in Henderson, NC, the Daily Dispatch. Before I did this though, I went to Bank of America to deposit a check; there, a nice southern woman gave me the name of a contact at the Daily Dispatch: A.W. She told me the Dispatch was right down the street, next across from the new library. I walked into the Dispatch and asked personally for A.W. When he came around the corner I knew I had found a southern reporter. He embodied everything I expected of a regional journalist—short sleeve button-up shirt (mis-buttoned), khaki pants, tennis shoes, holding a steno notepad. I introduced myself and launched into my spiel while he scribbled notes in longhand.

When I told him that I never know the exact location Skip is in, he acted as if driving out to find him on the outskirts of town was going to be too much of a hassle. I asked him, “Isn’t that the adventure of journalism?” He looked at me wearily and said, “Sometimes,” to which I replied, “Well then, do it for the story.” He went around the corner and when he came back he told me that he was going to send a photographer out there—we were going to have a story!

A.W. and I decided to take his car out to meet Skip to get the rest of the story. His car was a reporter’s car, Chick-Fil-A and Wendy’s refuse on the passenger floor. He attempted to dismiss this away with the comment, “I guess the maid forgot to come this morning.” We took the long way through town and out the other side in order to find Skip, all the while shooting the s- about the months ahead and my “Sabbatical” in Europe. We finally found Skip, stood in the middle of the road for the interview, and left Skip after an hour. When we got back to the Dispatch, A.W. told me he would mail a copy of the paper back to my permanent address in Grace.

The remainder of the day was fairly uneventful. I drove ahead to Stem, NC, and set up camp in a field with the sun setting over the trees behind me and a Hunter’s Moon rising up over the pine trees across the other side of the field. Right in front of the trees, deer were out for their evening meal.

When I drove back to meet Skip, I found him in front of a convenience store gas station, where a sheriff was getting out of the car. I don’t know why I, of all people, thought I could help, but I sped up and hopped out of the car. It turns out that someone in Providence, NC, saw Skip walking down the road pushing a twin stroller and whoever called thought that this constituted a threat to the county. Of course, with a sheriff and two drifters in front of the cultural hub of the town, everyone came out of their singlewides to find out what was going on. One of the fellars told us that this was the biggest thing to happen there in a month. I asked, “What happened last month?”

The sheriff got some information from Skip, and drove away, leaving us out front with the philosophers of Providence. The leader of the bunch, “Plato Lee,” invited us back to his home, where he promised Skip and I a “southern meal” and told us “he would take care of us.” We shot some pretty hilarious footage outside during the BS session, which conversations that sounded like:

Plato (to me): I can tell, lookin’ at you, that you are not a dumbass.
Me: Well, thank you very much. Would you mind calling my father to tell
him?

Skinny philosopher (to Skip): I had a guy jus’ up the street pull a gun on
me a week ago, jus’ ‘cause I drive a Chevy.
Me: Oh yeah, how do they feel about Volkswagens?

After a while we walked next door to Plato’s abode. The southern meal laid out on the coffee table in front of the television: a Tombstone pizza and two glasses of moonshine. I, unfortunately, had to pass on the moonshine. When I declined the shine, you would have thought that I had accused Dale Earnhardt of being gay. I told Plato that Skip would have mine, but I continued to get strange looks the rest of the evening. The rest of this story is too long and too rich for a blog entry; please expect a fuller story of this evening to appear in a periodical sometime in the future. (I would like to make a note now though, that in the 400+ miles I have traveled with Skip, and in Skip’s 800+ miles, these were the first people to meet us and immediately invite us into their home for dinner. They were good people with strong convictions and loyalty to family, and they truly embodied the spirit of southern hospitality. For the meal and the comfortable hours spent there, I am grateful.)

The short of the story, though, is that there was some mooning caught on camera, shortly before I left to go back to the tent. Skip agreed to spend the night in their guest bedroom, where he laid awake listening to Plato and his wife fighting, and occasionally heard muffled yells with keywords such as “gun” and “… I’m going to kill him.” Skip related to me later that he didn’t know who these words were intended for, him or me, but either way we had with our presence disrupted a delicate balance between moonshine and domestic harmony. After digesting a frozen pizza and all the racist political rhetoric I could stomach, I went back to the campsite. As this was the first night I would be spending alone in the tent, I decided it prudent to pull my machete from next to the driver’s seat where it is normally kept, and sleep beside it that night.

