When the cold winds blow, even here in Dealville, the heartiest soul looks abroad to other horizons so that the blood stays thin and the mind expands. Caravans can do wonder for your outlook, so planning is a must. Myself, I've been taking pills for the past two days. Destination Zero is Labadee, Haiti. The further inward we go, the larger my preparation. Which, as you know, is all good talk. It may prove fruitless - as lifeless as most art galleries.
But ay yingo, this is no caravan journey. No private plane, either. Hell, last time we tried that we flew over Mexico, when our "experienced" pilot kept wanting to land because he "knew a guy" who had real abilities. The pilot's inability to be specific was truly frustrating and led to my lack of trust. No, this is going to have to be the hard way. LAfuckinX.
I've seen the good and bad in airports...the gentle breezes of Honolulu, the "one long hallway" of Detroit, one-armed bandits in Las Vegas. But LAX seems to exist in another realm...too big to be updated, but too busy to be completely out of date. My attorney and I used to enjoy moments where we could find a gate area or even a hallway looking exactly the same as in the film Airplane! but more contemporary films will have to do. Modern problems have lead most airports to accommodate the abundance of lines, but not LAX. Two or three people are hired to tell you to stand in a line...doesn't matter what, just get in line. We've got a lot of people...so...what? Nope, not this line, that one.
It's not even that this is a necessary evil, because it's not. But this hambone left the oven under someone else's supervision so here we are. Besides, how many pioneers showed up at the grand canyon and turned to each other to say "Well, the ocean is dry, I guess?"
Knowing these folks if I make it through it will be a small miracle. And miracles...well, that's the way things ought to be. In the new year, reports from the frontline.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Friday, December 14, 2007
Naked Reality
Many people use the expression "it's not worth my time" to denote that certain activities hold lower value than what they consider themselves to be worth. It's not worth it for me to buy used shirts on eBay and try to turn them around for a profit on the street. It's not worth the time for Bill Gates to pick up a hundred dollar bill on the street, because in the time it takes him to pick it up, he has already earned more than that in interest on his fortune. It's not worth it for someone with a high-school degree who has been fired from every job they've ever had to try to make an upward move in society. These things are "knowns", and we all recite this mantra to varying degrees in our lives.
But if something has worth, such as our time, then it must be a commodity. As such, if it has value, meaning it can be compared to other things and either accentuated or diluted, then while certain activities add value to it, others take value away. If you say that something isn't "worth your time", then there has to be a finite, specific sum on what your time is worth. A cut-off. What is your time worth? If it isn't worth a sum of say 10 American dollars an hour, is it worth 15? How about 20? And what if someone came to you and offered you 400 dollars an hour? Now you're doing something that is worth way more than your time. What then?
If that passage of time positively impacts your life, then there has to be a negative side, the part that takes away from your life.
I'm obsessed with the idea of 1 and 0, the idea of being vs. not being. If the color black exists, so must white. If heaven, then hell. You tell me that there exists justice, then there must be an injustice. Imbalance from balance, and all of that.
So I think it's not reaching if I say that being here, in the Land of the White Shadow, takes something away from us, draws something out from our energy, saps us of some undefinable resource. Simply by the act of breathing in this air, looking at this sky, talking to our neighbors, a small part of our enamel is chipped away. And what's beneath? Despair. The hopelessness that rots and breeds, it stinks its way out of the sewers and flows into our brains like poison gas.
And of course it's cyclical, and of course you can't say that one causes another. The Long White Shadow descends and pulls us down into it, and then we accept it and live with it, and then it's allowed to descend further, and so on.
The point of it all is that normally, we don't allow things that cause us pain to continue to cause us pain. If every day I woke up and someone slapped me in the face, I would take the steps to stop the slapping. But if the cold does it? It's tolerated.
Some of us wear it as a badge, stripes on our uniform of bravery. Some complain, but ultimately go back to crock pots. Most deal with it internally, a sort of soul-negotiation, setting arbitrary limits on what is worth what, and constantly keeping it at a distance. A small number flee to tolerable climates, which is really anywhere in America but here.
The reason it is so cold here is because we live in a bowl, mountains to our west and east, the long fingers of rivers snaking south into the flat plains. The air masses slide over the Rockies and come to rest over the Dakotas. Systems last for days, weeks even. There's something in there about temporary permanence, the idea that change will only happen when it's the right time. As progressive as we see ourselves, we tolerate an awful lot of old ways of doing things. It's not born into us, it's drilled. It's pummeled with every storm, every sub-zero snap, every icy morning.
The world is nothing but change, and we, its parts, fear it.
The slow beast moves on, time and value left to the fans of corn dogs, our vast system simply a network of loosely-connected, self-delusional cells. And what do we have to fight for?
Another day, another slap.
But if something has worth, such as our time, then it must be a commodity. As such, if it has value, meaning it can be compared to other things and either accentuated or diluted, then while certain activities add value to it, others take value away. If you say that something isn't "worth your time", then there has to be a finite, specific sum on what your time is worth. A cut-off. What is your time worth? If it isn't worth a sum of say 10 American dollars an hour, is it worth 15? How about 20? And what if someone came to you and offered you 400 dollars an hour? Now you're doing something that is worth way more than your time. What then?
If that passage of time positively impacts your life, then there has to be a negative side, the part that takes away from your life.
I'm obsessed with the idea of 1 and 0, the idea of being vs. not being. If the color black exists, so must white. If heaven, then hell. You tell me that there exists justice, then there must be an injustice. Imbalance from balance, and all of that.
So I think it's not reaching if I say that being here, in the Land of the White Shadow, takes something away from us, draws something out from our energy, saps us of some undefinable resource. Simply by the act of breathing in this air, looking at this sky, talking to our neighbors, a small part of our enamel is chipped away. And what's beneath? Despair. The hopelessness that rots and breeds, it stinks its way out of the sewers and flows into our brains like poison gas.
