...but now I see

I was sitting in a coffee shop in downtown Anchorage, killing time and playing on the 'net. I had been there for several hours on account that I had almost 12 to slaughter. Anyway, it was the kind of place that locked their restrooms to prevent non customers from wandering in and relieving themselves; the key was tied to an espresso filter and left laying on the counter. All this was explained in a sign on the bathroom door

A blind man comes into the shop, wagging about his cane. He goes over to the restroom-- I think nothing of it. About ten minutes later, I too needed to use the facilities. I get the key, head to the restroom, and find the blind man and his cane patiently waiting outside, apparently under the impression the lavatory was occupied-- clearly, he was unable to read the sign.

Overcome with a sense of awkwardness, I returned the key to the counter and fled into the gray Alaskan afternoon.

It occurred to me that this might have made me a terrible person. Karma confirmed this.

At the airport, right before boarding the plane, a man says to me, "Has anyone ever told you that you look like Larry the Cable Guy?" I, quite frankly, wanted to die. I hurried onto the plane and sat down for my five hour flight, only to discover a banshee infant to my right and an ape-like child napping to my left. The ape-like child was very well behaved for the entire flight; the banshee child lived up to it's name.

I am very tired.

Out of the Wild

As I type this post, I'm sitting in a coffee shop in downtown Anchorage, buzzed on caffeine, waiting for my plane. I'm leaving Alaska after a little more than four months.

I know that my posts from Alaska have been scant-- filled with pictures but containing little substance. I've been busy, and when I wasn't busy, I was lazy. And I was at work quite a bit. And sometimes I was hungover. And there was a period where I didn't have my laptop. And another period where I didn't have my laptop charger. But enough excuses. On my last day here, let's talk about Alaska.

Alaska is a beautiful, beautiful, wild place. I went on several hikes that I will remember for ages. The landscape is vast and harsh, overwhelming and bewitching. I was almost attacked by a moose. I got to pet a particularly curious fox on a drunken night on the way home from the bar. I got within twenty feet of a black bear who was thankfully indifferent to me. I rafted on a glacier fed river. I bathed in a stream miles away from the nearest person. I saw the northern lights dance across the sky. I explored the state capital, inaccessible by road. I wandered the biggest city, Anchorage, and enjoyed a street fair and a baseball game (starting at midnight and utilizing no artificial light) in Fairbanks. I dosed acid and wandered through a music festival, convinced something big was happening. I had an incredible live music experience at the World Famous Denali Salmon Bake with the Stumblebum Brass Band. I cooked a grouse, and ate part of a moose and fresh caught Alaskan salmon. It was four months filled with amazing experiences.

I went there to work at a gift shop, and let's be honest, that was awful. It was the worst job I've ever had. The place was poorly ran, the employers were indifferent to the employees, and the customers were generally rude and haughty. I met several people thee as well-- some I enjoyed and others I delight in never having to see again. I made several assumptions about native Alaskans, seasonal workers, and Alaskan tourists that are negative and irrelevant to this post. I do not regret my time here.

What do I regret? I never made the 9 hour bus trip out to Wonder Lake to photograph Mount McKinley. I never camped overnight in Denali National Park. I never got a good view of a grizzly bear, and never saw a wolf or a bull moose sporting a giant set of antlers. I never made it north of the Arctic Circle. Alas-- there's always next year.

I do not think I will come back to Denali next year, but I think I will return to Alaska. The Kenai peninsula looks inviting. Maybe a short weekend trip up to Denali to do some of the things I missed? We'll see. Right now, though, it's back to New Orleans

Monkey Gone To Heaven

Earlier in the summer I got a ticket from the Alaskan State Troopers. An open container violation demanding $210 from me.

One afternoon earlier in the summer (the same night this picture was taken, it so happens, although it is doubtful, nay!, plain wrong, the date of this encounter was July 1) we went out to Windy Bridge to explore and initiate Alex and Danny into life as an Alaskan summer worker (these pictures were taken just before the law got involved-- once again, though, not on the 21st of June. In fact, I looked at my citation; all of this occurred on June 21st. Whatever.). Anyway, we drank a few beers, opted not to litter, and carried several empty bottles back to the car. Unfortunately, some of us were far drunker than others-- Danny opted to run around the bridge with a bottle in hand, attracting the police who, after applying breathylizers to the group, wrote us all these tickets.

However, as the judge was begrudgingly forced to admit, Alaska's open container laws apply only to the driver of vehicles, not passengers. So we got off. We fought the law, and we won. The monkey (one of many) is off my back. The cop almost cried, he was so disappointed.

American justice. Fuck yeah.