A Day Without Skip

2008-10-19T15:26:00.000-07:00

Events from Monday, October 13th, 2008:

Skip gave me both his computer and his phone to charge for the day, which meant that we would be out of nearly complete communication for a few hours. We previously discussed this scenario and it was decided that if we should lose communication the alternative would be to construct cairns along the road for each other.

I spent the majority of the day in Henderson, NC, in a delightful little coffeeshop called Common Grounds. While Skip’s phone charged in my car, I sat inside with his computer, which took nearly 4 ½ hours to charge. (Side note: Skip does not like it when you reconfigure the settings on his desktop.) I calculated the directions from where I was to where I approximated Skip would be by that point in the day. When I left Common Grounds, it was 6:40pm, sunset, with about half an hour before twilight. Three of the four directions to the contact point with Skip were right on track; unfortunately, it was the last direction that cost me. In North Carolina, it seems, roads have at least three different names, and there doesn’t seem to be any pattern to the criteria that decides when a road will be one name and when it will change. What that meant for me, in this case, was that I was looking for Lee St., which was going to take me to Jacksontown St., which is where I figured Skip would be; I didn’t realize that Lee and Jacksontown were the same street until hours later.

I then figured my best course of action would be to drive back over the border to Virginia where I had last seen Skip, and then trace his route to wherever he was, hoping to find cairns along the way. This was a good plan, but looking for roads and cairns is difficult to do at night, especially when you are driving 60+ miles an hour attempt to make up for lost time. I did finally see Cherry (Skip’s Chariot Carrier) by the side of the road, and when I saw Skip he did not look happy. He put up his arms in the “What the f-?” fashion. It was a good thing I anticipated this, because I handed him his dinner of chicken and Gatorade before I began to explain myself.

* * * * * *

I was able to redeem myself. Skip asked me to do one more thing before I looked to make camp somewhere: drive into Henderson and ask the Scottish Inn if they would be willing to comp a room for us for the night, in exchange for credits in the documentary, should it go that far. Having learned from a cowboy playboy years before, “The answer’s always ‘No’ if you don’t ask,” I agreed and drove into town. With the camera out and business card in hand, I walked into the Scottish Inns … and walked out a minute later, having been shot down. I phoned Skip and told him that I would try one more hotel before driving back; I tried three; the third hotel, the Ambassador Inn & Suites, said “yes.” I felt like the man. In Vegas, rooms get comped all the time, no big deal, but in Henderson, NC? I was riding high on the thought that I had redeemed myself from earlier in the day, and the realization that we were going to have a hot shower and comfy place to stay for the night.

Warning Signs

2008-10-19T14:53:00.001-07:00

These next few blog entries will hopefully be shrapnel-writings—quick recaps from Blackstone, Virginia, to Carrboro, North Carolina:

Events from Sunday, October 12, 2008:

After breaking down the tent and passing Skip on the road to Wellville, I drove to the nearest and only place to find coffee in southern Virginia on a Sunday: McDonald’s. After fueling, I followed the directions to meet up with Skip, on his first dirt road of the trip, along a train track. It was a beautiful morning, warm, and the rays were just coming up over the trees, so I drove ahead to set up the camera and shoot some b-roll. The dirt roads didn’t bother me a whole lot; they reminded me of the logging roads in Nova Scotia Rough-Stuff Wilson and I joyrided on in our summer of misadventure up in the eastern province.

Shortly thereafter, Skip and I came to a series of crossroads, all of which were unmarked. I checked my map and saw that we had entered into Fort Pickett. We checked the navigation on his phone and backtracked a little, but we found the “road” easily enough. I drove on ahead—we were only supposed to be on it for a mile, so if it wasn’t the road I could easily turn around and let Skip know. Little did I know, nothing about the next hours were going to be easy.

The dirt road quickly degraded into #57 stone, manufactured crushed granite I was familiar with from my days as a geologist. 57 stone is great for military vehicles, like tanks, but do not bode so well for Volkswagon Golfs. I got about halfway down the hill, listening to the grinding and crunching of my car and the stone clanging around underneath, before I stopped and pulled over. I hopped out of the car and continued walking down the path to see if I could get a better idea of the terrain ahead on foot. I rounded a bend and saw a creek, about 8-10 inches deep and 20 feet wide. On the other side of this creek, there was a steep incline, laid down with #2 stone, a grade larger and rougher than 57. I waited for Skip to catch up with me, and then filmed him fording the creek, barefoot. I walked with him the rest of the mile up hill, to see if the road improved, and it did. I decided I would go back and force Bluto (Mr. Blutarsky, my car) quickly through the river and up the embankment up to where the grade of stone got smaller and smaller, until it finally became a dirt road again.