And of course it's cyclical, and of course you can't say that one causes another. The Long White Shadow descends and pulls us down into it, and then we accept it and live with it, and then it's allowed to descend further, and so on.
The point of it all is that normally, we don't allow things that cause us pain to continue to cause us pain. If every day I woke up and someone slapped me in the face, I would take the steps to stop the slapping. But if the cold does it? It's tolerated.
Some of us wear it as a badge, stripes on our uniform of bravery. Some complain, but ultimately go back to crock pots. Most deal with it internally, a sort of soul-negotiation, setting arbitrary limits on what is worth what, and constantly keeping it at a distance. A small number flee to tolerable climates, which is really anywhere in America but here.
The reason it is so cold here is because we live in a bowl, mountains to our west and east, the long fingers of rivers snaking south into the flat plains. The air masses slide over the Rockies and come to rest over the Dakotas. Systems last for days, weeks even. There's something in there about temporary permanence, the idea that change will only happen when it's the right time. As progressive as we see ourselves, we tolerate an awful lot of old ways of doing things. It's not born into us, it's drilled. It's pummeled with every storm, every sub-zero snap, every icy morning.
The world is nothing but change, and we, its parts, fear it.
The slow beast moves on, time and value left to the fans of corn dogs, our vast system simply a network of loosely-connected, self-delusional cells. And what do we have to fight for?
Another day, another slap.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
A New Wave Christmas?
(Editor's Note: With Trip Darvez the sole surviving member of the California Gold team, we present an article from long ago as he prepares his newest entry coming next week. This comes from the L.A. Reader, a since-defunct newspaper)
I don't feel like I'm alone in saying that already this Christmas season seems a lot more positive than the last. Maybe it was just bad timing that had things erupt within the same month, but by New Years, we found ourselves exhausted. It was a summer and fall with great music, culminating with X's fantastic set at the Whisky...and a handful of the crowd was Go-Go's fans. Did this mean there was going to be an actual combined scene? Moreover, did there have to be? The crowds are shifting night from night and I get a knowing happiness as I watch club owners look confused. The "riot" at the Troubadour included, it seemed to be the most physical (and costly) rebellion to the buy-in of new music.
As this was happening we were treated by the touring and expansion of whatever this "new wave" thing is. Seeing the Toasters at the Bla Bla Cafe (yes, we hit the valley) or Split Enz (their performance on Fridays was nothing short of perfection) provided an interesting alternative when it came to the tripe played on most radio stations. These two parallels co-existed in a way that confounded the author. It's happened - an owner booking a new wave and then punk act for the same night, and I'd rather not get into the results. We're not talking those get-togethers in Orange County: you know how that one ended.
But December of 1980 seemed like a boot to the head, from behind and out of nowhere. Darby's suicide, and John's murder...and we all have no energy. The BS report on "punkers" on Channel 5 was the kind of thing that, while good to know they included Chuck's viewpoint, doesn't help matters. How many want to guess the number of fathers of the valley saw that and made calls to the police right away? It's old, it got in the way of the music...it made you not want to go to these shows. Basically, it's what the LAPD wanted.
But now, a year later, some of the clubs have adjusted and fully embraced new wave (even if it means relegating punk a night or two). Missing Persons has completely taken off, even within the past 3-6 months, now headlining the Roxy. Funny how we saw them a year ago at the Topanga Corral in front of 30 others who also "knew." But they deserve everything, even if KROQ playing them to death doesn't hurt. Add to that The Motels and Josie Cotton (among a long list of others) and it's as if one of them in this line-up is usually playing somewhere. Don't think KROQ's DJ's don't know it either...but they have a hand in this and so as I watched two-unnamed complain of the lack of snacks backstage at the Whisky not long ago...well, that's California Gold. I didn't have the heart to remind them that, if someone hadn't dropped off that Missing Persons EP in 1980, who knows where they'd be...the band and the station for that matter.
Not everyone is getting this, but it's just as well. We're not getting the polarizing split from Fear's Christmas song, but when The Waitresses' Christmas song comes on, with equally nutty lyrics, everyone dances for joy. Perhaps that will end up the ultimate appeal of this music, or maybe I'm hanging with the wrong crowd. There's something amazing about both bands, but if you're going to survive in the 80s you'll have to appreciate both for what they are. Simply as a metaphor, of course...plug in Black Flag, Flipper, Sparks...the list is too long.
Anyway, The Fleshtones and Hunt Sales will be at Club Lingerie early next week...with Social Distortion in OC at the Old Vic. Next week - what will happen of the Starwood, and new clubs booking punk bands. Onward!
I don't feel like I'm alone in saying that already this Christmas season seems a lot more positive than the last. Maybe it was just bad timing that had things erupt within the same month, but by New Years, we found ourselves exhausted. It was a summer and fall with great music, culminating with X's fantastic set at the Whisky...and a handful of the crowd was Go-Go's fans. Did this mean there was going to be an actual combined scene? Moreover, did there have to be? The crowds are shifting night from night and I get a knowing happiness as I watch club owners look confused. The "riot" at the Troubadour included, it seemed to be the most physical (and costly) rebellion to the buy-in of new music.
As this was happening we were treated by the touring and expansion of whatever this "new wave" thing is. Seeing the Toasters at the Bla Bla Cafe (yes, we hit the valley) or Split Enz (their performance on Fridays was nothing short of perfection) provided an interesting alternative when it came to the tripe played on most radio stations. These two parallels co-existed in a way that confounded the author. It's happened - an owner booking a new wave and then punk act for the same night, and I'd rather not get into the results. We're not talking those get-togethers in Orange County: you know how that one ended.
