Jammin' with the Beatles

I finally got a chance to play The Beatles: Rock Band yesterday. Unfortunately, it was at the Best Buy at Mall of America instead of a friend's house. But I was joined by some nice strangers, and Andrew was there, so it was OK. I started gettin' into it after a few songs. I had to switch from bass to guitar to really rock out. Wielding Paul's Hofner bass was a bit limiting while I was playing the bass part. When I switched to a guitar part (must've been rhythm) it got to be a bit more "groovy." It made me wanna pick up my acoustic guitar again and crank out some high-voltage rock'n'roll while singing a heartbreaking melody, in classic Beatle style. Too bad Andrew just went to bed. I'd like to do that right now.

Bedhead

Author's Note: After the serious-to-dyspeptic tone of my recent posts, I'd like to lighten the mood a bit with a more humorous essay. I hope this foots the bill.

On many a morning I will wake up with a pompadour. Somehow, the way I sleep (on my side, mostly) and my tossing-and-turning often conspire to style my hair in a manner best suited to motorcycle-riding rebels of half-a-century ago. I will concede that many men have rocked the pompadour effectively since then, but I've never counted myself among them. Honestly, I've never even tried. It just seems too far outside my milieu, even though it usually looks halfway decent in the bathroom mirror.

One time in college, I walked out of my room right after waking up, and a female friend asked me if I'd combed my hair. On the surface it's a reasonable question, but I wanted to laugh and ask her why I would drag myself out of bed at 11 am (This was senior year.) and comb my hair into a pompadour for the 20-foot walk to the bathroom. It's not like I was worried about coming up with the perfect hairstyle to tie together the bleary-eyed, pajama-bottomed look I had goin' on.

So I comb it out (with my hands, of course). Although I'm afraid that might represent the peak of my hairstyle, and my efforts to "style" or at least "manage" the hair are futile attempts at coolness (or, really, presentability) by an aging, half-hearted hipster whose fashion instincts were never that good to begin with. It is as if my hair begins each day in a perfect, Edenic state, and my clumsy machinations bring about a tonsorial Fall From Grace.

Have I been blessed with the ideal "bedhead," hair that needn't be styled or even touched? Doubtful, but I should try leaving the pompadour intact someday and see how people react. Perhaps they'll think I've become a "rocker" and try to beat me up with their "mod" friends. Or they'll mistake me for a "greaser" and misinterpret my penchant for drag-racing as hopeless nihilism. I have to ask myself: Is perfect hair worth that kind of rampant hostility?

One-Way Street

Before I begin, let me thank the people who have left comments on my blog at Facebook. I really appreciate the kind words.

Now, as for most of those who have left comments directly on my blog (ridingtherubicon.blogspot.com), you have convinced me to turn off the comments feature. It's not helpful when people who've never met you or your family tell you what a terrible person you are for writing about family issues so candidly. Did you really think you were shedding light on the situation? Who are you to judge me? You don't know shit about me or my family. Fuck you for thinking you had some serious insight into my life.

I should be above this kind of childish bickering. I'm sorry if it upsets any of those people who have enjoyed my blog and/or left nice comments on Facebook or the blog proper. But some of the comments really pissed me off and the fact that I hadn't let those people have it yet was bothering me. I felt the burning need to disabuse them of the notion that they were contributing trenchant, well-informed opinions to the conversation.

Like the Onion, this blog is now a one-way conduit of information. I'm not one to suffer fools.

Opening Night

Last night was the first performance of my Fringe show, A People's History of Love. We had the 10pm slot, and I was nervous early in the evening, but by the time I got to the Bryant-Lake Bowl I was pretty relaxed. The performance got off to a rocky start. It's disappointing when work for which you have such high hopes is greeted with perplexed silence. I think the volume was too low on the opening music and narration, and the actors should've been louder, but the audience reaction forces me to question just how funny and/or compelling the opener is.

The rest of the show went pretty well. There were even a few big laughs. The attendance was good. Some of my friends showed up, which was great. But then I forgot to invite them to the bar. My social incompetence remains, albeit less crippling than before. It was still a nice after-show gathering with my female lead's family and boyfriend.

I went home at midnight, ate a Reese's chocolate-and-peanut-butter bar (rather good) and a slice of Pizza Hut Stuffed Crust Pizza, watched "Bart Gets an Elephant" and "Burns' Heir" from The Simpsons' Season 5 DVD (part of Andrew's complete Simpsons collection) and went to bed at 2 am. Around 4:30 I awoke with the sensation that some food was stuck in my esophagus. I got up and took some Tums.

In short order the sensation transformed into a raging case of heartburn to rival the fires of Hell. Then the nausea set in. Bad nausea is much worse than actually throwing up, so I was hoping to vomit and end my agony. But nothing happened. I wasn't sure if I should get on my knees or drop trou. It felt like, at any moment, I could start spewing from either end. The nausea and heartburn kept building until I was regretting every decision I made that night.

I regretted having that slice of Pizza Hut Stuffed Crust Pizza (an old nemesis of mine). I regretted eating that Reese's bar (even though it was quite good and probly blameless). I regretted using that Sweet & Tangy Polynesian sauce with my stir-fry dinner. (In fact, I regretted that choice as soon as I started eating my dinner. It's not a good sauce. It'd been in my fridge for almost a year, long enough to forget how bad it was.) I regretted not inviting Dustin and Chris to join us for drinks after the show. I regretted not striking up a conversation with any of the women at the BLB. I regretted being a coward all my life, whether it was with women or potential friends or standing up to bullies or throwing off the comfortable shackles of the mind-numbing 9-to-5 for an insecure life of political activism or organic farming or whatever vocation that could spiritual and emotional fulfilment.

Then I threw up. And had some diarrhea. And the crisis was over. The heartburn lingered for hours and robbed me of sleep, but the desperate need to change my life had passed. Now, in the clear light of day, I can look back on that torturous night with some amusement. Although it would be a mistake not to draw some lessons from it.

Lesson #1: Don't eat Pizza Hut Stuffed Crust Pizza for a while.

Lesson #2: Don't eat food that doesn't taste good, e.g. the Sweet & Tangy Polynesian sauce.

Lesson #3: Take more chances emotionally, so the next time I stick my neck out it won't be so traumatic.

The last lesson refers to opening night for the show. I'm convinced that was the main (perhaps indirect) cause of my distress. The anxiety surrounding the occasion must've been repressed and then manifested in my recent eating habits. I've had a little insomnia this week which, fittingly, sapped my energy on Friday and led me to order a Pizza Hut delivery that night. That's what happens when you don't (or can't) deal with your emotions.