I hoofed back to the car, got in, rubbed the dashboard, said a little prayer, and apologized to Bluto. I waded down into the creek, but coming up on the other side my car began dislodging the stone and I felt my front end dropping. I quickly put it in reverse and stopped, right in the middle of the creek. For about three seconds I panicked with the thought of getting stuck there, in the water, in the middle of nowhere. I took a deep breath and gunned it forward; the discordant grinding worsened underneath—this wasn’t going to happen. I shifted quickly into reverse—thankfully Golfs are front wheel drive—and was able to make it up to the side of the creek I had been on before; I was going to have to find another way around.

I made it back to the crossroads and starting driving down a road, the wheel in one hand and a compass in the other. I was watching the road, watching the compass, when I came up to a “Do Not Enter” sign that someone had spray-painted over with black paint the phrases, “KILL,” and “GO BACK.” Of course, I grabbed the video camera and rolled tape. While I was doing this, a pickup truck drove up with two men inside. The driver asked me what I was doing, and I told him I was trying to make it to Route 40. He told me to keep on driving but get off of the property quickly, because the Marines were having a drill weekend. That was all the motivation I needed. I kept driving and, sure enough, before I got to Route 40, I passed an encampment of a squadron of Marines, hummers, huge-barreled launchers aimed at the sky… I knew that they wouldn’t have let me filmed but, looking back, instead of continuing to drive, I should have parked the car and hopped out, raked the muck a little. But, with all of the mishaps with the car, and the sign, my adrenaline was racing, and my flight response was dictating my actions. I have no doubt there would have been a better story in the middle of that camp.

Richmond to Blackstone - A Recap of Three Days on the Road, Pt. I

2008-10-13T11:38:00.000-07:00

There's something about being in the South that makes me want to neglect my work and instead sit on the front porch watching traffic, sipping iced coffee, and shooting the bull with the locals. But, if I neglect my work, I neglect you, dear Readers, and it has already been more than a few days since my last post.

***

Thursday, October 9, 2008 - Richmond, I Take It All Back

The only other times I have seen Richmond, VA, has been moving at highway speeds on my way either up or down 95. (There was one time I did get within city limits, for those that recall the famous phone call,"I'm three miles outside of Havre de Grace. ... I think I'm in Virginia!" from my younger and more vulnerable years. Therefore, I don't know what I expected Richmond to be: cigarettes and industry, maybe.

Richmond, I owe you and apology. At first, finding the apartment of our Couchsurfing host, Richmond looked exactly as I expected it would, like the outskirts of Baltimore. I felt this way until I pulled onto Monument St. and saw a monument--promising. By the time I had pulled in front of the apartment and walked in to the three-hundred year old house, my opinion was 85% changed. It was charming. To top it all off, our host, B., was baking cookies for Skip and me.

Later that night, our host and her roommate K. took Skip and me down to "The Fan," where we spent several hours at a hipster bar called Helen's. It was then that I realized I owed Richmond a full apology.

***

Friday, October 10, 2008 - Next Thing You Know, Shorty Got Midlo, Lo, Lo, Lo...

It was a surprise to my old rugby coach and good friend, Little Joe, when I showed up at his house a second night in a row---this time to tell him that his beautiful wife, Sara (superhottie), had invited Skip and I to couchsurf their home for the night. Joe and Sara have two beautiful little angels (they take after their mother), M. and A., who are four and two, respectively. (I will tell you: if I wasn't on this journey, and I wasn't committed to graduate school, I would have liked to stay on as M. and A. manny.) They are the first little ones I have had a chance to spend any amount of time with since Camp, and I really needed a dose of their innocence, imagination, and energy at that point in the trip.

After reading M. a story before she went to bed, Skip, Sara, and I stayed up to watch My White Trash Wedding on CMT. Both Skip and I consider that hour and a half time well spent, "research," if you will, for our sojourn into the South.