But December of 1980 seemed like a boot to the head, from behind and out of nowhere. Darby's suicide, and John's murder...and we all have no energy. The BS report on "punkers" on Channel 5 was the kind of thing that, while good to know they included Chuck's viewpoint, doesn't help matters. How many want to guess the number of fathers of the valley saw that and made calls to the police right away? It's old, it got in the way of the music...it made you not want to go to these shows. Basically, it's what the LAPD wanted.
But now, a year later, some of the clubs have adjusted and fully embraced new wave (even if it means relegating punk a night or two). Missing Persons has completely taken off, even within the past 3-6 months, now headlining the Roxy. Funny how we saw them a year ago at the Topanga Corral in front of 30 others who also "knew." But they deserve everything, even if KROQ playing them to death doesn't hurt. Add to that The Motels and Josie Cotton (among a long list of others) and it's as if one of them in this line-up is usually playing somewhere. Don't think KROQ's DJ's don't know it either...but they have a hand in this and so as I watched two-unnamed complain of the lack of snacks backstage at the Whisky not long ago...well, that's California Gold. I didn't have the heart to remind them that, if someone hadn't dropped off that Missing Persons EP in 1980, who knows where they'd be...the band and the station for that matter.Not everyone is getting this, but it's just as well. We're not getting the polarizing split from Fear's Christmas song, but when The Waitresses' Christmas song comes on, with equally nutty lyrics, everyone dances for joy. Perhaps that will end up the ultimate appeal of this music, or maybe I'm hanging with the wrong crowd. There's something amazing about both bands, but if you're going to survive in the 80s you'll have to appreciate both for what they are. Simply as a metaphor, of course...plug in Black Flag, Flipper, Sparks...the list is too long.
Anyway, The Fleshtones and Hunt Sales will be at Club Lingerie early next week...with Social Distortion in OC at the Old Vic. Next week - what will happen of the Starwood, and new clubs booking punk bands. Onward!
Monday, October 29, 2007
Clams on the half shell and roller skates
Whether it's an old friend, an old neighborhood, old haunt, or even old lady, times can make changes beyond things you've ever expected. When it comes to the diamond in the desert, it's funny how people's expectations on a trip depend so heavily on other people. The stories, the feel of the town is entirely populated on the population itself. Once you're old enough to gamble, they're ALL casinos - just varying degrees of good to swank.
Hitting downtown is a completely different mindset, and it pays (no, literally it does) to know the difference. Over time those of us here in California Gold have noticed this exists almost purely as an "anti-Vegas." We ARE here, aren't we? Well, yes, but this clearly isn't showbiz. The burnt-out light bulbs seem to multiply. The down and out have fallen so far it's almost best to just move on. But the characters - they are the people who make it all worthwhile. You're willing to forgive amenities in the "resorts" if you know your stuff won't be stolen and that you'll see some people that just wouldn't fit anywhere else. Could you imagine someone like "The Message" hitting the sports book at Mandalay Bay? Of course not. That's a $15 cab ride in heavy traffic, and that's money to put on Cleveland's victory.
Upon arrival I was shocked at the actual improvement of one of our haunts. This seems to go completely against the grain...everything was better. Feeling outrageous I had to pass this on - am I seeing right? Get down here RIGHT NOW. And yes, everything was new and wonderful. It was still "downtown," if you will, but a heavy good sign. Other haunts seem downright intimidated by this. One continues to have a gaping hole of carpet where their sports book once stood. (The decor hasn't changed because, well, that costs money) Another removed their sports book entirely for a dance club that looked as awkward as every 7th grade mixer you can remember. Frankly, we took that as an insult directly from the casino. And, apparently, so did the characters of downtown: they were nowhere to be found.
Oh sure, there was "Froggy" with his well worn Chris Carter Vikings jersey (not changing once upon our vacation). And the usual gaggle of annoying tourists in their "Jorts" (look it up) making sure everyone knew who they were cheering for. There was the usual drunks asleep surrounding us as we cheered on Toledo's improbable comeback. But hell, we can find this sort anywhere. Then I realized at that very moment...all of our characters were gone.
Did they seem uncomfortable at this new and improved sports book? Did they take the loss of another sports book too personally? Did the weekend inundation of families from Texarkana looking to dance dance dance wear them out? Are they broke? Worse, are they dead? Sadly, we'll never know. And we sure as shit would never have ASKED them their story back when. You saw all you needed to see. If anything, it was a cautionary tale of a life gone horribly wrong, and the week in and week out attempt to make you think otherwise. Ourselves, we seem to enjoy and support those who just keep on truckin' despite things. They're not out to fool you. They want this superfecta. And if it comes in, well, it was supposed to. That's why you picked it. Now you've got enough for a coffee at 7-11, so the day has started strong.
Perhaps this is a lament, thought of as we dodged the winds and tumbleweed that littered the highway...unaware of the terror that the winds would bring the following day. Perhaps it is a sign. Perhaps we were lucky. Or maybe it was just another trip to LV.
Hitting downtown is a completely different mindset, and it pays (no, literally it does) to know the difference. Over time those of us here in California Gold have noticed this exists almost purely as an "anti-Vegas." We ARE here, aren't we? Well, yes, but this clearly isn't showbiz. The burnt-out light bulbs seem to multiply. The down and out have fallen so far it's almost best to just move on. But the characters - they are the people who make it all worthwhile. You're willing to forgive amenities in the "resorts" if you know your stuff won't be stolen and that you'll see some people that just wouldn't fit anywhere else. Could you imagine someone like "The Message" hitting the sports book at Mandalay Bay? Of course not. That's a $15 cab ride in heavy traffic, and that's money to put on Cleveland's victory.