Take comfort, dear readers, in the knowledge that I am capable of self-criticism and personal growth. I would appreciate it greatly if you could soften the tone of some of your comments. They often feel like attacks. Please keep in mind that I'm sharing deeply personal information, but this blog is at best a sliver of me. You would need a lot more knowledge of my character to make an informed judgment of my words and deeds.

That being said, I'll keep as many comments as I can stomach. The feedback can be illuminating, and it may encourage more people to read. So, yes, I am using your comments to self-aggrandize and, potentially, profit off of. But, with all due respect, you can take all the cheap shots you want at me, while I'm left to be haunted by anonymous cyber-ghosts.

NOTE: The request above refers only to some of the comment posted directly on the blog, not those posted on the Facebook feed.

Forgetting Mom's Birthday

I'm not so enthused about blogging tonight. While stopping by my parents' house this evening, I learned that I'd forgotten my mom's birthday a few days ago. Dad suggested I wish her a happy birthday. There was some disappointment in his voice. The best I could manage was a perfunctory "Happy Birthday." It didn't help that I was borrowing a boombox and folding chairs for the Fringe show. "Hey, I'm just gonna take this CD player, these chairs, wish you a happy birthday and then be on my way."

Now I feel guilty. That leads to feeling angry at Mom for making me feel guilty. The anger often triggers violent conversations with myself wherein I spit verbal venom at my parents' imaginary holograms. Sure, they're generous with money and material support, but that will never make up for the fact that she checked out emotionally when I hit puberty. And why can't he see that?

I've covered this in other posts, and I really don't wanna go over it again tonight. I'll be funny again tomorrow.

An Open Letter to the Stylists of Uptown

Dear Stylists,

Is it really that difficult to cut my hair? I would think my hair and my desired hairstyle offer few challenges to a competent hairstylist, but apparently I am mistaken. For some reason, our nations' cosmetology schools have ceased to produce graduates who can effectively deliver the short, no-frills, by-the-book male haircut that has served our country so well for decades, if not centuries. None of the Uptown salons I've patronized has produced a stylist able to cut my hair in a manner consistent with my expectations.

Not one, with the notable exception of Great Clips, that national chain of supposed cookie-cutter, dime-a-dozen, cut-by-numbers stylists. Only in that bargain-basement (but still well-appointed) hair salon have I found anyone with the surprisingly rare gift for cutting my hair to my specifications. Victoria was the first Great Clips angel to descend from the heavens (a la Frankie Avalon in Grease) and bestow on me the hairstyle I have often imagined but only fleetingly worn. Sadly, the Powers That Be at Great Clips do not allow us to schedule haircuts with our preferred stylists. Thus have I been denied the safe harbor of Victoria and left to drift into the nearest random port whenever the shaggy hair-storm blows me back out to the Sea of Salons.

The last 2 times I've landed in the capable hands of Mary Jane. She's a looker, let me tell ya. Her skin is a sultry bronze color, her hair dark and nicely framing her face, her figure trim with curves in just the right spots. Also, she has a ring through her septum, but it doesn't make her look like a cow or some other barnyard animal as it does for many others with the same piercing. Under one eye is a tattoo of three black dots in a crescent formation. I don't know what it means, but it's pretty hot.

She gave me a fine haircut and provided some good banter. I'd like to think she's into TV On The Radio, vintage greasy-spoon diners and Critical Mass, but her style could also belong to a Lady GaGa-loving, vegan Republican. (Of course, only one of those would be a deal-breaker.) You always hope for the best with the pretty ones, no matter how much evidence piles up in the "con" column.

There's always a sexual subtext when a woman cuts my hair. That's why it's always nice when the woman is cute (except when it's really awkward). The female stylists must be aware of this. A haircut involves persistent, albeit slight, physical contact, often of a sensitive nature. A thigh will press against my hand as it lies innocently on the armrest, a flat stomach will brush past my shoulder, and my head may even be pulled back to nestle just under the cleavage between two breasts. It can be quite a treat for a man as under-sexed as I.

In conclusion, Mary Jane is a great stylist, as much for her BUST-Magazine-covergirl looks and friendly demeanor as her styling ability. If only every hairstylist in Uptown possessed her combination of pulchritude, congeniality and talent. Then this would truly be a Heaven on Earth.

Sincerely,
Mickey

Perks

Yesterday's post ended on a rather sad, bitter note, so tonight I'd like to lighten the mood with some comedy. I attended Improv-A-Go-Go and witnessed some excellent comedy. I could probly count on one hand the number of times I've seen the show since moving to Uptown 6 years ago, which is quite ironic since I saw it many times in the months leading up to my move. In Improv-A-Go-Go terms, if I were a Scottish village I would be Brigadoon. And if I were a cast member of Happy Days, I'd be Donnie Most. (Right? Family Guy, anyone? Am I right? Don't leave me hangin'!) Why did my attendance tail off so dramatically? Because it got to be really awkward for me. After several months, I still hadn't broken into the IAGG clique. It doesn't help when you're socially retarded, although (meaning no offense) they didn't seem much more advanced than I.

Today was a very good day. We had tech rehearsal for the Fringe show. (A People's History of Love at the Bryant-Lake Bowl. Check fringefestival.org for details!) It went quite well, considering the actors hadn't heard many of the sound effects before. This final week of rehearsals should be fun. I'll be manning the tiller again, since Noah has 2 other shows in which he's actually performing and he's given us everything we need for the dance numbers and blocking over the past 2 weeks. It feels good having this chance to guide the show down the stretch run, offering plenty of encouragement but not sparing the whip. All kidding aside, I don't wanna "lay down the law," as it were. Doing so would make the experience unpleasant for me and may discourage the actors. Though surely there's something to be said for the disciplinarian approach, considering how many great directors have employed it. But for me it would be the technique of last resort.

Before and after the rehearsal, I noticed quite a few attractive women at the BLB. It made me think about why I'm getting back into this crazy comedy/theater game. Am I still just searching for acceptance and love and (while I'm at it) fine-lookin' women to have sex with? I do wonder if all this artistic striving is only my way of trying to make friends and meet women (to have sex with). Are all my comic and theatrical conceits mere pretentions to exquisitely intellectual dysfunction and, therefore, eminent fuckability? No, I don't think so. By now I'm pretty sure I've realized that there are better ways to find those things. At this point, the only thing that could keep me writing is a genuine need for self-expression. Of course, the possibility of those other perks doesn't hurt.

Peak Oil Glasses

(I wrote most of this in Rice Park in downtown St. Paul, beginning at 12:06 pm. It's important to know that to fully appreciate the post.)