Camping at Montana Creek

About a mile and a half down the Montana Creek Trail there is a trapper's cabin owned by a friend of our bosses-- we're allowed to camp there.  It's a glorious spot perched above a river and far from anything.  We all went as a group the first time-- later I went out by myself, making it almost to the cabin before stumbling upon an angry moose in the trail.  He refused to yield and threatened to charge.  I, naturally, retreated and went home.  It was exhilarating being harassed by a beast of that size that could have easily killed me with a well placed hoof to the skull.

Tyler at the cabin

There are several of these structures along this trail, as well as other trails in the area.  I assume they are markers for the trail, but the trails all seem well socialized leaving these feeling extraneous.  They could possibly (but unlikely) be emergency shelters, but they seem far to small and haphazard.  They have a creepy Blair Witch feel to them, whatever their purpose.  Aiding the unease, both of these had animal parts (a skin and a wing) suspended from them.

Suicide Tuesday

I find myself, here on this Suicide Tuesday, alive... vaguely.  Not dead, not permanently maimed, not mindlessly vacant and wandering the streets panhandling for change and wrestling dogs for scraps like a psychotic.  My eyesight is almost entirely back to normal.  I have, more than once, had the energy to get out of bed.  I had the urge to eat something-- not much, but baby steps, of course.  I'm yet to be able to gain an erection, but I'm sure that skill will return in time, and besides... I don't have the energy for one now anyway.  Yes, it was quite a weekend.

I was feeling whimsical after work on Saturday, when we all headed deliriously over to Amps with giant styrofoam letters left at the bar from the private birthday party we had just finished hosting.  I had little interest in spending my hard earned money on a drug I was tired of, as I am fairly tired of cocaine, and instead tried a little harder and got four hits of ecstasy for the same price.  Yay.

So, the rest of the night and most of the morning was spent rolling about the French Quarter.  My initial instincts had been to hookup, but that proved impossible in my attention-deficit state, coupled with the fact that it was about 8am.  Noonish, I went by the bar to retrieve a bag I had left the night before, made my self a triple and wandered out to catch the bus back to Meitaire. 

None of this is the problem, really.  In fact, I was very happy throughout the previously mentioned adventures, as MDMA is wont to make someone be.  In fact, throughout my experimentation, X is definitely my favorite illicit substance.  It's just so overwhelming yet clear.  So complete and intoxicating and still something one can somewhat function on and be out in something similar to a version of public.  The problems began when I got home, wasn't the least bit sleepy, was still rolling a bit, and started drinking on an empty stomach.

I drank all day Sunday.  Jeana got home and took me out to a bar for a drink or two after she got off work.  I came home and continued drinking.  I passed out sometime around 3 in the bathroom.  Sometime around 5 I relocated to my bed.  I woke up around noon (yes, still rolling a bit) and fixed myself a bloody mary, followed by a screwdriver.  This is, I will admit, where awkward decisions were made on my part.  Some people may know that certain kinds of cough syrup and most types of allergy pills will, when taken in unrecommended quantities will make you pleasantly (or unpleasantly, depending on your disposition) wrecked.  So, going to CVS to procure these drugs were not a good idea.  Taking an entire bottle and box of both substances whilst still on a bit of a roll and steadily consuming vast amounts of alcohol was a stupendously bad idea.  I did, however, have quite a time while I could both stand and stay awake.  I passed out in the vicinity of 11(pm) on Monday and awoke about 6(pm) on Tuesday.  Most of the preceding was written on Wednesday.

So, yes, preach if you must... I guess I could have died and that it is a grand miracle that I'm alive.  I did, however, have buckets and buckets of fun.  As I'm conscience to write this, I say even trade.

Orpheus

I slid into work just before midnight, already well lubricated from the Brad Paisley concert, and poured myself a triple Jack and Coke.  There was a decent crowd, I went about my work, stocking, refilling, cleaning.  It was Latin Party-- the promoter arrived, the place filled up to capacity within fifteen minutes like a tidal wave overtaking a coastal town. 

Three bartenders scrambling to serve 100 people, one barback scrambling to keep from running out of necessities, unable to get to the store rooms, unable to move through the packed club.

...alerted security to the old homeless man dancing for change inside the VIP after his 'audience' made clear they wished her were no longer there.  It was cold outside-- he didn't want to go.

...ran out of ice, made several trips down to the corner store, dragging back bag after bag or ice, arriving only to have to go again almost immediately. 

...saw the girls screaming and bickering on the side walk, saw the unconscious girl dragged to the chair.

The police came shortly after to deal with the screaming girls, who had stopped their screaming and supplemented it with brawling.  Three cop cars, their lights a fine accompaniment to the house music blasting inside.  Upon entering the lobby, the cops discovered the OD in the chair, called an ambulance to take her away.  Official club position is that she drank too much... I've seen plenty of drunk people, none whose eyes rolled back like that.  Trying to move the girl angered her male companion-- he attacked the police officers and was promptly arrested.