Upon arrival I was shocked at the actual improvement of one of our haunts. This seems to go completely against the grain...everything was better. Feeling outrageous I had to pass this on - am I seeing right? Get down here RIGHT NOW. And yes, everything was new and wonderful. It was still "downtown," if you will, but a heavy good sign. Other haunts seem downright intimidated by this. One continues to have a gaping hole of carpet where their sports book once stood. (The decor hasn't changed because, well, that costs money) Another removed their sports book entirely for a dance club that looked as awkward as every 7th grade mixer you can remember. Frankly, we took that as an insult directly from the casino. And, apparently, so did the characters of downtown: they were nowhere to be found.
Oh sure, there was "Froggy" with his well worn Chris Carter Vikings jersey (not changing once upon our vacation). And the usual gaggle of annoying tourists in their "Jorts" (look it up) making sure everyone knew who they were cheering for. There was the usual drunks asleep surrounding us as we cheered on Toledo's improbable comeback. But hell, we can find this sort anywhere. Then I realized at that very moment...all of our characters were gone.
Did they seem uncomfortable at this new and improved sports book? Did they take the loss of another sports book too personally? Did the weekend inundation of families from Texarkana looking to dance dance dance wear them out? Are they broke? Worse, are they dead? Sadly, we'll never know. And we sure as shit would never have ASKED them their story back when. You saw all you needed to see. If anything, it was a cautionary tale of a life gone horribly wrong, and the week in and week out attempt to make you think otherwise. Ourselves, we seem to enjoy and support those who just keep on truckin' despite things. They're not out to fool you. They want this superfecta. And if it comes in, well, it was supposed to. That's why you picked it. Now you've got enough for a coffee at 7-11, so the day has started strong.
Perhaps this is a lament, thought of as we dodged the winds and tumbleweed that littered the highway...unaware of the terror that the winds would bring the following day. Perhaps it is a sign. Perhaps we were lucky. Or maybe it was just another trip to LV.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Cautious Optimism
It was a blustery night here in Burbank as I dared to cross the Golden State Freeway. The phone calls rang after last night's success. But this is not the north side. And I know this, of course, but the surroundings probably did more good than I knew at the time. It was time to celebrate amidst the sports apathy.
Some punk girl who wouldn't know the Cubs logo from Pabst Blue Ribbon gave me a high five. But she was looking for the train, so I took it in stride. And as I've soon found out, most Burbank bars are dead, so my possible excitement was muted by the calmed surroundings. One other person acknowledged the Cubs, but it was almost with a ring of "I know that team!" Sure you do, honey, back to your Coors Light.
As I returned home, I felt happy but no more than usual. And then Ronnie's words from the "landslide" election came into my head. Of course, he fucking knew he had it. But you don't really know...so you're optimistic. The north side hasn't won anything but they have the chance to do so. I told Steve Simpson, someone who curiously had much joy writing about Cubs losses in the past, that the team would only succeed assbackwards. If they blow out anyone in the playoffs, I shall be more surprised than the fact they're here in the first place. They're already jinxed. They're already bad. We all know this (despite others reminding me anyway). So that's the expectation. But if it's otherwise...the sports world will truly turn from its head to its ass. Baseball and its scribes will never be the same.
So, 1 month from now, if you see the overfed folks nervously rushing around the supermarket stocking up on gravy, Velveeta and Ranch dressing, just remember: they're not preparing for Thanksgiving. Their life will be anew, and they'll have no idea what the next day will bring.
Some punk girl who wouldn't know the Cubs logo from Pabst Blue Ribbon gave me a high five. But she was looking for the train, so I took it in stride. And as I've soon found out, most Burbank bars are dead, so my possible excitement was muted by the calmed surroundings. One other person acknowledged the Cubs, but it was almost with a ring of "I know that team!" Sure you do, honey, back to your Coors Light.
As I returned home, I felt happy but no more than usual. And then Ronnie's words from the "landslide" election came into my head. Of course, he fucking knew he had it. But you don't really know...so you're optimistic. The north side hasn't won anything but they have the chance to do so. I told Steve Simpson, someone who curiously had much joy writing about Cubs losses in the past, that the team would only succeed assbackwards. If they blow out anyone in the playoffs, I shall be more surprised than the fact they're here in the first place. They're already jinxed. They're already bad. We all know this (despite others reminding me anyway). So that's the expectation. But if it's otherwise...the sports world will truly turn from its head to its ass. Baseball and its scribes will never be the same.
So, 1 month from now, if you see the overfed folks nervously rushing around the supermarket stocking up on gravy, Velveeta and Ranch dressing, just remember: they're not preparing for Thanksgiving. Their life will be anew, and they'll have no idea what the next day will bring.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Yep, we're gonna have a good time
Yep, this is real livin', ain't it? I told you ladies that we're gonna have a good time tonight. Pass me another Lone Star. (gulp) Yep. Say, uh, I think I've got some of those Fritos in the van. Have I showed you ladies the inside of the van? OK, just making sure. That's somethin', huh? Took me a while to get some of that carpet on the side but it's there. Pretty soon I'll be expanding the dash to get FM radio, too.
Funny you say that...but I've never seen Leon Russell. Everyone says I look like him, though. Hell, maybe he looks like ME! Haha! Yep. Can you see if the Rangers game is on? Oh yeah, they're playing tonight. Well, fuck it. We'll be busy then. This Bar-B-Q is going to be big time. Hope you girls like pork...I've got a good rub.
