Letter to a friend

(Letter to my good friend @GoFrankGo)

Frankly (Mr. Shankly!),

Sorry I missed your call on Sunday.  It’s been a rough weekend:

Friday night, I ate some takeout Chinese and washed it down with a Red Bull while watching “Venture Bros.”  As one does.  (Fuck, I have GOT to stop eating like I’m 20…) You’re right.  In fact, everyone who has ever recommended “Venture Bros.” to me was right about that show.

That night, I had dreams where I was dying of thirst even though I was drinking as much as physically possible – a sure sign that my body wasn’t happy with the choice I’d made.  (I have those dreams when I eat pepperoni or sausage on pizza, too.  Mmmm, sausage and mushrooms.… )  In these dreams, I’m drinking from the garden hose on full stream, or pounding gallon jugs of ice water straight from the fridge but nothing’s coming out.  Woke up the next morning and I was sore all over, like I was coming down with something.  Showered, went back to bed for a few hours.  Can’t nap too late, though…

Oddly enough, Katie Orlando was in town this weekend with her boyfriend to shoot the Cherry Blossom festival. My plan was to leave a few hours early to say hello (she being only the fourth TLC postboard persona I’d have met!), then head over to Dupont Circle to meet up with Cass (see also: Special Lady) for fancy salads, and then take in a Bach Concert at the Kennedy Center. Eventually: I got up, dragged on clean clothes (NOT feeling like doing any of the above now), packed my faithful bag, and headed for the bus stop.

Fucking tourists. Seems I can never get away from them. They swarmed me in Hilton Head, South Carolina; they clogged the streets of Juneau, Alaska; and now they fuck up my chi each Spring when the blossoms bloom in Disco Charlie.  They clog the Metro, make a mess of the escalators and generally get in the way.  As I get sicker, I grow… angrier.

Short story long, I missed out on seeing Katie but she lives in New York; no worries, we’ll have time to say hello later.  Waited for Cass for almost an hour before she shows up and tells me she was waiting at the other entrance to DuPont Circle – and, her new cellphone’s not working. Google phone can’t get a T-Mobile signal in D.C.?  Who’dve thought it?

We ate our fancy salads and relished every bit — no, wait.  I’m lying.  Because, oh yeah, the salads sucked.  Now, I’m a member of the clean plate club.  All the time.  That’s just how I roll.  And when I tell you my favorite fantasy is taking shelter in an empty hotel in the middle of hurricane season with nothing to do but write (and I’ve got the keys for the bar, the pool, and access to a generous supply of fresh fish, steamed veggies, fresh oranges and brown rice) well, you come to understand what sort of sick, salad-humping son of a bitch I really am.

So when I say I couldn’t finish this salad — well, let’s just not repeat that sentence.

Cass was still hungry (her salad sucked, too! A word to the wise: SweetGreen? SweetFail.  I mean… look at the menu! It’s vegetable PrØn!  How could they fuck it up!?)

…so we ducked into a Subway. She ate half a sub, stashed the rest in my bag. Offered me some, but at this point I couldn’t imagine ever eating again. (I had a feeling of perfect balance, and the following thought occured: “Never eat again!  Why not?  It’s like being a character in a Tom Robbins novel and deciding not to age anymore.”)

On to the Kennedy Center!

Wait!  Go back!  When Special Lady told me we were gonna catch a Bach mass for twenty bucks, I, in my present state of physical delusion, assumed that my attire of camouflage shorts, a clean polo shirt and my beat-to-shit hiking shoes were perfectly AOK for the occasion. What the hell do I know from the Kennedy Center? (What the hell do I know from a mass??) We show up, and of course everyone is wearing suits. Yeah, I looked like a painted turd.  But fuck it, we paid for our tickets so we took our seats.  I slumped down extra low to hide my poor fashion sense from Jesus.

Catholic masses… wait, aren’t those–?  Long as fuck?  Yes.

I experienced a specific mental meme,  a soundbite from a skit starring a Catholic priest who “really thought the world of a GOOD LONG MASS!” (*fist punched into palm for enthusiasm and emphasis*. Might be an old episode of ‘Father Ted’?)  Now, I own recordings by Vivaldi, Wagner, and Mozart, and my first favorite song ever was the Pachebel Canon in D Minor.  So I’m not a culture buffoon.  But this was about the most boring goddamn thing I’d ever seen!  No plot, just grovelling. “Oh, Lord, please forgive us!  We’re not worthy!  Just you!  Only you are worthy!  You’re number one!  We’re number two!  Please let us into your special club!”