Three strikes, you're out.  Tired of this nonsense, the NOPD shut down the Ohm Lounge at 3am, cleared everyone out, robbed us of at least another $1000 in tips.  The employees promptly went to @ to bemoan their misfortune.

"Chaos, baby.  Bang your head on that."

The American Dream

I have seen the dewey fruition of the American Dream-- the grand, glowing catharsis that is all that this country wishes to be and the perfect example of our can-do spirit.  I have been there, and you can go there, too.  This is Laughlin, Nevada.  But let's be precise:  American Dream is not in Laughlin, it is Laughlin, perched in neon splendor upon the Colorado River.  

But this post is not about Laughlin and why it is the American Dream-- that post will have to wait until I perhaps visit there again (and, great God, how I want to visit that mystical place again).  No, this post is about something I saw today, something I experienced first-hand, fully-immersed in the experience but always the constant outside observer.  Today I saw not the American Dream, but the clawing, fighting, brutal struggle to achieve it, against all odds, through hellish circumstance, desperate attempts to plant personal flags in the fertile soil of our national mythology.

I went with my friend and roommate to Delgado Community College to keep company while she registered for the upcoming semester under the assumption it would take 30 or so minutes.  It did not-- it took hours.  First we stood in a long line a swelteringly hot room-- these people directed us to another line, even longer, located in a hallway.  Upon reaching the front of the hallway line, we were told there was a problem, we could not be helped by these people; to go stand back in the original line.  We stood there (it was shorter this time), and upon reaching the front, were directed to a computer where we filled out some online forms.  Then we went back to the line, stood in it again for some time, and at the front were handed an index card with the number 26.  There were 100 index cards potentially awaiting circulation-- as we tried to find a seat they called number 93.  Thus queued, we waited in the sweltering hot room for one tired woman to process the 32 people ahead of us.

As not a post about Laughlin, Nevada this is also not a post about inefficieny, but instead about the people I witnessed and watched as I waited in these lines.  Everyone seemed to be undergoing similar troubles, hopping about between these long lines and waiting in this oppressively hot room, and yet... the grumbling was almost non-existant.  Yes, of course, there was some overheard here and there in snatches of cellphone conversations and drifting from our own mouths, but over-all... none.

Here were people waiting patiently in this glorious unpleasantness to better themselves, and damn grateful for the opportunity.  Here were people struggling to gain the rights to a piece of paper that would allow them the wages necessary to live in their houses, to drive their cars, to pay for the daycares for the children they were forced to bring with them on this particular day.  Here were people looking to learn a trade in plumbing or welding, to become a teacher, to become a nurse; to learn actual skills apart from the useless liberal arts, things more important than English literature or film studies.

So I watched these people standing in lines attempting to do what, as Americans, we are trained to do.  To improve ourselves, to reach for the stars, to do better in this life than our parents ever had the opportunity to do.  Isn't that the American dream.

A close friend of mine told me some years ago that she could explain the ills of our generation, and I think she made quite an argument.  Modern American society has always been about outdoing our parents, about being richer and more successful than they ever could, yet, our parents reached the pinnacle.  It's impossible now to do better than the parents that run the country, to be more successful or richer than the partners, CEO, politicians who form the upper-middle class that define America.  They've tapped out, leaving their children awash at liberal arts colleges without point or purpose, lethargic and broken.

And I agree with that, for the stereotypical America about which it's written.  But as for the real America?  The one that doesn't run the country but keeps it running?  It is far from the truth.  There is still room for betterment and improvement.  The American dream still exists for the average American, who, as privelage washes down from the upper classes and out amongst the general population, is finally getting a chance.

On the Canal Line

Every Friday and Saturday I walk down to Veterans Memorial Boulevard and wait for the bus that comes at 8pm.  I board the bus and am sometimes the only white face.  After 20 or so minutes we arrive at the cemeteries at the base of Canal Boulevard in Orleans Parish where I wait for the Canal Street Car to come and take me into downtown New Orleans.  When it arrives I am never the only white face, although sometimes the only white face with anywhere to actually go.

The Canal Line was completed after Hurricane Katrina and comes with a unique line of new red cars.  Occasionally one of the green cars traditional to the St. Charles line will be used on this route, and vice versa, but the red and green cars both have their usual niches.  I prefer the green cars-- the red cars have been made wheel chair accessible at the expense of aesthetics (although I suppose practicality is more important than beauty), and their seating arrangement, in turn, resembles more a usual city bus than a trolley. 