I find myself in a place that would strike any Minneapolitan as strange: St. Paul. I moved to Mpls. in the hope of acquiring a social life, if by no other means than sheer osmosis. But Mpls. is not that happenin'. It only seems that way because St. Paul is dead. I'll give St. Paul one thing though. It has held onto much more of its old buildings, making it far more architecturally appealing than downtown Mpls.

I'm forced to wonder what will happen to these buildings if our society collapses, mainly in the sense of resimplifying, not necessarily falling apart. I look at most places through these Peak Oil Glasses, trying to peer into a future of energy descent.

There was a little girl whom I thought might be waving at me. It turned out she was waving bye-bye to a pigeon. They'd had some good times together. The bronze girl standing in the fountain is skinny, but she's got a nice rack. Sculptors sometimes neglect the rack. Or they just have bad taste in models. Threatening clouds are rollin' in. The Landmark Center's clock tower is facing me. Consequently, I'm instantly aware of the time. I like that. Now I don't even hafta reach into my pocket.

Peak Oil Glasses are the opposite of Rose-Colored Glasses. It's a lot like Life After People, that History Channel miniseries. I see abandoned buildings overrun with weeds and vines, trees growing in parking lots, streets filled with bikes and stripped-down cars rusting on the shoulder. I'd guess within a decade the ratio of bikes to cars on the streets of Uptown will have reversed itself.

It's not a pretty picture (except for the bikes), but we'll at least get a chance to redeem ourselves for the monumental waste of abundant energy and resources in the 20th Century. We had the power to make almost anything, and we chose to produce continents of crap, mountains of manure, oceans of offal. What will our descendants think of a civilization that churned out enough disposable goods to inundate every home on the planet with useless bric-a-brac? I only wish every Fortune 500 CEO had the foresight (or the sense of shame) to meditate on that before they invent another emotional need for us to fill with stuff.

Monetize Your Dreams!

With the Fringe Festival fast approaching, I've been trying to think of how I might make a living once my ill-gotten (corporate) gains run out in Sep or Oct. Stand-up, freelance writing and selling plasma have all occurred to me. (If you have any suggestions, please send them along.) Returning to CorpWorld is out of the question. I'm actually now willing to starve rather than work another corporate gig. It may be a moot point, but would I even be willing to perform comedy at a corporate event? Probly, but I'd still feel guilty about it. Ideally, I wouldn't have to take any corporate money, but that seems like a luxury I can't afford. My main goal is to no longer allow CorpWorld to drain me of energy and the will to live. So if I could do something I enjoy on the corporate dime, I might be OK with that. Besides, where do you draw the line? Are you gonna refuse the money of patrons who work for corporations? I've never heard of anyone doing that. So what's the difference if you take money directly from the company (assuming they impose no conditions on your work)? As far as I'm concerned, it's a fuzzy line.

Could I possibly make a living as a writer? I mean right now, without any significant experience on my resume? It seems sad to me that I made at least $12 an hour entering data, yet my writing (which is composed of far more profound insight than the data I entered, in my opinion) is apparently worthless in the capitalist sense. There's a tab on Blogger labeled "Monetize." I would gladly monetize my personal thoughts and feelings if I thought I could make real money off of them. Isn't that what working artists do? The problem with this blog is it isn't fictionalized or stylized or otherwise creatively distorted in such a way that the people I discuss cease to be recognizable. I can't hide behind artistic license.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, I either hafta get more creative or stop talking about people so bluntly. I'll also try and blog every day to see if I can build up an audience. And if any of you want to send me money for my work, I'll gratefully accept it. Just don't ask me to endorse Hostess Zingers or that new reality show, More to Love, much as I may be a fan of the first and improperly curious about the second.

The problem with starting an artistic career now is the artistic bubble may be bursting. There will always be demand for art, but our society's aggregate wealth has likely peaked. This is the point in the blog where I pontificate on Peak Oil. It feels like I haven't pontificated on it in a while, so I'm going to indulge a bit. We may be witnessing the bursting of the biggest bubble in history, inflated as it is with fossil fuels and the technology we've developed to take advantage of those energy sources.

(I feel inadequate as a Peak Oil writer though, so for now I'll defer to blogs like John Michael Greer's The Archdruid Report that put mine to shame.)

Seriously though, the potential collapse of society has informed many of my choices in the last 4 years. It was the only reason I cashed out my 401(k) last year. It motivated me to quit my temp job last month, and it may be compelling me to leave CorpWorld for good. It's pretty easy to quit your job when you honestly believe the whole economy is about to go belly up and there won't be any money left in gov't coffers for unemployment insurance anyway.

I used to feel crazy for believing that everything could just fall apart, but I no longer do. Partly because I've learned a lot of people agree with me, even though many of their theories differ widely with mine. But mainly because I've gotten over the initial shock of the discovery and have had 4 years to process it and reexamine the evidence in a sober light. I'll admit that I may still be biased in favor of the societal collapse theories due to my failure to find a meaningful job or romantic relationship in this capitalist Eden. However, an expanding economy would improve my chances of finding a writing job and would eliminate the need to move to the boonies and become a farmer.

I feel too scatterbrained to compose a satisfying essay tonight. I'll just end it here and hope my brain is more organized tomorrow.

Commie Gray

Back in '04, when I became a left-wing radical, I had some reservations about joining the Arise! Bookstore and Collective, our local leftist looney-bin. I was afraid none of the members would have a sense of humor, and they'd all be wearing black and gray. Everyone knows that leftists are only allowed to wear black, gray and, occasionally, red. Blood red. I remember the episode of Seinfeld when Elaine had a communist boyfriend. He only wore bland, gray shirts and jeans. Elaine tried to get him to wear more fashionable clothes, but he refused because his dad had been blackballed, if I remember correctly, from the garment industry. That's the only time I can recall an overtly leftist character appearing in the pop culture of my youth and adolescence. The '80s and '90s were generally apolitical, a period of relative prosperity that kept most people contentedly distracted.

But there were many subtle jabs at the Left in the supposedly apolitical pop culture of that era, so subtle in fact that I can't remember any. Family Ties was an interesting example. The parents were former hippies shown in an admiring light, while the son, Alex P. Keaton, was a Republican portrayed as a young Gordon Gekko. Head of the Class featured an ex-hippie high school teacher who was a font of drug-scarred wisdom. I wish I could blame this on Growing Pains. Now that I think of it, Small Wonder was probly an allegory for the dehumanizing effects of the Soviet system. Yeah. I'm gonna go with that.

Imagine my pleasant surprise when I found the radicals at Arise! to be quite warm and funny. They weren't the angry, dour people I'd been led to believe all leftists were. Although the colors of the bookstore's sign and website are red, black and white, and a few of the members stick to a punk wardrobe of black with the odd splash of red. They haven't totally dodged that stereotype, but it does set them apart from the rest of Uptown, so it's not a bad choice of color scheme. It certainly works for the White Stripes and the Chicago Bulls.