Huh? Yeah, there will be corn and stuff, too. I think Mary Anne is bringing some salad stuff or something. Maybe beans. You girls cook this stuff at your apartment? Haha. I bet. Any of you want another Lone Star? No, well, don't mind if I do. (gulp) Yep. So, Debbie, you and Pam been friends a long time? That's good. Hell, nothing like old friends around. At this Bar-B-Q, you're gonna meet Stan, he's one of my oldest friends. Shit, when we were kids we'd go up to Gunnar's Pass and catch bullfrogs all day. Scare the hell out my ma! Haha! Come on, it's a good joke. She was laughing by the end. You girls gotta loosen up. Y'all want another Lone Star? No? Come on, those've gotta be warm now. Here you go. Oh, I got the bottle opener, but, hold on. Yeah, I think it'll be in cans when Stan shows up.
Hey Stan! How the hell are you, son of a bitch! Hahaha! And Mary Anne, lookin' good again. I'd like y'all to meet Debbie and Pam. Yeah, they live down the street. Met them at a block party. Doesn't Pam look like Rhoda? That TV show? See! I told you. Hey, let me get you two a beer. Huh? Oh, you got the Styrofoam cooler. Didn't see that. Well shit, toss me a cold one. Debbie? Pam? Oh yeah, just got you those. Well, we fire up the coals?
This grilled corn is great. What'd y'all think of the pork? Yeah? Hell, it's no problem. Glad to do it for such good friends. And hey, Debbie, Pam, I can make this for you anytime. I can grill other stuff, too! Shit, that reminds me, Stan, you remember when we had to go into Dallas cause Fred was trading crops and he...HAHA! Oh, you girls should have seen it. In fact, we were on KVIL. Did you hear us? Yeah...it was in March. Oh man, I gotta get another beer. Stan, I'll get you one. Ladies? You sure?
Oh man...you girls...you girls are great. I mean...I'm glad you came. Hey, you don't gotta go now. I can take you back in the van. Shit, I'm fine. No, you guys get in the back. I'll take you home. I mean...I'll be in there in a second, just gotta go in the woods for a sec.
There, feelin' good now. Shit, got the belts on and everything, you are ready to go? OK...yep. Well, we gotta do this again soon. I love seein' both of you. And you gotta know it's good for me to be seen with such pretty girls. Come here, girls. Wait, come on now. Well...ah right. I just wanna say...lemme say something. You girls are beautiful. Ok. All right, see ya!
Yep.
Funny you say that...but I've never seen Leon Russell. Everyone says I look like him, though. Hell, maybe he looks like ME! Haha! Yep. Can you see if the Rangers game is on? Oh yeah, they're playing tonight. Well, fuck it. We'll be busy then. This Bar-B-Q is going to be big time. Hope you girls like pork...I've got a good rub.
Huh? Yeah, there will be corn and stuff, too. I think Mary Anne is bringing some salad stuff or something. Maybe beans. You girls cook this stuff at your apartment? Haha. I bet. Any of you want another Lone Star? No, well, don't mind if I do. (gulp) Yep. So, Debbie, you and Pam been friends a long time? That's good. Hell, nothing like old friends around. At this Bar-B-Q, you're gonna meet Stan, he's one of my oldest friends. Shit, when we were kids we'd go up to Gunnar's Pass and catch bullfrogs all day. Scare the hell out my ma! Haha! Come on, it's a good joke. She was laughing by the end. You girls gotta loosen up. Y'all want another Lone Star? No? Come on, those've gotta be warm now. Here you go. Oh, I got the bottle opener, but, hold on. Yeah, I think it'll be in cans when Stan shows up.
Hey Stan! How the hell are you, son of a bitch! Hahaha! And Mary Anne, lookin' good again. I'd like y'all to meet Debbie and Pam. Yeah, they live down the street. Met them at a block party. Doesn't Pam look like Rhoda? That TV show? See! I told you. Hey, let me get you two a beer. Huh? Oh, you got the Styrofoam cooler. Didn't see that. Well shit, toss me a cold one. Debbie? Pam? Oh yeah, just got you those. Well, we fire up the coals?
This grilled corn is great. What'd y'all think of the pork? Yeah? Hell, it's no problem. Glad to do it for such good friends. And hey, Debbie, Pam, I can make this for you anytime. I can grill other stuff, too! Shit, that reminds me, Stan, you remember when we had to go into Dallas cause Fred was trading crops and he...HAHA! Oh, you girls should have seen it. In fact, we were on KVIL. Did you hear us? Yeah...it was in March. Oh man, I gotta get another beer. Stan, I'll get you one. Ladies? You sure?
Oh man...you girls...you girls are great. I mean...I'm glad you came. Hey, you don't gotta go now. I can take you back in the van. Shit, I'm fine. No, you guys get in the back. I'll take you home. I mean...I'll be in there in a second, just gotta go in the woods for a sec.
There, feelin' good now. Shit, got the belts on and everything, you are ready to go? OK...yep. Well, we gotta do this again soon. I love seein' both of you. And you gotta know it's good for me to be seen with such pretty girls. Come here, girls. Wait, come on now. Well...ah right. I just wanna say...lemme say something. You girls are beautiful. Ok. All right, see ya!
Yep.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Give Away My Sweet Sensation
Two peoples, two times, a collision course of constant repetition, a never-ceasing compromise and battle. The Old, representative and symbolic, full of content, stories stitching everyone together. The New, progress and devotion, power and the light, goals, forward, innovation pushing down the limits of Human Expanse. Never before have these two been so perfectly wed, so minutely connected, so intertwined, as to bring about a culture with equal parts respect, wisdom, and potential.
Boston, you ARE world class.
At least according to our guide, Major Groovy, that is. The most fascinating article of life in this amazing area is its uncanny ability to fit history and progress together into a method that defines as much as it predicts. This method, this time-stretched zeitgeist, it governs and pushes, hanging from brownstones and glass monoliths like an invisible banner, pouring through the street intersections, bleeding into the rivers and marrow of the people.