None of this is really the point-- instead, over the past two weeks I have seen two (2) things on this car that have moved me.  As follows:

An elderly black man, worn and withered by age, boarded the trolley and sat on the bench-style seats near the front.  Several stops later another, much younger black man boarded with his son, around three or four.  They were standing in the front of the trolley, next to the elderly man, paying the fare, when the car started with a jolt.  The boy stumbled, almost fell.  The elderly man, in a natural, habitual way, caught and steadied him.  The father, distracted by the operator, hadn't noticed the boy nearly fell nor that he was caught.  Once finished in the front, they went and sat down.  That was all.

A woman and her son boarded the car.  The boy was about 25, 26, challenged-- wearing a pink 'Hannah Montana' sweatshirt designed for, I assume, a pre-teen girl.  It was two or three sizes too small, but seemed to make him happy.  It was his mother though, that I found the most appealing-- she was in her mid-forties, with the worn, weathered beaten-down face of someone whose lived a hard life of loving something very deeply that was tiring, time-consuming and difficult.  I watched her until they departed, both of them waving goodbye to the driver with drama and excitement.  I assume they ride that route often-- it is possible they do not.

Sometimes I ponder how I can feel such cynicism and despair at one time and such love and appreciation at another.  I usually shrug it off-- it's a wonderful life.

On Missing Trains

Of all the stories posted here-in, this is perhaps the one of which I am least proud.  Stories of drugged and drunken exploits come with moderate bragging rights, travel tales have their own appeal, but this is a tragedy of hubris and stupidity of which I am ashamed.  To begin, some back ground information:

The Amtrak passenger train City of New Orleans passes through Newbern, Tennessee on it's north-south run from Chicago to New Orleans.  My family live a bit more than an hour from Newbern and when traveling home for a visit this train is the most comfortable, most cost-efficient and generally the easiest mode of transport.  I have ridden this train several times and boarded and exited at this station each time.

So, poised to board the train early in the morning of December 26th me and my father (a semi-driver for more than 35 years) arrived at the station, watched a few freight trains pass, and ascertained that the the tracks to our left headed north and the tracks to the right headed south.  We were so sound in our knowledge that when an Amtrak passenger train came rolling up at precisely the time my New Orleans-bound train was scheduled to arrive, that we watched it stop, watched passengers deboard, and watched it roll away certain in our sense of cardinal directions and positive that that train had come from New Orleans and was headed to Chicago.

Newbern is an unmanned station, so there was no one to ask as to how late my train was going to be.  We did however ask one of recently exited passengers from where she originated.  When she said Chicago, I stared at her disbelievingly, then stared at the tracks and realized that we had been wrong.  I had missed the train, or rather, mistook the train, which is probably just as bad.

Deeply shamed, me and my father were.  We studied the tracks for a while and decided that even if we were wrong, we were wrong in the most logical way and that our wrong assumption was the easiest assumption to make.  We drove away, cursing the silly train for traveling north to south in such a haphazard way.  Pride cometh before the fall-- I boarded the train later in the week and arrived safely back in the Crescent City.

Red Bull Gives You Wings

     It is like a slow ascent to consciousness, like floating up from the bottom of the sea towards the sky above.  You realize that you are cold, but you don't know what you can do about it.  Next, you realize that you are walking, but it seems natural so you continue.    Then it dawns on you that you are outside, but that doesn't seem odd.  Finally you come to your senses and realize, with regret and shock, that you haven't the slightest idea where you are.  You're wandering around outside, without a jacket, in what appears to be a random suburb filled with unfamiliar houses.  This is not your suburb.

You check yourself.  You're fairly clean and dry, so you've been on your feet the entire time-- luckily no rolling around in the dewy grass of someone's front yard.  You see a Picayune on the ground and are thankful that you are assumedly still in the New Orleans Metro Area.  You pick it up and check the date:  Sunday.  This is right, last night was Saturday.  Check your pockets-- your phone is gone.  You have your ID, a debit card, and one single dollar.  Hope you didn't go to any ATMs whilst you were blacked out.

You pull your arms into your shirt and shiver and walk, and you curse yourself and your situation, staring around dully in disbelief.  Finally you stumble onto Veteran's Boulevard, but you're on the south side and far too west. You go into a gas station, looking a fright, and get twenty dollars out of an ATM. You stumble into a nearby sports bar, call a cab, and have a beer while you wait.

You get home and learn several things:  you gave your phone to your friend before disappearing, assumedly into a cab.  You left the bar around five-- you came to around nine.  During four unaccounted hours you spent thirty nine of the forty dollars you don't remember getting out of the ATM.  Theoretically, that money went to the cab driver that dumped you in the middle of nowhere.  You also realize you don't remember any of the five (5) drinks, four of which were bought for you, you had at the bar before abruptly leaving.  Mystery somewhat solved, you cancel all plans for the day and crash hard and long into your bed.