Just then, Special Lady (dressed in suitable jeans, top and a shawl — making me look even shittier, thanks) writes on her program and slides it over: WHY ARE THEY SINGING ABOUT CHEESE AND RICE?  I try not to laugh, makes my head hurt, can’t help it.  She’s wearing a mischievous grin, her bright eyes sparkling. I’m feeling like smeared death… sore limbs, and a raging headache, and the chairs are built for tiny beings, not 6′ 4″ motherfuckers like myself.  So we start passing notes back and forth. Hilarity ensues.  We are comedic geniuses the likes of which the world has never seen.

Then she writes: IF THERE’S AN INTERMISSION, LET’S BAIL. I slide her a low-five… aw, yeah. Dig this girl…

We slip out, she finished her sandwich and we discuss an important new opera called “The Cheese and The Rice” on the way to the Metro.  She performs a few scenes for me, in falsetto, at the top of her lungs.  More tourists.  Back to her place, finally.  I’m sore, shivering, and I’ve got a headache strong enough to make a horse squint. I crawl under the covers and I’m out…

Next morning, her godawful rooster alarm wakes me up at zero-dark. She has to go to work, but tells me I can sleep in late, shower, and catch a cab to the Metro.  No worries. I’ll make up the bed.

Conversation courtesy of Jesus of Bastardeth

Back to sleep, in and out of dreams. Head throbbing. (At one point, you texted me. Or maybe it was Jesus trying to sneak in a little self-promotion. You can’t blame the man, everybody has bills to pay.) Back to sleep, more dreams.

Wake up weak with a squinteriffic headache. It’s almost 3 p.m. Shower, dress, and lock up. Check iPhone app for local cab companies while standing in the driveway. Seven numbers appear, three of which are limo service and airport shuttles. Read: expensive. Two numbers don’t even answer. The last picks up: “Yeah? Naw, we don’t pick up there no more. You gotta call someone else.”  He gives me a number, hangs up.  In my feverish, fucked up condition I hope I’ve got it right.  Dialed it.  A Hindu voice answers.  “We don’t pick up there.  You gotta call someone else.”  I dialed the third number.  The sun is beating down, I’m shivering, and my head is SCREAMING.  Cars are whipping past carrying bored expressions and bad sunglasses.  Seems folks’re already sick of sunlight around here.  The last number is a winner.  They’ll be here in ten, and they take plastic.

Get to the Metro station. There’s a guy with a dazed look on his face, standing with his face pressed against the chain link fence, headphones in, his toneless voice rapping along: “Tryin’ ta get her pregnant, tryin’ to get her pregnant…” His eyes are dark and dead.  I’m shredding my taxi receipt into tiny pieces because it has my card number on it, and I throw it into a trashcan that reeks of piss. Everyone looks mean, cheap, like someone pissed in their Cheerios a long time ago and they’ve just kept eating it. I’m still not a fan of the ghetto, I don’t care how much we stand to learn from its residents.

Remember those tourists?  And remember that part about Chinese food and Red Bull being the last thing I’ve eaten all weekend?  I almost lost my temper and starting shouting at some tourists who were wide-eyed as amazed deer that the doors on a Metro car don’t bounce open when they encounter your arm or leg.  “Goodness!”  But I bite my tongue, ever polite.  Off the train now, walking faster and faster, dodging and moving through gaps in the crowd. Muttering, swearing.  Moments from losing it.  Don’t wanna be in a crowd if I do.  Through the Metro, up the escalator (“The RIGHT side is for standing, people!”) and get to the top, spot a cab.  Give the intersection of my neighborly hood, and asked if he took plastic.  He shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t know how to work the machine..?”  Try another cab.  He is apparently certified to work the machine.  I pile in.  The cab is clean, and smells of incense. “Nice weather, yes?”  I agree wordlessly, staring out the window, thinking thunderclouds.