***

Saturday, October 11, 2008 - The Road to Wellville

Most of Saturday was spent as a quiet traveling day that afforded me the opportunities to read in my car, and later in front of a general store name Sydnor's, in Mannboro, Virginia, where the help behind the counter resembled a young James Dean: clean shaven, spiked hair, sleeves rolled, collar up, blue jeans, boots. He had the accent and all the manners of a polite southerner, and allowed me to read my book in his rocking chair outside the store, for which I am grateful.

Skip finally caught up to me sometime in the evening, and we dined outside of the store on pizza, pickled eggs, and taters. He wanted to push on a few more miles, so I told him that I would drive ahead and set up camp for the evening. Several miles down the road I found a small, white Baptist church. After walking around the perimeter for a bit, listening to hound dogs and gun fire in the not-so-far off distance, I found a dirt access road partially obscured from the paved road, right next to the church, and I figured it would suffice for the evening. I backed my car in and set to work--I was losing daylight--on making a fire. In the woods I found a rusted out mailbox, the unfortunate victim of mailbox baseball, that served as my fire pit for the evening. I lined the mailbox with a cinderblock I had broken over a rock, and set to work on making the fire. With the help of a cardboard box from the car, I started the fire relatively easily. Once the fire was going on its own, I laid down my tarp, content to sleep under the stars for the evening.

I was dozing off to sleep when a pickup truck pulled into the access drive. Although my car was between me and the truck, one of the headlights was at just the right angle to catch me as I was sitting up. I realized that I had no protection: no shotgun, no buck knife, nothing. If worse came to worse, they were going to have to face Jack Johnson and Tom O'Leary (holds up fisticuffs). The guy in the passenger seat hops out holding a beer can. I ask him if everything is alright, shielding my eyes from the headlights. After he asks me what I was doing, and I threw out the "non-profit charity worker" line, he tells me that it's alright if I stay there the night, just not to let the fire get out of hand, because he had 50 acres behind me. Fair enough. I wished them both a good evening and watched them reverse back out onto the road. They drove away, and I went to change my pants.

That "Drifter" Look, Pt. II

2008-10-10T13:26:00.000-07:00

If we had been doing this the old-fashioned way, finding nightly lodgings would be a lot easier. Breeze into a college town, find a bar, and have some young coeds take us home for the evening. While that is a possibility for Skip, it is not an option for me. (I’m hideous.)

After a late dinner at a truck stop Perkins, I told Skip that I would drive ahead but not more than 14 miles. We had looked at satellite imaging of the area, and there was a spot 10 miles from where we were. I told him that I would drive ahead, scout out his short lane off of the highway, and if it was good enough I would make camp. He could then crawl in and pass out in a few hours.

I drove down the road, but finding this lane on the opposite side of the road, at night polluted by industrial park flood lamps, was more difficult than I had anticipated. I drove at least 20 miles under the speed limit, then I sped up; I made at least 12 u-turns within a 4-mile radius; I made turns onto lanes and gravel roads, but then promptly turned around realizing: a) they were too sketchy, or b) … no, sketchiness was pretty much the only factor. (The one time I had found something promising, I passed a hulking figure on the side of the road. I didn’t see his face, and I didn’t want to see his flash of blade in the pale moonlight.) After driving through a ploughed field, I rounded an abandoned semi and found myself staring into the headlights of a county sheriff. Shit.

I signaled with my headlights that I would be driving up next to him. When I put down my window, he asked, “So, what are you doing?” I pulled the non-profit charity card and told him that I was just looking for a vacant lot to bed for the night. He told me there was nothing like that in the area, but if I wanted to go down to the light and head left I would find a truck stop in a few miles. I knew that I wasn’t going to do this and he probably saw it too because he said, “Follow me.”

“Are you taking me to the truck stop?” I asked.

He made that brief snort out of his nose that people do when they find something either really amusing or ridiculous; in this case, it was probably both. “Yeah,” he said, “follow me.”

The sheriff took me to a truck stop, where I hopped out of the car, nodded and waved, and then walked inside. I peered out of the window a few minutes later and he was still sitting there. I walked up and down a few isles, glanced briefly at the country music CDs they were selling, and then went back to the window. He was gone.