This friends, is a shining example of the absolute empirical evil that is Red Bull.  When mixed with vodka, it produces a delicious concoction that will try it's hardest to kill you.  While straight booze/beer/wine will dull your mind and body and eventually leave you passed out on the floor/couch/pool table/wherever, Red Bull and vodka will only dull your mind, keeping your body sprightly and alert so that it leaps joyfully into autopilot while your mind passes into shadow.

Experiences don't lie; you have been warned.

Two Days Before the Day After Tomorrow

I don't like the snow.  It's really cold and wet and dirty and altogether unpleasant.  I've spent a fair amount of energy avoiding it.  So when I was awoken from my slumber this morning to the excited cries of "It's Snowing!!  It's Snowing!!"  I automatically thought "I'm in New Orleans.  You are a liar.  Stop shouting."  Unfortunately, they were not wicked lies.  It was really snowing.  In New Orleans.  WTF?

And not just a little snow, (Okay, maybe just a little snow when compared to places like Chicago or Long Island, but for SE Louisiana?) but at least a wet, slushy inch of wet miserable white all over everything.  And then, later in the day, it started to sleet.  I don't know who to blame... so I'm pointing my finger at global warming.  It's up to you Al Gore and Dennis Quaid!  Save us.  It's cold out there.

Ian's First Snow

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas...

Palm trees are NOT native to SE Louisiana

Snow Angels

Kicking and Screaming Out of the Closet

I'm tottering somewhere between amusement, outrage and satisfaction.  I have just been told that I'm not gay enough.  To work in a gay bar.  As security.

Well, they didn't say it quite like that.  They were kinder.  They told me that they didn't like to hire straight guys because they seldom worked out very well in the high-volume, sometimes handsy atmosphere.  I nodded, although I was a bit confused as to why this information was being presented.  Then we talked about my experience and whether I had any past gay bar experience.  Of course I had, in DC, at the Eagle, but since that was such a short gig and not even listed on my application I left it out.  I instead turned the focus to Ohm in New Orleans, which is, unfortunately, straight.

After a few more needling, back-handed searching remarks it became clear that they thought I was some recession-driven, economically desperate straight boy willing to do anything for a job.  So I had to come out of the closet, again, and prove that I was really an only moderately desperate gay boy who would do anything for a job granted it didn't involve a background check (They always come back negatively due to discrepancies with my tax returns and my registered addresses and my job history.  That's the major problem with transient wanderings).  Well, I burst forth from the closet and was met with... skepticism.  They didn't believe me... they pretended to, as not to be rude, but clearly they thought I was a opportunistic heterosexual pining for a part-time gig.  Stupid beard, I blame you for this...

Oilcan Harry's claims to be the most popular club in Austin, gay or straight, and for all I know that is true.  It certainly seemed way to nelly to be a place I would want to hang out on the weekends, but maybe in Austin effeminate heterosexuals flock there with the fags to escape the pretentious stench of Lone Star-drenched hole in the wall indie clubs.  I have no idea.  I do know that they called me back and told me that they would keep my application but could not offer me a position at this time.

When supporting anti-discrimination laws based on sexual orientation, this is not the situation I imagined.  I feel like I just went to California and tried to buy a marriage licence ... only to be turned away because they didn't think I was an American citizen.  

Epic Fail: The Daiquiri Bay Knife Fight and My Descent into Alcoholism

Attention class-- Please raise your hand if you believed I had the constitution to be a non-drinking sober person. Anyone?  Anyone?  Well, to hell with you all, you were right.

That Jeana Richard with the evil red eyes?  She just might be the devil.  That is a chocolate daiquiri and it was absolutely fabulous.

But in my defense-- I had only moments prior had a near-death experience, and had no choice but to turn to alcohol to calm my nerves.  Yes, it's true.  we were at Daiquiri Bay, a lovely little daq shop near our Metarie home when, hark, what sound but a woman screaming?  Nay, not really screaming.  Bellowing.  Like a cow.  Apparently some crazy NOLA East boy pulled a knife on her because she was being drunken and annoying.  She told him it was very disrespectful to say "fuck" in front of her.  Or she told him it was disgusting that he threw up in the bathroom.  Or something.  I don't know... Either way he pulled a knife but was driven away by a pack of angry regular customers.  The boy fled on foot and the police came.  They asked us is we saw anything.  We didn't.  

Later, we went to Frat House and I had more to drink.  Oh, alcohol.  It's good to have you back.

Saints in Hell

I never made it to the mountains. I said I wanted to several times, but a combination of mid-90s heat and humidity, afternoon thunderstorms, and the fact that, without a car, it is damn-near impossible to get to Great Smoky Mountain National Park all conspired against me. But I can say that I tried.