I get home, check the mail, unpack, toss my dirty clothes in the laundry basket, gun a handful of ibuprofen and some other stuff Cass had given me before diving under the covers, trying to wish away the intense brain pain.  Sleep, and more weird dreams…

In this one, I wake up in my first-ever bedroom, which was haunted.  I know there are visitors downstairs, and I’m supposed to go see them.  But I have to get dressed.  I can’t turn on any of the light switches (sure sign that I’m dreaming) so I use my cellphone camera for light.  As one does.  I put on a black shirt, black slacks and black dress shoes.  I look like I’m ready for Vegas.  Or a Miami funeral.  I go downstairs and suddenly I’m in a cab.  And we’re driving  - have been driving for quite some time, actually. Eventually, I speak to the driver.  “Say, man. We’ve been at this for awhile, and, like, I don’t remember telling you where I wanted to go..? So how’s about we go a little further for scenery’s sake, and then you drop me off at where ever it was that you picked me up?”

Suddenly, I’m walking under a clear night sky.  The weather is perfect.  The stars are bright and plentiful, like when you’re out at sea, or in a country with minimal light pollution.  I’m aware that I’m walking ahead of a great multitude of people, and they’re waiting for me to do something, but it’s dark and I can’t see them.  The stars are huge and perfect…

Woke up at midnight. Headache and soreness gone. Wrote this letter to pass the time, which may explain the typos.

That’s why I missed your call.

TWM

Blood and Bone and Bits of String

Preface: I haven’t braved the Great Outdoors since I left Alaska in the Spring of 2007, and typically I did so with two good friends, Eric and Amy, both seasoned outdoor types.  I always felt a bit of a Special Cousin around them, but I asked a lot of questions and tried to learn from my mistakes.  I am generally very optimistic under adverse conditions, and refuse to give in.

28SEP09 – Back from a soggy weekend of camping.  The first day was fine.  A gorgeous autumn drive.  Great weather, no worries.  Once on site, the tent went up in a hurry and the fire, after some trial and error, was soon blazing away.  I was anticipating taking some macro shots of the various species of caterpillars and spiders that surrounded the camp site with my new camera, and getting a crash course in medicinal herbs from Cassandra, my camping partner, who’s extremely knowledgeable in this area.  We spoke excitedly about hiking and exploring the local waterfalls the next day.

The next morning, we awoke to pouring rain.  Despite setting the tent on a level surface, the ground cloth had herded the water toward the center of the tent, which was sopped up by the high-tech biscuits of our sleeping bags.  We dried the bags, and enjoyed hot showers at the camp store.  Cass re-staked the tent, I cut dead logs for the fire, and we cleaned up the camp.  Our mood restored, we discussed the pros and cons of what had happened, what piece of gear to bring next time, and which pieces weren’t as useful.

The second night was wonderful: a perfect fire, good company, and a great meal (kebobs, hobo packets, and S’mores for dessert!)  Again, we talked of hiking and exploring the trails as we poked and prodded at the coals, and sipped coffee-flavored vodka from my flask.

The next morning brought more rain.  Worse than before, and negatively impacted our mood.  Conclusions were reached.

See here: I don’t want your second-hand, dry and comfy armchair critique of our painful decision to abandon ship.  “Well, I would have done this…, Well, I’m sure I would have done that differently…, Well, I would have simply persevered, I, I, I…”

No.  Shut up.  You wouldn’t have done any of those things.  You’d have pulled stakes just like we did.  Time and money were spent, and a lot was riding on this trip.  But rain is rain; misery doubly so.

“It appears the Shenandoah simply doesn’t like you.”  This was a direct quote from my less-than-thrilled Camping Partner as we wrung out our gear, packed the car and headed down the mountain.  Silence reigned.

At last we emerged from the mouth of the park and entered the Land Before Time, seeking to purchase petrol for the motorcar from a convenience store which advertised, among other things, coffee.  I had The Need, as I’d developed a migraine strong enough to make a horse squint.  My hands were shaking as I fumbled with a packet of Advil outside the store, and I probably looked like a tweaker; a four-day growth of beard, no socks, camo pants, soggy Keens.  Plus, I reeked like a house fire.

Inside, the ATM was out of order and the place looked like a sty.  There were no cups, there were no lids, and the only coffee had been boiled into pure black LaBraeness in a filthy pot that hadn’t been properly cleaned since Christ was a messcook.  The woman at the register seemed incapable of running any of the four cards we offered her:

Clerk: “We don’t take Discover.”
Cass: “But, the sign says you do…” (pointing at the sign)
Clerk: “I don’t know…” (dips head, looks away from sign)
Me: “It’s cool, I’ve got it.”
Clerk: (runs my card, shakes her head) “No.”
Me: “Uh, okay? Try this one.”
Clerk: “No.” (It is then that I realize the clerk is mentally disabled. So was the guy in line behind me, and the overly-friendly guy who’d held the door open for me. We exchanged looks, and carefully backed out.)