With that, I went back out to my car and decided to give it one last effort to try and find this lane. Otherwise, Skip was going to have to secure his own bedding for the night. I finally found the lane I had been looking for on my way back toward Ashland. The lane sign had been obscured by a tree, making it almost impossible to see coming from the other way. I drove down the lane slowly and pulled in front of a brick building that had a few cars parked outside. I walked around to the side and saw a grassy area that would work for the night--it was a clearing, but I figured if I set up the tent in a corner by the trees it would be fairly inconspicuous. I set up the tent (a Carolina blue hue) and walked around the woods, gathering ferns and branches to cover it with. After about twenty minutes I took a step back. It wasn’t bad; anyone giving the clearing a cursory glance might look past it … at night … with no moon.

The night itself was fairly uneventful. Skip found the tent a little before 1am and I went back to sleep.

I awoke around 7:45am to the sounds of machinery typical of an industrial park. I stepped out of the tent to use the bathroom and stretch my legs, and afterwards I decided to walk 30 meters over to the building to see on whose lawn we had spent the night. I walked up to the front door: Virginia Department of Corrections: Parole and Probation Office, District 41. Holy shit.

They also opened at 8:15, which means that in about twenty minutes this place was going to be lively with southern officers of the law. For those of you who know the story about Memorial Day Weekend in Macon, Georgia, on the lake, you already know that me and southern law especially do not get along.

Of the many differences between Skip and I, he does not have a record. I managed to wake him up, drag him out, make him take pictures of the set-up (for posterity), and dismantle the rain fly before the first person showed up for work. When I heard the car pull in I popped my head up from behind the tent, a meerkat sensing trouble. I have a sniper’s sense about PO’s, and she was not one of them. She had come early to turn on the lights and make the coffee—I was not waiting around for those coffee drinkers. Ten minutes later, camp was broken down and I was driving away, leaving Skip holding his own pup tent and sleeping bag, breathing in my exhaust fumes and dust.

That "Drifter" Look, Pt. 1

2008-10-09T13:23:00.000-07:00

When I'm not filming Skip moseying down the road or scouting locations to shoot, I spend most of my days in coffeehouses, sending press releases to newspapers and member stations, trying to acquire sponsors, drafting interview questions, looking at schools in particular areas, writing, and trying to find places to sleep that particular night. All Skip has to do is walk.

Every now and then I also have things to take care of in my personal life. Yesterday, for example, I needed to have my picture taken for a passport renewal. I drove 30 miles ahead of Skip to Ashland, Virginia, and found a mecca of suburban sprawl along Rte. 1. In this oasis, I found a copy place (rhymes with "Pinko") that takes these pictures for passports, at minimal cost. Let me remind everyone: I am a gypsy; I live out of my car. That being said, I still try to make myself look as presentable as I can when greeting my public. I put on a green flannel shirt, with a hole or two, over my drab olive army t-shirt and buttoned it up. I ran my fingers through my greasy, curly locks and I walked in.

I could not have had a less affable employee. On top of that, he looked foreign. I smiled, asked him if I was in the right place, and without saying anything he grabbed a camera from under the desk and walked over to a wall behind me, where he pulled down a white projector screen and motioned for me to step in front of it. Now I'm thinking, Well, it is around lunch time, he might just be hungry. I'll crack a joke to make him laugh. So I say, "How do I look? I don't want to look like a terrorist," and I smile. He looks at me from behind the camera, and he looks pissed. I look down at his name tag: Hamid. Whoops.

Later, I thought I had found a place to stay the night on the outskirts of Ashland at a Pentecostal camp. I drove into the camp, past the sacrificial altar (I'm guessing, I know relatively little about their cult), and the mess hall, to the reception building. I nod to a gentleman reading a small black Bible on a bench outside and I walk in. I told the elderly receptionist, a gentleman who introduced himself as "Brother Ned," who I was, whom I represented, and that we were both hoping for lodging for the night. He looked over his spectacles and asked me if I was a Christian. I lied and said yes.
"And your friend, is he Christian as well?" he asked.
Again, I lied. If he had asked me to recite a prayer, I would have had no choice put to recite "Ezekiel 25:17" from Pulp Fiction. It was a good thing that the camp was too far out of the way for Skip, because I have a feeling they would have shaved our testicles in our sleep had we stayed.

When Egg Salad Sandwiches Go Bad

2008-10-08T07:46:00.000-07:00

About a year and a half ago, a former girlfriend's mother sent with her daughter a generous slice of German Chocolate Cake for me, in honor of my birthday, which is in the late Spring. As much as I love German Chocolate Cake, I'm not as much a fan of my birthday. For this reason, possibly, or for some underlying subconscious resistance, I let that slice of cake sit in my car for about a week, where temperatures consistently rose over 100 degrees. A week late, I was hungry, and decided that I would really like that slice of cake. At the time, it was gooey and chocolatey and delicious. the next morning, face the color of plastic, I called out of work.