Brand Loyalty

I worked out at the Uptown YWCA today, in an effort to get the most out of the final 2 weeks of my membership. In the shower was a guy with a Nike Swoosh tattooed on the outside of each foot. In my sneaker-mad adolescence I might've modified my body in the same manner, but the intervening years have endowed me with a certain amount of restraint and integrity. Even though Nike's athletic shoes can still inspire in me orgasms of aesthetic ecstasy, I've been innoculated against supporting their slave-labor practices. New Balance, for all its derivative shoe designs and Chinese-made products, is much more to my liking now. But this brand loyalty is based on substance, not style. Well, maybe a little style.

Will this seemingly inconsequential paragraph on shoes provide the jumping-off point for a discourse on some topic of immense gravity? Probably not. I just happened to eat a Mocha Swiss Roll from the Wedge (quite tasty) and am wiling away the early morning hours until the caffeine wears off. Since I packed in my steady corporate gig last year I've noticed an increased sensitivity to caffeine, and I was never fond of the buzz of coffee to begin with. Eating those coffee beans nestled on top of the roll was a mistake, but I just can't say no to a chocolatey dessert late in the evening. It will surely prove my undoing.

It's 2:01 am and one of the two people who live upstairs in our duplex just got home. I wonder what he was up to. There are things I could write about my duplex-mates, but I'm afraid of hurting their feelings. It will have to wait for another time. The hour grows late, and I weary of this ennui.

The Vicissitudes of Capitalism

I quit my temp job almost 2 weeks ago. The call to the temp agency went unexpectedly smoothly. I told them I found another job that started the following week. "Can you give us any more notice than that?" the guy said. "Fuck you, you fucking corporate lackey!" is what I wanted to say. "No, I'm afraid not." is what I actually said. Two days' notice is the royal treatment in TempWorld. They should have had a fucking parade for me in gratitude for my gift of two days' notice. Would they have given me any notice if the assignment was about to end? Maybe, but most likely not. So why do they expect consideration when they show us none? I tell ya: Corporate Love is a one-way street.

The stress was gettin' to me. They placed a strong emphasis on productivity. We were reviewing mortgage documents, a process that required 6 weeks of training and plenty of continuing assistance. The floor was big, dozens of us working at computers, not much in the way of privacy, but precious little socializing either. The only reasons I lasted 4.5 months were the amiable folks (many of them immigrants) in my training class and my revitalized outlook. In the last few weeks the stress combined with my righteous indignation to create an untenable work environment. I'd listen to Democracy Now! and KPFA, the Pacifica (leftist) radio station out of Berkeley, and ask myself, "What the fuck am I doing here? Why am I working my ass off at a meaningless, mindless job just so some Wells Fargo (Cat's outta the bag!) execs can embroider their Golden Parachutes? If I had any balls and/or soul, I'd quit!" So, after a few weeks of that, I did.

What really pissed me off was how they pressured us to do overtime, even though they admitted that, as temps, we didn't have to. I submitted to it for a while, putting in 50 hours for 4 straight weeks, before I mustered the courage to refuse anymore, knowing it would put my chances of getting another temp job from ProStaff (The other cat's outta the bag!) in doubt. I let this be known the day before my first performance review at Wells Fargo, prompting my WF supervisor to postpone the review from Tuesday to Friday. That was a pretty shitty week. I spent a considerable part of the time wondering if the guy would turn the screws on me for more overtime. When that Friday finally rolled around, he never once brought up overtime. Instead, he told me (politely) that my productivity was only 60% of what it should be, and, unless I brought it up, we'd need to have more meetings. It was a Pyrrhic victory to be sure. Those of you with experience in the Corporate World will know that no further meetings were scheduled. Just another idle threat. I should've seen it coming.

I know I said it in the previous paragraph, but lemme tell ya what really pissed me off about that job, and capitalism in general lately: They were pushing us to work our asses off... in the middle of a FUCKING RECESSION! And not just any recession, the MOTHERFUCKING GREAT RECESSION! Am I the only one who finds that a little fucking retarded? It's just the Invisible Hand of the Market fisting us yet again. You see, while the rest of the economy is on life-support, Wells Fargo's Home Mortgage business is going great guns, thanks to refi's sparked by the Fed frantically lowering interest rates to stimulate borrowing and new sales that take advantage of plummeting home values. Of course, when people can't make the payments on all those mortgages Wells Fargo is buying, you know WF will either be first in line for their bailout, or they'll just shutter the whole operation so the management can spend their golden years in Rio (or Fiji or wherever Golden Parachutes land these days).

SIDEBAR: If you like the style of this post, you can thank James Howard Kunstler. If not, you can leave a comment on his blog.

Suffice it to say, most (if not all) of the employees will go straight from mandatory overtime to pink slip. That's what really sucks about the current Market Correction (piggybacking on the last 2 paragraphs): There's no in-between. You're either chained to your desk or cut loose for good. The same thing happened with my one-week temp job in December. I was working 12-hour days, but it only would've lasted a few weeks if I'd had any stomach for phone customer service. It took ProStaff 3 months just to find me that gig. The Great Recession has produced a wildly volatile job market, yielding long periods of lethargy punctuated with short bursts of frenetic overtime. I find it endlessly irritating that Capitalism makes greater demands on us when it has even less to offer in return.

I didn't realize how good I had it at ING. Easy-going atmosphere, no real deadlines and 12 hours of overtime in 5 years. Although, even after "pulling my personal thing together" (as Dennis Miller used to say), I still wouldn't be happy there, because I don't believe in those corporate pursuits. Never have, never will. The difference is now I know which work is worth giving your life to. Also, perhaps more important, I finally have the emotional security to relocate away from friends and family to pursue that work, whether it's organic farming, saving the rainforest or whatever. Yet the question remains: Will I make that leap? My Fringe show will keep me here until early August at least. After that, I won't really have any more excuses. Am I ready to self-actualize? Only time will tell.

The Hard Way

Two of my best friends are spending this month in Brazil. That makes my unpleasant situation somewhat more so. I landed a (potentially) long-term temp job doing some mindless busywork not unlike my old job. It's also February in Minnesota, although the mind-numbing cold has given way to bizarre 40-degree days full of puddles and slick, stubborn ice.

There's nothing unbearable about my circumstances; I'm just not sure if my body's gonna let me go through the motions. My sleep has been OK, but not quite enough to be completely rested. Is it my conscience that won't allow me to enjoy a job that only pays the bills and doesn't benefit humanity? Or is it the same old emotional issues with my parents? Well, after an often depressing weekend, I'm feeling better and more conscious.