Time passes. I am able to do laundry, Metro/bus/walk home, dry my gear and restore order to my universe.

Back at the Project now, Monday morning.  Coffee for breakfast, hot and glorious. Listening to the Talking Heads, Tunng, and Chroma Key.  Nearly 100 emails in my box, but the only voice mail waiting was the weak and terrified voice of an old woman who’d phoned late Sunday afternoon: “Hello…?  I’ve been trying to reach the veterans hospital for more than an hour now. Hello?”  There was a heavy, defeated sigh before the line went dead.

I called back at the number she’d left.  (I’m such a fucking a boy scout, right? I’m not the veteran’s hospital, and following up random crazy phone calls isn’t my job, but I felt concern.  Something about the waver in the woman’s voice really got to me.  Besides, someday I’ll be scared and deaf and confused, too.  At some point, the world will cease to make sense.  More so.)

An old man answered the phone: “Hello?”  His voice was a creaking shout of uncertainty.

Me: “Good morning, sir.  I received a call from this number from someone looking for the veteran’s hospital, and I guess I was just calling to see if everything was OK..?”
He: “What?  There’s no one here!”
Me: “Yes, sir.  But I received a call from this number from someone looking for the –.”
He: “No, we don’t want any!”
Me: “That’s great, sir, because I’m not selling anything.  But I did receive a call from this number asking about –.”
He: (frail shouting) “What do you want?  I can’t understand you!  Speak English, for crying out loud!”
Me: (slower, louder, more patient) “Sir, I received a telephone call from someone at this number looking for the veteran’s hospital –.”
He: “Leave me alone!”  *click*

I don’t know how else to end this entry, so I will.

TWM

Note To Self, Buy More Bullets

READING: Clock of the Long Now – Time and Responsibility (“When I pronounce the word Future, the first syllable already belongs in the past.” – Polish poet Wislawa Szymborska)

LISTENING: And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of Dead, OSI, Van Halen, Pre-Stevie Fleetwood Mac, The Mars Volta, Puscifer…

The time has come to pare down my possessions in preparation for my upcoming move to the Department of Awesome.  Now, I happen to like black trash bags.  There’s something final about them.  I buy ‘em by the shitload (metric) and I like ‘em strong.  Once I’ve made up my mind that something has to leave my life, it goes in a black bag sealed beneath a sturdy square knot.  There’s no coming back from one of those.

I’m looking forward to purging.  There’ll be black trash bags of old clothes destined for thrift stores in little piles around the floor; bags destined for the recycling bin, or destined for Freecycle.  Still others will be handed off as fast as I can get on the phone.  I’ve got piles of plain black t-shirts to sort through, and hangars holding up dress shirts purchased with good intention, but never worn.  Turns out I’m just not that guy.

I’ve got five or six pairs of shoes, some I never wear.  Well-polished Doc Martens: stay.  Continent-weary Chucks: stay.  Comfortable and practical Keens: to be replaced by a new pair, the old ones discarded.  The rest: go bye-bye.

I’ve got four or five extra sets of sheets, some of them reserved for guests.  I won’t be needing so many of those,  just as I don’t plan to be entertaining ‘guests’ any time soon.

Craigslist isn’t an option.  As an Aries male, when I make a decision, that’s it — time to carry it through.  I don’t want to wait around for someone else to waffle over their decision, thereby impacting mine.  And I don’t want to hear, “Well, what you might want to consider is –”

No.  I don’t want second- or third-fucking-guesses.  I don’t wanna be told to “wait” or “reconsider”, and I certainly don’t want to be told that I should have done it “this way or that way” after the fact.  That serves no purpose.  Indecision drive me to distraction.  If you’re the kind of person who stands in line hemming and hawing about what looks good on the menu, don’t come around for dinner.  If you need twenty minutes at the post office to decide what kind of stamps best accent your eyes; please, state this on a plain cotton t-shirt, bold letters, both sides, so I know to avoid you.