How do they do it? Such a phenomenal sense of tradition and old-world mannerisms, mixed with perhaps the most progressive system in the country? New York, I'm sorry but you don't have universal health care do you? Plenty of progress in the midwest, but the U of M wasn't established 400 years ago, was it?
There was once a time when the Greeks ruled the world, and their system was thought infallible and divine. Their gods allowed their society to wane, and with their downfall, the gods lost their names, their power. They were replaced by their Roman counterparts, and so it happened that Jupiter never conquered Zeus, he just replaced him. The old ways sunk, but their essence reigned. The history coated thought like a varnish - invisible but protecting. A layer immeasurably small, impossibly broad.
We see that everywhere. The gods of our forebearers, souls wandering the hundreds-year-old graveyards, beckoning knowledge-seekers. History alive, mashed between towering skyscrapers. Universities dedicated simultaneously to preserving the delicate traditions and expanding the Known World.
There's something holy in this quest, something divine about this connection to past and future, some sort of bright sliver to be wedged between the two. I'm not sure I'm tapped into it - I have after all only spent a handful of days here. But where there's an energy like this, great things spring forth. Where the city has such a fascinating personality, gold sneaks from the corners. It's a nice place to visit, and I sure would want to live there.
The roads snake in and out, up and around, veins feeding the soul and ghosts, a truly immortal being, history acting like blood, progress providing breath. The old ways never discarded, the new ways always tempered with optimism.
How they do it, only the righteous can know.
Boston, you ARE world class.
At least according to our guide, Major Groovy, that is. The most fascinating article of life in this amazing area is its uncanny ability to fit history and progress together into a method that defines as much as it predicts. This method, this time-stretched zeitgeist, it governs and pushes, hanging from brownstones and glass monoliths like an invisible banner, pouring through the street intersections, bleeding into the rivers and marrow of the people.
How do they do it? Such a phenomenal sense of tradition and old-world mannerisms, mixed with perhaps the most progressive system in the country? New York, I'm sorry but you don't have universal health care do you? Plenty of progress in the midwest, but the U of M wasn't established 400 years ago, was it?
There was once a time when the Greeks ruled the world, and their system was thought infallible and divine. Their gods allowed their society to wane, and with their downfall, the gods lost their names, their power. They were replaced by their Roman counterparts, and so it happened that Jupiter never conquered Zeus, he just replaced him. The old ways sunk, but their essence reigned. The history coated thought like a varnish - invisible but protecting. A layer immeasurably small, impossibly broad.
We see that everywhere. The gods of our forebearers, souls wandering the hundreds-year-old graveyards, beckoning knowledge-seekers. History alive, mashed between towering skyscrapers. Universities dedicated simultaneously to preserving the delicate traditions and expanding the Known World.
There's something holy in this quest, something divine about this connection to past and future, some sort of bright sliver to be wedged between the two. I'm not sure I'm tapped into it - I have after all only spent a handful of days here. But where there's an energy like this, great things spring forth. Where the city has such a fascinating personality, gold sneaks from the corners. It's a nice place to visit, and I sure would want to live there.
The roads snake in and out, up and around, veins feeding the soul and ghosts, a truly immortal being, history acting like blood, progress providing breath. The old ways never discarded, the new ways always tempered with optimism.
How they do it, only the righteous can know.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
The other Rose City
(Editor's Note: Trip Darvez was sent on assignment in Portland to cover the "Rose City Speedboat Races" over the past weekend. He returned days late, and left only a well-worn Mead notebook. We believe these stories to be from this assignment.)
Day 1 - "Dude, did you see that?"
I sure did, man. How could I not?
My arrival in Rip City began with a familiar face. Greg Oden's mug stared from a billboard that would cover most buildings. So this city is "back," huh? It's safe to guess the old pro isn't supposed to really do that. Hell, who could?
Checking in to an older hotel downtown may have been a mistake, but it's not right now. A wedding reception is taking place in the lobby. Not in an adjacent ballroom, right in the fucking lobby. Hey, uh, am I in the right place? Confusion reigns: the pills I took have likely worn off but they did NOT go down easy. I can't pretend I'm here for the wedding in this Magnum, P.I. T-Shirt (you could at my wedding). But I get in, ready to put a deeply delayed flight behind me. I start at Cassidy's.
At least that's what I think it is, and what it's supposed to be, People are working but there are no customers. An Abbott & Costello routine with the bartenderess...but I get served and fed. And those pills decided to rear back to force my mind's haze to return, they sure did. Cold water on the face didn't work. Am I still hungry or did I over-eat? This is a problem only I seem to have. Well, which is it? Whichever it is, the dry heaves are telling me I need something. This girl is actually about to suggest I go home with her and hang with she and her husband. 3-ways aren't the solution. So, back to the room for rest and recuperation.
My time in bed is fraught with confusion. What the fuck happened? I have speedboat races to cover tomorrow; I need good health. Bruce Campbell is on my TV and he's being served a beer while ordering more. Somehow he's attempting to send me a message, which is "Get up and drink. You will feel better almost immediately."
Choosing a dive bar is no easy task in this town. Coming from an area where DZA and I can talk of all dives we know in LA in a 3 minute convo, a choice is a welcome difference. Scooter's is where I settle because the bartender is Irish. And by that I mean "she arrived from Dublin on Monday." Mean drink is poured as she plays The Clash & Blondie on the stereo. And just as I'm starting to think this bar is made for me, one of Portland's "middle" sits next to me. An attempt for a free drink from Ms. Ireland yields no results. But somehow he finds the $3.00 he "forgot [he] had" and gets Well vodka on ice. And just as his "luck" visits him, he nearly spills the entire drink on me. His last moment save and freeze hears him say the quote above. I agree, and realize it's the right time to avoid the future at all costs.