Friday was the "last straw," when I decided to commit to getting an organic farming apprenticeship and getting out of my rut. Three days later, I'm not as fully committed to that destiny, partly due to a chat with my pal Troy in L.A. and the improvement in my disposition, but I still think I need to take that chance. I need to face my fear of loneliness. Staying in the city would be the easy way to go, but maybe not the best way.

How to Succeed in Blogging Without Really Trying

In honor of my last voice lesson tomorrow, I'm gonna reference a classic Broadway show. As a baritenor, I naturally gravitate to showtunes, or so my teacher has told me. How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying is one of the Broadway shows I've had the pleasure of seeing in situ, if you will, along the Great White Way. I attended the 1995 revival starring Matthew Broderick and Megan Mullally with my Aunt Betty. Although Ms. Mullally skipped that particular matinee, my aunt claimed not to notice the difference. Mr. Broderick was, in a word, effervescent. Seriously, though, he was pretty good.

(Can you tell I'm watching Anchorman?)

I recently observed the 1967 film adaptation of the original production on Turner Classic Movies. It was quite witty. The man who played the protagonist was Robert Morse, who currently portrays the eccentric president of the ad agency on Mad Men. I was struck by the startling symmetry of his body of work, first gaining fame by depicting a corporate peon who scales the ladder through cynical subterfuge and now landing what could be his last plum role as a business bigwig with the philosophy, mystique and decor of a Zen guru. It's funny how life works out sometimes.

Did you know that H2$ (as it's known in the business) won the 1962 Pulitzer Prize for Drama? Neither did I. Thank you, Wikipedia. If nothing else I've said here tonight has had the least effect on your entertainment choices, that alone should convince you of its fitness for your viewing pleasure. It's a cogent, crafty, campy analysis of the corporate culture and well worth your three dollars and 20 cents (which I believe is the cost of one DVD rental from the local Hollywood Video's Film Library). I leave you now with a lyric from that transcendent show.

You have the cool, clear eyes of a seeker of wisdom and truth...

Think on that, dear readers.

Stars

As I walked home from the Y tonight, I had an epiphany. I looked in the Plan B coffeehouse window and saw a girl sitting alone. It looked like she was yearning for human contact. In reality, of course, I was just projecting my own yearning onto her, but it still sparked a vision. I saw that we're all stars, sending out rays of longing (carried on waves of hope) to find someone with the light that will illuminate ourselves and the heat to keep us warm on cold nights like this one. This is the time of year when we should burn brightest. It's not easy getting through a Minnesota winter without friends. Trust me; I've tried.

Barackin' Out

I watched the election night coverage at home with my cousin (and new roommate) Andrew. I'd thought of watching at a bar to enjoy a sense of community on what I thought would be a triumphant night for we liberal Uptowners, but, per usual, my laziness got the better of me. After the networks called it for Obama, there were scattered screams of elation outside. They were few and far between, though, so I didn't think it worth the effort to go in search of a spontaneous shindig. But at midnight there was a louder, longer chorus of exultation. I put on my shoes, socks and jacket to check it out.

I only had to go a block, to 26th and Lyndale, to find the celebration. A few dozen people were standing on the corners with little, circular Obama signs, hootin' and hollerin' to beat the band. They were stereotypical Uptowners, like me, white 20- and 30-something hipsters without a care in the world, at least for a few more hours. A band of remarkably law-abiding celebrants was going around the intersection in an endless loop, always waiting for the walk sign to cross each street. As one guy said, "This is a Minnesota riot." (Of course, that kind of expression will have to be revised in the wake of the RNC.) Later on I learned they'd started off ignoring the traffic lights until the police showed up and told them to behave.

One of my best friends had called me 90 minutes earlier from Cincinnati, tearfully ecstatic over the outcome. I wasn't able to match her emotion, so I called her back from the impromptu street festival to give her a taste of the euphoria washing over Minneapolis, her previous home. She sounded emotionally drained, so I just told her I loved her and left her the rest of the night to come down.

I joined the neverending parade, not quite as jazzed about the election as everyone else seemed to be, but still very grateful for the victory of democracy, colorblindness and the possibility of less corporate control of the government. Each new walk sign was greeted with a cheer, and, even though crossing the street usually isn't a big thrill, the enthusiasm was infectious. I might've walked around that intersection for an hour, but it didn't feel that long.

Whenever monotony set in, people would introduce new elements to the ritual. A few folks began to walk against the current, holding out their hands for high-fives from the main group. The recent high-five renaissance may be growing stale, but this occasion was more than joyous and innocent enough to revive the tiny, childish ecstasy of slappin' five. One crew formed a side-five line, saying "good game" in mock-serious tones. That took me back to my glory days in youth basketball.

While we walked in squares, the crowds on the corners grew as people came out of the C.C. Club and the Bulldog to smoke, watch the festivities and, eventually, join in. A couple guys would often stand in the middle of the street, in flagrant violation of the traffic laws, and exhort the passing cars to honk their support for Obama. That may have been why the police cars kept sidling through the intersection every 15 minutes or so.

On the northeast corner, in front of Treehouse Records appropriately enough, a guy plugged his iPod stereo into an outlet on the exterior wall of the store and held it over his head as it blasted Kanye, OutKast and other toe-tappin' favorites. A dance party slowly grew around him, until the circuitous procession was drawn into a gravity well of block-rockin' beats. Cardboard was then duct-taped to the sidewalk for the small group of dancers brave enough to attempt a little unrehearsed breakin' in front of a large audience.

After the historic, world-changing events of that evening, I shouldn't be ashamed to point out that the best dancer was black, right? Well, he was. He wore a light blue, apparently homemade t-shirt with the sentence "I have a black president!" spelled out in letters of random fabric, like an American Apparel ransom note. He even led a bunch of us crackers in a line dance. Having patronized about three nightclubs in my life, I didn't recognize the dance, but it looked a lot cooler than the Electric Slide.

I wouldn't have to mention the guy's race if the gathering hadn't been almost exclusively white. A few black guys gravitated to the spot after it started jumpin', and some folks who looked like they had close ties to the Horn of Africa showed up later on, but generally speaking this was a collection of young, privileged, white people overjoyed by the election of an African-American president. The fact that a few people of color actually managed to share in the revelry only made the moment sweeter.

A few people I knew showed up, and we exchanged pleasantries. There was a guy offering swigs from his big plastic bottle of vodka. I recognized him from behind the counter at the Loon, where I often heard Immortal Technique boomin' from their mini-boombox as I bought my late-night snacks and wondered if a radical leftist heart was beating just beneath the surface of that dingy convenience store. The intensity of his vocal accompaniment to Rage Against the Machine that night seemed to confirm my suspicions.