I left Knoxville on Tuesday afternoon wandering down Chapman Highway south of town. Within a half hour I looked like I had hopped into a swimming pool fully clothed, so sweaty was I. A combination of my appearance and the complete un-hitchhike-ability of Chapman Highway kept me from getting a ride. Before long, I had given up on my wilderness adventure (as, history will show, heat often makes me do) and decided to go directly to Maryville, where I could theoretically shower and stay with my cousin Tim. So I wandered pathetically into the Frontier Stop and Shop on Chapman to get directions. And the clerk gave me soft-serve ice cream.

Now, armed with directions, I mounted onto another highway. So disenchanted with hitching I didn't even try, just trudging along in the heat, when a car going the opposite direction drove up in the turning lane and offered me a ride. Unsolicited.

Now, while I do not want to say bad things about people who are kind to me, this woman was a little nutty. She had driven past me a few moments earlier, when God spoke to her and told her to turn around and retrieve me and take me with her. As I entered her car, she prudently inquired if I was going to rape or kill her (I didn't, by the way)-- despite my negative response, her boyfriend, with whom she was on the phone with, was not pleased with her decision to pick me up. They phone argued about half the time I was in the car with her, he claiming she should never pick up hitchhikers and her adamently stating she would do whatever God told her. Before long, she hung up on him. This began an awkward conversation where she related to me the joys of Jesus Christ but soon veered into confessions that we were driving through Ku Klux Klan country, and it wouldn't have been safe for me to walk (I wondered why I would have been in danger, seeing as how I am white, a gentile, and easily pass for straight, but never asked). She assured me she disagreed whole-heartedly with the KKK, but then went on a racist tirade that I think was supposed to prove her point...? After all of this, she decided she would take me the extra ten miles into downtown Maryville, and, feeling fairly safe with her, I opted against arguing. Then, about halfway through the out-of-the-way, the phone rang. Not wanting to argue with him, she simply ignored the call. He called back. She ignored the call again. this went on until he had called seven or eight times and I was certain he was certain I had killed her. When she let me out, I was grateful I couldn't be located, because he would have probably beat the shit out of me.

Once in Maryville however, I found it impossible to get anyone on the phone. So I pitched my hammock in a wooded area of a public park and camped out until morning.

And, oddly enough, the same thing happened again the next day. Albeit, there was no ice cream (that was too good to be true the first time), but another person just stopped, picked me up, and took me exactley where I wanted to go, completely unsolicited. He drove a red Liberty, was quite normal, and delighted in my camping stories.

Moral of the story: The weather is god-awful, but the people are not.
Thought of the day: Why don't I spend next summer in Fairbanks, where the summr high is around 70?
Solicitation: If in south Knoxville, patronize the Frontier, and, if it's your thing, say a prayer for Mike and Donna. God knows they need all the help they can get.

These are photos I took at a cemetary while wandering down Chapman Highway-- they aren't particularly related to the prior post, but I'm so delighted by them that I'm loading them here anyway.

The Mole People of Crystal City

I looked utterly ridiculous, but I was out of options-- it was do or die. It was Laundry Day. So I set out with my wash wearing a yellow microfleece and red Hawaiin board trunks. Can you picture it? I payed no heed to the fact that the laundromat was almost two miles away-- I tramped there bravely, looking like a fool. Oddly enough, it was only in the tunnels where people stared.

***

The majority of my time in DC has been based out of a motel in Crystal City, which is not actually in DC, but a neighborhood in Arlington, Va. It has Metro access.

Crystal City is a peculiar place, adjacent to Reagen International Airport it seems mostly to consist of high-rise hotels, apartment buildings and aeronautic and military related office buildings. None of this is particularly strange, except for the fact that almost everything in town is connected by a vast system of underground tunnels.

There are probably four miles of tunnels, stretching from one end of town to the other, but they are more than just a pedestrian walkway-- littered with restaurants, stores, pharmacies, they function as an extrememly long shopping mall.

It is absolutely possible that, if one lived in an attached apartment building and worked in an attached office complex and shopped at the well-stocked stores and visited the undergroundgym and went to the underground doctor and optometrist and dentist, that they would never have to go outside. Ever.

***

These were the thoughts that occurred to me as I wandered through with my fleece and board shorts. Perhaps these staring people were mole people, so long removed from the outside world that they were frightened of someone so clearly from the surface. Or perhaps I just looked nonsensical. I imagine, dear readers, that it was actually an even combination of the two.

Fare Evasion

I delight in subways. Any town with an underground train is by the very addition a delightful place. So when I say that Washington, DC has my least favorite of all subways, be aware that that is like saying black walnut is my least favorite flavor of ice cream. It's ice cream, you see, and even the worst is wondrous. But, to subways.