Day 2 - "I've been 32 before. I was, once."
The race organizer said possible lightning is delaying the race by 1 hour. So, I wander to a gigantic book store and look for info on Speedboats. I want to seem in my element to keep the free drinks coming. While there a familiar scent stings my nostrils. The mixture of tired cement floors, worn wood, and years of sweat give this a very collegiate feel. It's not that I miss this vibe but that I missed it. And this "middle" of which I spoke, they clog the aisles in this place. This is seeming to be an inordinately large culture of ongoing grad school. Year after year, they study...with no end in sight...with goals set so long ago, you don't bother to wonder why.
Shit, that was depressing. Getting back on topic, a topless girl has just gone by on a jet ski, and unless I have severely underestimated this town, the race is on. 3 at a time, they come gamely down. Almost all of the boats are white, sans numerals...which is continuing to make this tough. A supposedly lost small boat is mixed in this shuffle and nearly clipped by the front runner in heat 6. An incident such as that would have really excited me but it all seems perfectly normal, if usual. A "tow boat" just went by us and we're in some delay, awaiting the news.
After a continued spell of waiting, the derelicts at Scooter's told me some very unfortunate news: what I was watching was the finals. The actual full race was done at another location. Safe to say I'm fucked when it comes to this story. Bar patrons aren't ever in the mood to talk of why you're depressed, they're looking for reasons to celebrate. It's one patron's birthday, which lead to today's quote from the man next to him. The birthday boy is off to a girl he knows who's "an easy fuck" so we wish him well. I've got to get the fuck out of this bar.
Day 3 - "That means the weekend, so I work then and I've got it made."
Climbing along the Columbia River the following day, I am determined to put the previous day's sorrows behind me and see if I'm still on for the assignment in Albuquerque. It was a rare moment of quiet that made me reflect on the people in this area. This city churns with its own personality...its own beat...and a tolerance to accept this to match. But there's a fine line between that and laziness. From a distance these two probably seem like the same thing, but they aren't. Because while these people may seem "unusual" or "quirky" to the "Olive Garden or Chili's?" crowd, they are doing their own thing. It's their own speed, and their own way, but they're doing it. The tubby lounger wouldn't fit here any more than he would in Dealville...you still have to give some sort of effort toward life. And bless these people for doing it their way. And for voting on no sales tax. And making the train free in city limits. The above quote is someone who might not be making it, might be struggling more than he has to, but his outlook is so positive, I'm not about to say anything. Here's to $3.50 beers. Back to Goldtown.
(Editor's Note: All that follows this writing is a note (apparently to someone near him) about how Alaska Airlines has free booze on flights.)
Day 1 - "Dude, did you see that?"
I sure did, man. How could I not?
My arrival in Rip City began with a familiar face. Greg Oden's mug stared from a billboard that would cover most buildings. So this city is "back," huh? It's safe to guess the old pro isn't supposed to really do that. Hell, who could?
Checking in to an older hotel downtown may have been a mistake, but it's not right now. A wedding reception is taking place in the lobby. Not in an adjacent ballroom, right in the fucking lobby. Hey, uh, am I in the right place? Confusion reigns: the pills I took have likely worn off but they did NOT go down easy. I can't pretend I'm here for the wedding in this Magnum, P.I. T-Shirt (you could at my wedding). But I get in, ready to put a deeply delayed flight behind me. I start at Cassidy's.
At least that's what I think it is, and what it's supposed to be, People are working but there are no customers. An Abbott & Costello routine with the bartenderess...but I get served and fed. And those pills decided to rear back to force my mind's haze to return, they sure did. Cold water on the face didn't work. Am I still hungry or did I over-eat? This is a problem only I seem to have. Well, which is it? Whichever it is, the dry heaves are telling me I need something. This girl is actually about to suggest I go home with her and hang with she and her husband. 3-ways aren't the solution. So, back to the room for rest and recuperation.
My time in bed is fraught with confusion. What the fuck happened? I have speedboat races to cover tomorrow; I need good health. Bruce Campbell is on my TV and he's being served a beer while ordering more. Somehow he's attempting to send me a message, which is "Get up and drink. You will feel better almost immediately."
Choosing a dive bar is no easy task in this town. Coming from an area where DZA and I can talk of all dives we know in LA in a 3 minute convo, a choice is a welcome difference. Scooter's is where I settle because the bartender is Irish. And by that I mean "she arrived from Dublin on Monday." Mean drink is poured as she plays The Clash & Blondie on the stereo. And just as I'm starting to think this bar is made for me, one of Portland's "middle" sits next to me. An attempt for a free drink from Ms. Ireland yields no results. But somehow he finds the $3.00 he "forgot [he] had" and gets Well vodka on ice. And just as his "luck" visits him, he nearly spills the entire drink on me. His last moment save and freeze hears him say the quote above. I agree, and realize it's the right time to avoid the future at all costs.
Day 2 - "I've been 32 before. I was, once."
The race organizer said possible lightning is delaying the race by 1 hour. So, I wander to a gigantic book store and look for info on Speedboats. I want to seem in my element to keep the free drinks coming. While there a familiar scent stings my nostrils. The mixture of tired cement floors, worn wood, and years of sweat give this a very collegiate feel. It's not that I miss this vibe but that I missed it. And this "middle" of which I spoke, they clog the aisles in this place. This is seeming to be an inordinately large culture of ongoing grad school. Year after year, they study...with no end in sight...with goals set so long ago, you don't bother to wonder why.