The egg salad sandwiches I ate yesterday, delicious as they were at the time, should have been eaten sooner. It didn't really hit me until I was running around with the Rappahanock Rugby Club at practice. During a mauling drill, I came out from the melee holding my stomach, not quite sure if I had mistakenly been punched in the balls, or I needed to grab a tree in the woods. It turned out to be the latter.

The coach asked me if I was alright, but I was already sprinting to my car for the toilet paper I keep in my kit bag. I found a spot next to the river, dropped my rugby shorts, grabbed a tree limb, and blew mud all over the ivy underfoot. I stood there for a minute, panting and sweating, before composing myself enough to clean myself off and get back into the practice.

How Much Is That Banjo in the Window?

2008-10-07T13:35:00.000-07:00

While Maryland is south of the Mason-Dixon line, which qualifies it (technically) as a southern state, I believe most other Marylanders would agree with me in referring to home as a "neutral, mid-Atlantic" state. Virgina, however, is the South.

I've preceded Skip by several hours, and now sit in Hyperion Espresso, enjoying a capuccino, free wireless internet, and the coeds breezing in from the neighboring university, Mary Washington, which was once predominantly a women's college. Fredericksburg is a southern town. On the main street alone they have an Old Virginian Tobacco Shop, an Apothecary Publick House, and a music store with "Pickin'" in the title and a tenor banjo in the front window. After a breif walk through this quaint little Civil War town and a quick stop in the local newspaper to do some press work for Skip, I found my way here, where I can finally sit down and capture the last few days.

***
Sunday, October 5, 2008

Skip and I couchsurfed a writer's couch in DC. (We inadvertently played Footsie for two nights, as the couches were "L" shaped.) Her name is Jodi Lynn Anderson, and she is quite unassuming, unlike most writers I've met, given the number of books she's had published. I'll tell you, the day I get anything published, you will know. I will have telegraphers, yes telegraphers, exercising their pretty little fingers from coast to coast of this nation, keeping the wires buzzing with news of my magnum opus. Jodi, on the other hand, quietly shared with me a few of her novels; I told her a day later that I would try to push some for her. (You can also find more titles on Amazon.)

After loading the car during the magic hour, I gave my sleeping mat to a bum named Wade and headed for Virginia. Skip managed to secure two nights in the Watergate Condominiums in Alexandria, where we stayed with one of his friends from his Prague years, A., and her grandmother, J. (It is to be assumed that at least 92% of the residents of these condos are over the age of 70.) After a delicious pasta meal, A. took Skip and I down to relax in the hot tub. Swanky! Skip spoke a little Czech to a big, tan, lanky Czech, while I nodded and said, "Praha," the only Czech word I know. (I read it on a map about a month ago.) I took a few laps in the pool and then we all retired fairly early--Monday was a such a big day! (That one was for you, Jess and Sean.)

***
Monday, October 6, 2008

We hopped on the metro and hit the streets, though not as early as we would've liked, bound for National Geographic on 17th first. With a backpack and the video camera, I felt like a pack mule. If I learn anything on this trip, maybe I will learn to pack less. But probably not.

I was pretty stoked walking into National Geographic, until I realized that we were not getting past the front desk. When we left we were up one email address. A block away we entered the National Education Association, where at least we got to speak with a PR person and tell her a little bit about PFEE. She explained to us that most of the people we would need to talk to were in Nashville, working closely in and among the hubbub of the presidential race. When we left, we at least had made a contact. We next went down to NPR, and I really started to get excited ... until I realized that we were not getting past the front desk. When we left NPR, we were up another email address. Our last stop was at the American Federation of Teachers, where I got to swap sass with the security guard who was too busy eating her yogurt to really care about who we were. (*Note: check back here in a few days for the complete exchange. If it's not printed it's because I figured it was humorous enough to turn into some creative NF writing.) When we left, we were up another contact, and I was sporting my new Obama '08 sticker.

The most exciting part of the day came when Skip and I had to do some guerrilla camera work in order to shoot part of the documentary in Arlington National Cemetery.