In Chicago, regardless of where you wish to go, it costs a flat rate to ride the train. Not so in Washington. Different stops require a different fare, and this chart of charges seems as haphazard as a rope bridge in an Indiana Jones film. Anyway, so when you board the train, you run your fare card through the little machine, and when you exit you do the same, only it calculates how much your ride costs and then deducts the value. But, let's say your ride costs $2.10 and your card has a $1.95 value. What do you do? Well, you have to get out of line and go to another machine and put in the .15 cents before being allowed to leave the station.

I see what you are wondering-- what happens if you perchance to be out of cash? Well, you are expected to live permenantly in the subway station, of course. This happened to me recently.

Without change, with my useless debit card and unwilling to live in the tunnels forever, I made sure no one was watching and jumped the two foot barrier seperating me from freedom. And, of course, bumped into Angry Station Worker.

"What are you doing? That is Fare Evasion!" He cried.
"It want's .15 cents. The ATM won't accept my debit card and I don't have any cash on me."
"Did you know that Fare Evasion carries a fine of $50,000 and is illegal?" Came his retort.
"Well, is panhandling illegal, because it's my only option for getting any change."
"This is not about panhandling!" He shouted, growing frantic and red-faced. "This is about FARE EVASION. FARE EVASION! Give me your fare card."

I gave him my fare card and he sent me on my way, with stern warning that should this happen again I would be fined and taken to jail. After all, Fare Evasion is illegal.

I walked away witht he valuable knowledge that the District of Columbia would rather fill it's subway tunnels with beggars that charge a flat rate to board a train, like any rational city.

Rattlesnake

I'll apologize right away-- I don't have a photo of this, but I wish that I did.

I was having a break at the Quarry Gap shelter in southern Pennsylvania's Michaux State forest.  I was there, a father and a daughter ending a weekend hike, and another guy just starting a long distance hike through PA.  We were hanging out, chatting, doing this and that.  I was sitting on a picnic table, eating oatmeal when I glanced at the fire pit.  Crawling out of the rocks was a rattlesnake.  A big rattlesnake.  As thick in parts as my wrist and about three and a half feet long.  It crawled over the firepit (where, incidentally, that little girl had been sitting and playing around just a few minutes earlier) and across the ground, up the embankment and into the woods.

After being nearly bitten by a rattlesnake in Guadalupe Mountains National Park in 2006, I respect the creatures, but have no interest whatsoever in being near them.  I lifted my feet off the ground and it took a few minutes after the snake was gone before I'd put them back on the ground.

I knew rattlers were around this area, but nothing like seeing one to nail the point home.  Later on in the day, when I was hopping over boulders like a mountain goat, I kept a closer watch on where my feet were landing.

Daisy Chain

Hey Josh!  What did you do this afternoon?  Well, disembodied voice, let me tell you what I did.  I threw on my Rolling Stones t-shirt, hopped in my time machine, and went back the 1968. How was it, you ask?  It was lovely.

After work, Abby Autin and I leapt vigorously onto the idea of going for a walk in City Park.  So we did.  We wandered the trails, looked at the ducks and the turtles and the squirrels, and we marveled at the wandersome oak trees that stretch their limbs out for miles and miles from their knotty, aged trunks.

We  finally found ourselves at the statue garden.  Upon slipping inside, we prudently chose only to pay heed to the large sign that said "Free Admission."  We ignored the smaller sign directly under it that read "Suggested Donation".  

Anyway,  to the inside.  We saw the Greek goddesses and the Hercules and the abstract art.  We rang the civil rights lynch victim Japanese bell.  We tiptoed across the weird tide pool thing while wondering aloud if we were actually supposed to be standing on this at all.  And then we got the the quad with the wooden horse and the giant spider and the Blue Dog and the LOVE.  And what, dear friends, do you suppose was underneath that giant spider?  Four girls with Sharpee cat noses, sitting on blankets and blowing bubbles.

Yes, these young 21st century hippies were tripping balls.

I could scarcely hide my delight, and before long they spotted me not-so-discretely staring at them and pranced over to us.

"New friends!"  They cried, in a state of precarious acid-induced unbalance.

"Will you be our friends? Please be our friends."

"Would you like a cat nose?"  They thrust the Sharpee towards our face.  We kindly declined out of prudence, not lack of desire.

"Smell our bubbles!  They smell like vanilla ice cream!"  They blew the bubbles in our face and I giggled, and they giggled, and Abby Autin began to freak out a little.  She was uncomfortable, and it was time to go.  If I stayed I was going to join these girls in a state of revelry here under this spider and I was going to loose myself in celebration of a lost time that could never have existed as I picture it in my mind, regardless of what they want you to believe.