The cops parked in the middle of the intersection around 2 a.m. and hauled off two people blocking traffic. Some of the congregants were displeased with the police presence, but cooler heads steered them back to the music and the festivities continued with nary a discouraging word. But no more than 20 minutes later a man got up on a tailgate and started lecturing us on police conduct during the RNC. By then I was getting tired and wasn't interested in "direct action" or whatever angry words he had to share, so I headed home.

That night I'd just wanted to get together with people who believed in the same things I did and celebrate the fact that, for once in a blue moon, the system worked. We'd protested, knocked on doors, donated money, written letters, made phone calls, e-mailed our representatives and generally harassed our government into doing what it's supposed to do, namely, responding to our wishes. And now we had a president who would listen to us. We hoped.

The Wind That Shakes the Barley

A few weeks ago I rented The Wind That Shakes the Barley, a movie from 2006 starring Cillian Murphy, the hero of 28 Days Later. TWTSTB won the Palme d'Or at Cannes, but I hadn't heard much about it. It turned out to be quite moving, esp. in regard to the wars on Iraq and Afghanistan. The setting is Ireland during its struggle for independence from Britain after World War I. British soldiers descend on a farm, brutalizing the people, insulting the women and killing one of the men. Torture was depicted with horrifying intimacy, even though it wasn't terribly graphic.

My immediate reaction was perplexed amusement. I thought, "Why are they being so mean to those guys? They're both the same color!" The idea that ethnic hatred could exist between two groups of white people was foreign to my 21st Century American brain. It certainly put our occupation of Iraq and Afghanistan in a new light. For the last few years I've watched in impotent rage as Iraqis and Afghans are killed, imprisoned or merely traumatized by our brutal, arbitrary attacks. But my fury has been numbed by the tedious duration of the war, the seemingly endless (to the point of banality) repetition of its crimes and the monotonous, morally expedient media coverage that has induced in us a comfortable complicity. I have to admit that seeing white people as the victims helped bring the situation home for me again, esp. considering they were Irish and I'm 3/4 Irish.

Our wars overseas have become background noise in the presidential campaign. Now that the economy appears to be tanking, even less attention will likely be paid to the ongoing tragedies in the Middle East for which we are largely responsible. How sad it is that our own financial insecurity worries us more than the survival of millions living at the other end of our guns.

Crappy-Go-Round

As I told Sadie last week, it looks like I'll hafta get back on that crappy merry-go-round again, at least for the moment. I was referring to the tempin' lifestyle, which I gladly escaped over 5 years ago with my mindless, soul-deadening (but secure) data-entry & clerical gig at ING. Having abandoned that tepid harbor, I'm forced back into the storm-tossed & wind-whipped seas of financial uncertainty.

I thought you'd all enjoy the following witticism I composed as I strode through downtown Mpls. between the 3 temp agencies that enjoyed my presence today:

Working for temp agencies is like keeping mistresses. The only way to keep them happy is by making sure they never find out about the others.

Despite the failure to provide their clients with any reasonable measure of job security, temp agencies are unreasonably jealous corporate entities. During my two-year tempin' tenure in Chicago, I made the mistake of alerting one agency that another agency was already selling my services. As I rode the El to work that morning, a woman from Agency A called and told me about a job. I declined the offer, saying my current job with Agency B paid better. Stunned, she asked me if I would've left the assignment had the pay been better at the gig she mentioned. I said yes, thinking, rightly in my opinion, that it was a completely understandable position. In that insufferable passive-aggressive, corporate way, she said her agency would be reluctant to find me any more assignments given this revelation.

What did I do wrong? All I said was that I'd leave my current TEMPORARY assignment if a better offer came along. Do you know what that's called? Fucking CAPITALISM! God-FUCKING-damn it! I'm not happy about re-entering that world. When corporations screw people over, it's just the vicissitudes of the Market. When people screw corporations over, it's disloyalty, or part of the machinations of mafia-controlled unions.

Temp agencies also tend to be rather uptight. Most of them are afraid yer gonna make them look bad at your assignments. I don't care for the condescending way they coach you to "make a good impression" and "blow them away," because this particular company is "one of our best clients" and "that's why we're sending you." They want you to dress up, resulting in you, the temp, being the most formally dressed person in the office, which makes your employment status all the more obvious. The process adds extra layers of corporate misery.

My God, why am I going through with this again? Well, I feel better now that I've relieved myself in the crystalline void of cyberspace. Hopefully it'll help me through this (please, God) "temporary" situation.

Return to Eden

My travelogue has been aborted. I have about a page of journaling for each day of the vacation, but it's just not that interesting. If it had been a life-changing experience, I would post it. Sorry, Erin. You can call me if you'd still like to hear about it. But I gotta get movin' on the job search and writing my sketch comedy revue and sample articles for City Pages and The Rake.

I was afraid Minneapolis would look dull and drab after visiting all those beautiful and/or bustling metropolises, but it actually looks newer and more interesting than before. Everything has been refreshed, the look, the smell, the feel of the place. Even the breezes seem fresher.

My parents spent last week in Iowa. (Dad was attending a conference.) They left me a car to tool around in, as they often do during trips. On Thursday I headed north to see Cambridge, where we lived until the day after I finished first grade. The trip took an hour, because I started on I-35 on the hunch that it would take me to or near Cambridge. It didn't, so I had to turn west at North Branch and follow State Hwy. 95 for 15 minutes to reach my destination.

I should've taken Hwy. 65, which I drove under shortly after entering town. The population is 5,500, up 2,000 from 1985, the year we left. They expanded 65 and built a hill under it for an overpass. Fast-food joints, car dealerships and strip malls have grown up around the highway since its expansion. As I headed into town, that development quickly gave way to an older working-class neighborhood with some vintage trailers in the yards, the kind Lucy, Ricky, Fred and Ethel took to California.

Then came the skinny railyard. Boxcars waited on the sidetracks as the occasional freight train passed through. The downtown was still two blocks from the tracks, although not quite as vibrant as it seemed when I was 7. I continued past Main Street to Fern, the street I grew up on. Taking a right, I turned onto a world in miniature, as if my childhood had been shrunk to fit into a snow globe. Everything looked so much smaller than it did when I was a kid, but so little had changed. Our church, Christ the King, an imposing, black edifice with a white statue of the Virgin Mary in the courtyard, looked identical to what I remembered, as did the mouldering convocation center across the cracked parking lot, the unkempt t-ball field across the street and the faded elementary school beyond the outfield. The only differences were bright, new jungle gyms around the school and the greatly increased height of the trees lining the ballfield.