I was falling asleep on the metro ride back, I was so tired. Of course, the first thing I did when we got back to the condo was take a nap. A. and J. made two beautiful, succulent quiches for dinner. I had mentioned wanting to work out after dinner, but when the meal was over Skip and A. sat down to watch Breakfast at Tiffany's and eat ice cream. Now, those that no me are thinking, "Well, that's a no brainer," and it should've been, right? I surprised myself, and kept my plan to get a work-out in down in the weight room of the condo. I would have been able to sit up this morning if I had just stayed on the couch and watched the film, sucking down spoonfuls of Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough. As it was, I nearly threw up in the parking lot.

To make a long story short, I went down to the weight room and was about to get under the bench press machine when a huge Ecuadorian says to me in broken English, "We work out together, yes?" Now, I don't have a very strong filter when it comes to bad ideas, although by the middle of the second set I had by then well realized that this was a particularly bad one. I strained under the four increasing sets of bench presses, before the Ecuadorian told me I had had enough. He poked me in the chest and said, "First, we work on super you, then we work on middle you," poking me in the stomach, "and then we work on lower you." Anticipating another poke, I stepped back and said, "Yeah, OK." Previously in work outs, I have never done more than maybe 30 crunches. However, standing next to this South American poster man for Men's Health, Equatorial Edition, I grunted out 120 abdominal crunches, from resting on my elbows and kicking out, to laying on a bench and kicking up, to trying to tap my toes from a 30 degree decline position. This is the point where I starting forming "water mouth." I told Luiz I was going to get a drink of water, but instead I was splashing my face and saying, "No, no," into the water fountain. He tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Now, bee-ceps," tapping the rock he had buried under a thin skein of forearm. I did the curls, I tried to do some pull-ups, but in a relatively short time, I was in the parking lot, forearm on an antique Porsche, bent over and saying, "No, no," to the pavement below.

Dos Gringos

2008-10-04T18:47:00.001-07:00

Skip and I had breakfast at Dos Gringos in Columbia Heights this morning, where we sat down and formulated a plan, of sorts. Then we hit the streets. We got some b-roll shots of DC for the documentary, at the the White House, the Washington Memorial and the Lincoln Monument, as well as in front of the Capital Building. We were even able to interview a few people about next month's election and the issues most important to their vote. We also asked them how they felt about the state of education in the U.S. today--we might attach a short to Skip's site.

It's a good thing that Skip has hired me as his cameraman for this documentary, because after we spent an hour walking and riding the metro to get to the National Mall, we realized that we only had 2 minutes of tape left, and I had left the other tapes in Columbia Heights, along with the extra battery. The learning curve for documentary filmmaking is going to be pretty steep this first time around. (Side note: DC hates tripods.)

On top of that, finding people willing to stand in front of a camera and be interviewed is not easy. Three guys in black cowboy hats said they were "on a schedule" (a phrase I heard multiple times today). I'm convinced one elderly gentleman thought that I had a rabid skin disease because he would not even shake my hand. And the sorority of flag-footballers I handed out cards to never came up to get some camera time; it seems no one cares about education these days.

Here are a few things I am learning about Skip:

-He sings all the wrong words to "Come Together," all day long.
-He eats like a horse, if horses ate Burger King and not hay.
-His specialty in mathematics is in graph theory and combinatorics. (Wikipedia it; I had to.)

The District Does Not Sleep Alone Tonight

2008-10-03T20:20:00.000-07:00

75 miles from Grace.

I'm staying in a fifth floor apartment in the Columbia Heights section of DC, just a few blocks from the The Chalfonte in Argonne Place where, in years past, I spent many a blissful evening.

The title of the blog? Another time. My purpose now is to explain to you, my dear readers, exactly what it is I'm doing here.

I represent Skip Potts, founder of the non-profit organization People for Education Equality pfee.org (pee-fee) as of ... well, today. We met exactly a week ago when he showed up on my doorstep, wet and panting--the first couchsurfer I had ever hosted. Skip is walking across the U.S. to raise awareness and funds for educational equality, and while that is something I can get behind, I have my own reasons for being here. Oh, that's right, Skip asked me to join him on his journey roughly 36 hours after we first met. Roughly, I will be Skip's SAG wagon for the next couple of months, transporting some equipment and helping him to document his experience. To read about Skip's experience in his own words, click here.

It is late in our nation's capital. Tomorrow will be one month till our presidential elections, and we have a lot of work to do. How do you feel about the state of education in our country today?