Before we left they gave me a daisy chain.  They tried to tie it around my wrist, but they couldn't.  They could hardly function at all.  I guess it's the price we pay.  I tied it for them.  

Oh friends, I felt so much delight due to this encounter with these girls.  Their heedless, joyful, "all you need is love"  attitude lifted my heart and my spirits for one fleeting, bittersweet moment.  Once it was done, I felt the same way I do when I hear the soundtrack to Yellow Submarine, or see photos from Woodstock or read Hunter S. Thompson's musings on the late 60s.  

To much unabashed, unrestrained joy can't survive in the real world.  It's either destroyed by outside forces that sanitize it because it horrifies them, or it implodes upon itself.  Either way, the status quo never changes.

Outside the statue garden, still a little dazed, Abby Autin and I were admiring a magnolia tree and were almost struck by an SUV with Texas plates.  It honked at us.  Back in 2008, we crossed a bridge on the way to the car and I took off the daisy chain and dropped it into the water.  It floated away.

But for a moment, on a beautiful spring day in New Orleans, Louisiana,  underneath a giant spider, entranced in bohemian camaraderie, I truly believed that love is all you need.

Hamburger or steak? Hamburger or steak?

A little rage at a stupid person and a stupid behavior:

I was at an IHOP, it was early in the morning and sitting adjacent to me was a three top of highway patrolmen. Or maybe NOPD. Either way, it's irrelevant. They were law enforcment officers, regardless of their exact affiliation. Anywho, they were waiting for their food, and I was waiting for my food and the waitress was ready to go home because it was about 4:30am.

And then she brought out their food and she asked, very kindly "Who had the big steak omlette?" And one of the patrolmen said, quite frankly, "I don't know what I ordered." I wanted to get up from my booth, take that heavy porcelain plate from the waitress's hand and bash him over the head with it until he cried.

I have waited tables and I have been to many different restaurants. There is absolutely no fucking reason for you to order food and then, ten minutes later, have no idea what it was you ordered. Are you that easily distracted? Could you even read the menu?

Hold on though, let me clarify something: actually there are two situation where it is acceptable.

1. You are intoxicated. If you are high or drunk, you're forgiven for not knowing what you ordered. You're not forgiven for being a public nuisance, but you are forgiven for not remembering what kind of food you requested.

2. You're in a restaurant that is of an ethnicity with which you are not familiar. Japanese, Thai, African, Lebanese, maybe even Chinese-- so you don't quite remember what you ordered? Okay, whatever, it's probably chicken and rice stretched out into eighteen syllables-- you don't deserve to have your nipples chopped off and shoved down your throat.

But if you are a highway patrolman who is on duty (and therefore, theoretically, sober) and at an IHOP, there is no excuse for this annoying, frustrating, unforgivable ignorance. I'm suprised you were able to drive your car to the IHOP in the first place. It terrifies me you are allowed into a profession that allows you to carry a gun.

There is no more frustrating waste of a server's time than to spend three minutes pondering what type of food you ordered 15 minutes ago. If you can't remember this simple, obvious thing, can I really trust you with any food at all? Do you know how to chew? Mightn't you choke? That's a liability. On one plate I have a hamburger. On the other is a steak. Which is yours? Oh, you don't know? You deserve to starve.

Walking Hard: An Afternoon Stroll

Yesterday was absolutely wonderful.  

The weather was splendid-- it was neither too warm nor too cool, the humidity was in check, the sun was shining.  After  getting off of work (we only slave until noon on Saturdays), I went for a long walk in the French Quarter.  

I wandered aimlessly down Decatur Street, stopping in a bar to try a Granny Smith apple and brie sandwich.  I strolled along the river and watched barges heading south towards the Gulf.  I stepped across Esplanade into the Marigny, stopping at Cafe Rose Nicaud for an iced coffee.

As I was walking down Chartres, crossing Esplanade to get back into the Quarter, happily sipping my iced coffee, I noticed two women walking with a man in a silly hat.  It was the type you would expect to see Mark Twain, or Colonel Sanders wearing to a plantation picnic.  "Goodness," I thought to myself.  "Who would wear such a silly hat?"  

I'll tell you who would do such a thing!  John C. Reilly!  John C. Reilly would stroll down Esplanade with two women while wearing a silly plantation picnic hat.

I thought for a moment about stalling my aimless wandering and following John C. Reilly, to see where a funny and talented man walks when he walks in the French Quarter.  But I decided not to do so.  

"Joshua...Joshua," I spoke to myself in a commanding way.  "If you were John C. Reilly, and you were walking down Esplanade Avenue, would you want to be followed by a stranger with an iced coffee?  Would you?"  I conceded to myself that I, indeed, would not.  So I walked on.