That was the field I walked through on my way home from school on the last day of first grade, crying the whole time. The next day we left Cambridge for the 'burbs, in our case New Brighton, but when it comes to the 'burbs, names aren't that important. Seeing my first (and only real)hometown again reminded me why I'd been so heartbroken to leave it. Continuing down Fern Street, the high school ballfield followed my old t-ball field on the right, after which I came to our block. Again, the trees were much taller and more numerous now, providing a canopy that would've drastically altered the sun-soaked memories of my early youth.

Our next-door neighbors, whose son was my best friend, remodeled their house a few years after we moved out, so no nostalgia was unleashed by the sight of it. The same was true for our old house, even though the only big differences were the aluminum siding, the bay window and the badminton net in the front yard. It was still a simple, brown, one-story ranch. Disappointed, I kept on rolling slowly through the neighborhood. A few houses had remained the same, which was a comforting reminder that not all houses built since the 80's have a 2o-year shelf life (even if they look as disposable as those single-use cameras).

At the end of our block there'd been a horse farm with a silo, an abrupt demarcation between town and country. It appeared to still be there, although the many new trees obscured the view from the street. I drove around the perimeter of our three-block 'hood, noting the disappearance of the vacant lots with their crabgrass, bald spots and dandelions. The yards were all flat, spacious and kelly green. It could've been any prosperous, first-ring 'burb, filled as it was with preciously constructed ranch-style houses of the 50's and 60's. The difference was we knew our neighbors and all amenities were located within walking distance. That's only true of a tiny percentage of Suburbia.

It took me two passes to turn onto the bus entrance for the elementary school. I was afraid my persistence would be mistaken for pedophilia. It was still summer, though, so I was probably in the clear. The letters placed high up on the building said "Cambridge Primary School," but I don't remember anyone calling it by that name. The big three-story block by the parking lot was the gym. I remember the day in P.E. when we were told to climb a net to the ceiling of that gym with only stretching mats to land on if we fell. Never too fond of heights or risking bodily harm, I got about five feet off the ground before I came back down. One of the main doors was open, through which I could see a 20- or 30-something janitor operating a floor buffer. I thought about asking if I could look around the place, but it seemed like a creepy request, so I moved on.

Along Old Hwy. 65 (a.k.a. Main St.) was a steakhouse where the old drive-in, Fuzz'n'Dumpy's, and then the A&W had been. The drive-in area was now enclosed in glass. It looked much nicer, but I still missed the drive-ins. I turned off Main St. looking for my babysitter's house, where my parents had dropped off my sister and I before work and picked us up after school. The area was older and lower-income, sparing it the homogenizing and stultifying effects of latter-day affluence. I couldn't find the house, but that was likely a failure of memory. My image of the house is a large, shabby, white two-story in the shade of a huge, old tree. There were no dwellings fitting that description.


My second pass through downtown was more thorough, including a slow drive by some national fast-food chains, a gothic teenybopper (gasp!) tattoo parlor and a still-active strip mall that had opened just before we moved away. I parked and wandered through the same Ben Franklin five-and-dime store I'd visited as a kid. Not much had changed. There were still cheap plastic toys, jigsaw puzzles, model-building kits and generic candy. I didn't talk to the cashiers. It felt like I was intruding, an interloper in Paradise. Next door was the same clothing store my mom had taken me to over 20 years ago. The facade remained a 50's-style suburban classic, "Leader" written in man-sized cursive letters across the second story. Inside was a decor still making the transition from 80's to 90's, although the men's half had a more contemporary look. From there I crossed the street and went into the old, but gleaming-white post office. There was a mural inside I assumed was a product of the WPA, and the brass mouldings had a hallucinogenic effect on me. I swear I saw George Bailey behind the counter.

The Rum River Park was my next stop, a setting for some of my fondest childhood memories. I don't actually remember doing anything specific there, just vague recollections of picnics. The big shock was discovering it was 3 blocks from our old house. Back in the day it had easily appeared to be a car-worthy trip. Then again, I seem to recall driving to church, which was 2 blocks away. The park had hardly changed a bit, although, as with most of the town's preservation, this mainly looked like a case of benign neglect rather than studied restraint. I walked through the greenest-green grass, past a port-a-pottie, a sand volleyball court and a picnic shelter, all of which showed signs of, if not abandonment, then at best half-assed upkeep. It was hilly and tree-enclosed. To get a peek of the wide, lazy river, I had to hike through a wall of towering, deciduous timber. (I'm sorry. I grew up in the suburbs. I don't know shit about trees.) The hills weren't as mountainous or steep as I remembered, but I was happy to see the place mostly unchanged. The only significant landmark I'd forgotten was a large firepit encircled by stone benches. Of course, we'd never been into barbecuing.

I continued roaming the town, noticing the hospital had expanded and was probably the biggest local employer. The road that ran parallel to Hwy. 65 was under construction and unavailable for me to check out the drag where we used to go out to eat or rollerskating. The roller rink held a lot of memories: skating awkwardly to my favorite songs (that I only seemed to hear at the rink), such classics as "We Built This City" by Starship and "Ghostbusters" by Ray Parker, Jr. (Yes, I had to look up "Ray Parker, Jr."), and playing a primitive video game with my best friend Eric, wherein I steered the front end of a fire truck and he steered the rear. I found it to be a rather challenging game. Eric always took the back end because he was better at it, a fact he wasn't shy about sharing with me, and one of which I can be excused, since he was 4 years older. (If you're wondering what it was like to have a best friend who was 4 years my senior, the only word that comes to mind is "normal.")

But I already knew the roller rink was gone, along with the anonymous fast-food place next door where we'd often gone after a good, long skate. Previous homecomings had alerted me to that sobering reality. The time had come once again to bid adieu to my idealized, antediluvian childhood. I headed back south down Hwy. 65, back through the obstinately adolescent 'burbs to my new, mature home in Uptown. There were no maudlin, Movie-of-the-Week-style tears, just a wistful acceptance of the passage of time and the snow globes it leaves behind.

(Mostly) Untouched Wilderness: July 22-23

We made our way through the Rockies slowly, overlooking beautiful, wooded valleys with rivers running along the bottom. The beauty was mostly lost on me, though, due to conditions described in the previous post. I finally remedied my seating situation early in the evening when the Exasperating Family went to dinner in the dining car. With some urgency I checked out the next car for open seats. There were quite a few, so I moved my stuff to a free two-seat combo. The reason I moved while the annoying people were away (as all good Midwesterners should know) was because I didn't want to take the chance of offending them. Ah, the joys of Minnesota Nice.