Now the hard part — how do I make the distinction between what stays or goes?  I’ve got a number of bags: one large suitcase for extended trips three weeks and over; a smaller one for overnight jobs when I need to travel light; a Crumpler backpack that holds all my gear for shoots, including a laptop sleeve.  I’ve got a small hiking pack that perfectly holds a first-aid kit, Camelbak, raingear and a change of clothes.  I’ve got another full-size pack that holds my tent, sleeping bag, mess kit and change of clothes.  Finally, I’ve got a courier bag that I use every day whilst traveling around the city, valued for it’s rugged design.  Getting rid of one impacts the rest.

The books are no problem — there’s always a used bookstore willing to take my dog-eared treasures, and I got rid of my DVD collection years ago — Netflix works much better.  The keepers went into books to conserve space, and the jewel cases found their way to the trash after I turned my CD collection into electrons.

Kitchen stuff is easy: I don’t have a lot of it, ditto for large furniture — a desk, a computer, a papasan chair, a table to hold up the television and DVD player and a table and four chairs with which to support dinner.  Those can: stay.

It’s got to be binary, yes or no.  The weight bench: goes. Space considerations.  The 15-pound barbell: goes, the 25-pound barbell: stays.  The hammock: goes, the bed: stays.  The large black carry-all which holds my emergency radio, cold weather survival gear, .45 holster, knife collection and camp light: stays.  All the crap leftover from being a Windows user: gone.  The old cell phones: destroyed.  The meticulously maintained files of paid bills: inferno.

The love letters: go, the gun: stays.

(Note to self, buy more bullets.)

TWM

NW616, 7A

26DEC08 – Ate a hearty breakfast at a little diner just a ways from where I’m sitting; the faces of large men in filthy ball caps and strained suspenders turned to size me up as I walked in the door. I took a seat at the counter, drank several white cups of black coffee, and wolfed down a fantastic, bulging omelet served up by doe-eyed small town teen angels looking so tired and weary in their matching polo shirts.

Now sitting in a tiny snow covered airport in the North. Everyone is through the security check, and people are chatting quietly amongst themselves. I hear the words ‘shovel’ and driveway’ repeated often. The drinking fountain here smells of root beer, and the overly cheerful voices on the radio bounce and skitter across the stone foyer. My eyes burn from a lack of sleep. I’m dressed for comfort; heavy cargo trousers, multiple t-shirts, a new hat pushed back on my head, and the same Keens I’ve been wearing since the day I kissed A.D. The air crew tromps in tracking snow across the worn brick floor, and passengers drag their carry-on luggage wearily toward the flight line.

Later, at 30,000 feet, a dignified looking blonde woman cautions out the drinks. My tray table won’t go all the way down; it’s got a three-wheel motion to it. The sky outside my window is a ghostly pale blue soaked with hints of coral and gold, and I’m getting a high-pitched massage from the engine. The vibrations tickle my skeleton, and it feels like a tattoo gun humming and thrumming against my bones. I feel it in the arches of my feet, so I splay my toes and turn my ankles, cracking them one at a time.

I’m listening to ‘Sinnerman’ by 16 Horsepower and thinking, as I often do when I fly, about The End. What would it be like wake up the morning after feeling choked and utterly doomed, knowing you’d never draw breath again that wasn’t tainted by sulfur and bloody ash, and understanding suddenly that the skills you spent a lifetime learning will have very little to do with the ones required if you expect to survive from that moment on?

The cabin is old and worn; the seat in front of me is cracked and tattered. I take a few snapshots out the window and remember how much happier I am when I’m traveling. Crunching ice with a molar, I study the lens flare on the apex of the engine cowling and gnaw on my lip, savor the gentle sting as the skin shreds a little. Life while flying is all about patience, breathing, and not punching anyone in the back of the head. Crammed into a tiny seat with nowhere else to put my limbs, and the person in front of me decides to kick their seat all the way back. The droning of the engine will no doubt obscure the sound of my knees rupturing.

While eating a can of tuna at what I’m informed is our cruising altitude, I wonder if the fish this used to be could have ever dreamed that it would be chopped up, crammed into tiny tin coffin, only to be exhumed and devoured by a man rocketing high above.

The battery in my iPod is running low, we’re on our final approach.

TWM

“Thus, the pattern of my relationship was already prefigured; today as then I am solitary, because I know things, and must hint at things which other people do not know, and usually do not even want to know.” – Jung