The new car was much quieter and more relaxed, but there was a price to pay for this serenity. The new seat's effect on my posterior was akin to sitting on a burlap sack bare-assed. All the seats on that car possessed the same mysterious quality of abrasiveness. However, it was still a small price to pay, so I tried to enjoy my new, calm surroundings.

The scenery was wonderfully stark, the high, dry plains and barren hills dotted with brush. For one of the few times on the trip I kept a Real Time journal, meaning I wrote about stuff as it happened or as I saw it out the windows. I'll switch to the present tense to give you a sense of the immediacy of these observations: (It's almost like you're there!)

6:51 pm (Grand Junction, CO): This wild country has been tamed. By an oil refinery. What vision & boldness must've been required to think, "Ya know what this majestic, untamed wilderness needs? A big, ugly, smelly oil refinery." Without sleep, I become even more of a voyeur. Approaching tunnel with picture-perfect portal, as if we were about to enter the Mines of Moria.

Being extremely tired, I did a lot of reading instead of the writing I'd meant to do. I had 2 books that I'd purchased for the trip: A People's History of the World by Chris Harman and My Custom Van by Michael Ian Black. The former was fascinating for me, as a leftist history buff. The latter was an hilarious collection of absurdist essays. If any of the following diary entries amuse you, credit Michael Ian Black. He was my inspiration. By the end of the day we were in Utah. That night I got at least 6 hours of sleep, thanks to my exhaustion, even though I had to switch sides repeatedly & my neck was quite sore in the morning. ("That's what she said!" As far as I'm concerned, that joke is an evergreen.)

7/23

7:54 am (Nevada?): The girl kitty-corner from me is still trying to sleep, like many folks in the back half of the car. (This is the last car.) I've gotta hand it to her. She's determined to get her 8 or so hours of sleep. She's also English. Coincidence? (Yes.) I picked up a sausage, egg & cheese bagel from the mini-cafeteria. The exceedingly courteous (& probably gay) attendant politely popped my bagel in the microwave and set a cup of ice in the cardboard tray for my (27%)cranberry juice. (Engineer announces copper wire was stolen from signal boxes, causing another 2-hour delay last night. Now 4 hours behind sked.) It was the kind of breakfast you could purchase at any respectable gas station, but when I carried it back to my seat (with very little trouble thanks to the amazingly secure cardboard tray) and took a bite out of it, ya know what it tasted like? I'll tell you what it tasted like: America. Can we come together as a people & demand our gov't guarantee the right to ride on a train staffed with at least one sassy, fat, affectionate, black woman? I think we can. If democracy cannot deliver on this promise, then what good is it really? A passenger commented on the coolness of the A/C, and our conductor responded, "I like it cold. There are only a few things I like hot, but I'm not gonna tell you what they are." She got many laughs for that one. I wonder what the 50's version of that exchange was, between a black worker and white customers. Probly very similar.

9:38 am: A middle-aged couple was sitting in lawn chairs in a tiny town. I wonder if they make it a point to watch the Amtrak trains pass by each day. That'd be pretty sad, esp. when you consider they'd have to call or check the website b/c of Amtrak's chronic tardiness. There was a guy waving at us in a bigger town. My thoughts: "We're more important than you & we're going places more important than this." (I can be a real bastard sometimes.) I salute these modern-day pioneers, these latter-day frontiersmen & -women who brave a forbidding landscape & stake their claim to a barren plot of unforgiving land. What moves them to choose such a harsh life? One thought & one thought alone: They have a lot of old cars & pickups & they need a community where they can leave their vehicles in the backyard w/o the neighbors complainin'.

10:34 am: Just saw a huge "BM" on the side of a hill. (I mean the letters "B" & "M", not what they stand for.) Could that be the most laborious, painstaking scatological joke in history? No, the name of the town below is Battle Mountain. Darn. The 50's-era grocery stores & restaurants & motels were in good shape & apparently still in business. I guess its remoteness keeps the chains away, except for the Flying J truck stop. The place looks like a throwback. The main drag ran along the tracks, but I didn't see a train station. I'd like to visit that place. It looks like what Cambridge(, MN, where I lived thru 1st grade) must've looked like in the 50's & 60's.

We passed a couple ghost towns and half-ghost towns in Colorado and Utah. They were scattered collections of shacks, trailers and rusty vehicles, likely choked off in recent decades by the death of their rail lifeline.

Despite the burlap-sack seats, my new car had electrical outlets, so I could plug in my laptop and type the first entries in my travelogue. There was no WiFi on any of the trains I rode, as far as I knew, although I didn't check in the Lounge/Sightseeing/Observation cars. On this train, the California Zephyr, originating in Chicago and terminating at the San Francisco Bay, I didn't check out the Lounge or Dining cars at all, mainly due to fatigue and the pleasantness of my seating location.

At some of the stops they'd let us get off, stretch our legs and (for some of us) fill our lungs with that "sweet Carolina smoke." (Name that episode.) I disembarked a few times, but stiffness was not a problem. (I wonder how many of my less mature readers are giggling right now.) We picked up many old people in Reno, not to stereotype seniors as gambling addicts. But they are.

From Nevada's desert, riven by canyons and spiked with mountains, we climbed into the Sierra Nevada, where we stayed until we were well inside California. The slopes were cloaked in towering pines. We rolled lazily through Gold Country, peering at the peaks and old prospecting camps our tour guide pointed out over the PA. There was no hint of urgency to make up the hours we'd lost on the High Plains. It seemed like we could've gone much faster. The grade was gentle and the corners generally loose (as opposed to "tight").

I called my 2nd cousin (or 1st cousin once removed or just my dad's 1st cousin) Bob Foley a couple times to give him updates on our ETA. After Sacramento, the train whooshed through the rest of the journey. I "de-trained," in Amtrak parlance, at Martinez in the East Bay at midnight, 6 1/2 hours late. Bob and his wife, Pat, were walking across the platform to meet me. They're in their 60's. Bob is at least 6' 4". Pat is at least a foot shorter. They hugged me and drove me to their house in a Lexus.

On the way home, we got stuck in frozen traffic. Bob turned off the engine twice because his tank was low. After a few minutes of fear that my trip's delay-curse had struck again, the cars and semis started moving. There was a bunch of debris on the road that resembled cardboard and an intact hatchback on the shoulder, but no sign of a serious accident.

My utter fatigue limited my conversational creativity. When we arrived at their house in Danville, I was struck by the suburban splendor of the neighborhood. Their abode was a spotless model of refined, upper-middle-class taste. I climbed into the gorgeous guest bed past the point of tired, heading toward wired. Sleeping in such a comfortable bed after two days and nights in a train seat was a little disorienting, but it didn't take me long to fall asleep.