Shit, that was depressing. Getting back on topic, a topless girl has just gone by on a jet ski, and unless I have severely underestimated this town, the race is on. 3 at a time, they come gamely down. Almost all of the boats are white, sans numerals...which is continuing to make this tough. A supposedly lost small boat is mixed in this shuffle and nearly clipped by the front runner in heat 6. An incident such as that would have really excited me but it all seems perfectly normal, if usual. A "tow boat" just went by us and we're in some delay, awaiting the news.
After a continued spell of waiting, the derelicts at Scooter's told me some very unfortunate news: what I was watching was the finals. The actual full race was done at another location. Safe to say I'm fucked when it comes to this story. Bar patrons aren't ever in the mood to talk of why you're depressed, they're looking for reasons to celebrate. It's one patron's birthday, which lead to today's quote from the man next to him. The birthday boy is off to a girl he knows who's "an easy fuck" so we wish him well. I've got to get the fuck out of this bar.
Day 3 - "That means the weekend, so I work then and I've got it made."
Climbing along the Columbia River the following day, I am determined to put the previous day's sorrows behind me and see if I'm still on for the assignment in Albuquerque. It was a rare moment of quiet that made me reflect on the people in this area. This city churns with its own personality...its own beat...and a tolerance to accept this to match. But there's a fine line between that and laziness. From a distance these two probably seem like the same thing, but they aren't. Because while these people may seem "unusual" or "quirky" to the "Olive Garden or Chili's?" crowd, they are doing their own thing. It's their own speed, and their own way, but they're doing it. The tubby lounger wouldn't fit here any more than he would in Dealville...you still have to give some sort of effort toward life. And bless these people for doing it their way. And for voting on no sales tax. And making the train free in city limits. The above quote is someone who might not be making it, might be struggling more than he has to, but his outlook is so positive, I'm not about to say anything. Here's to $3.50 beers. Back to Goldtown.
(Editor's Note: All that follows this writing is a note (apparently to someone near him) about how Alaska Airlines has free booze on flights.)
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Hey Sid, Where'd You Put Your Candy?
Sometimes you can learn a great many life lessons from the most unlikely sources. Normally when I see crazy old people, I either exercise my Avoid-Like-the-Plague maneuver or I engage the enemy, face on. It really depends on the situation I’m faced with. On this day, we chose to engage the enemy.There are few things more depressing than seeing an old man clearly locked into battle with the almighty Alzheimer Beast. They’re not sure which was is up, where they are, or who’s on first – let alone how to open a stubborn box of candy. You could see in his eyes that he was disappointed in his inability to complete a task that, a mere decade ago, was as easy as breathing – is he a smoker? I don’t know. But watching him finally tear ungraciously into those Raisinettes taught me that I should never give up – even when I can’t keep my diapers clean.
Of course as he snacked on his tasty treat, the look in his eyes did no belay the satisfaction of just accomplishing what was obviously a difficult task. Could it be that he’s already forgotten the incredible journey he just taken in getting to his treasures? Of is the lack of satisfaction due to his belief that life is not a destination, it is a journey? Is it possible that it’s not the candy he’s dissatisfied with but instead he’s sad that the journey itself has ended? Possibly. Or he simply fell into his own mind.
At some point he decided that he’d had enough of whatever it was he was doing, got up, and left. Oh well, so our operation didn’t work out. But wait, what’s this? He’s forgotten his Holy Grail!! Luck to us! But has he simply forgotten his precious treats, or has he discarded them? Could it be that his trash is our treasure!? Either way, those fucking chocolate covered raisins are ours. Finders keepers, losers weepers, bitch!As onlookers gaped at our find we finally realized what it was like to reach the summit – to be atop the world, looking down on all the chocolate-covered-raisin-less paupers. Another lesson learned! It’s good to be king.
It truly is amazing how many lessons can be learned – and who they’re learned from. In on 4 hour period we learned enough lessons to take us into the next stages of our lives. We’ve evolved into better, more well rounded, people who can now pass on those lesson to others. Of course, this would be incomplete if we didn’t pass on the last lesson learned from this experience; All good things must come to an end.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
By city or mountain
That's right, it is called the road less travelled because it isn't used as much. And there's the other road, the one I've been down before. It was paved once and there it sat nearly five years ago, littered with potholes. And a year later it was repaved and there was the long road to recovery.
We know why it was closed. This long road seemed to be repaved with the best intentions, as they always are. Hell, maybe that was the point of it, looking back, that this journey was so long and voluminous that it would trump everything. Contradictions...eh, it will work out.
But it didn't, for a single reason not needed to be rehashed. For a time later I would hear your car, stuck in the on-ramp of this road. There I was, on the side, stunned you were there. Half surprised and half annoyed. The personality wavered. I was expected to fix this...to open the road to at least one lane so that it may be travelled again. We both knew better, though.
Much time was passing, and I was on a different road. Occasionally, I'd hear you were thinking of taking the old road again...I'd wander over and see your going the other way, taillights igniting my brain. The closing of our road was simply reinforced, and I'd wander back again. I hadn't given it much thought.
So one June night, I sit watching a 1974 Tonight Show episode and hear a car horn. Your car horn. You are broken down. You've called me - me - to fix this. I am without any proper tools...more stunned that you even showed up here to grow genuine concern. But I know this road as good as you, so I knew you'd need to be repaired before you go anywhere else. But why me? Was I the last repairman in your mind? I don't know that I'd fix everything in the finest manner. But I did. I was overly thanked and I was told you drive by again the next night.
When you did, it was much too late. "Let's work on it tomorrow, or anytime on the weekend." Well, this situation has occurred twice. I am told to bring tools to fix you, or more importantly, to fix this road...overgrown with weeds, broken promises, meandering off ramps. And yet each service call is a reminder of why this road is why it is: I can't say it's my job to care...it's not work, but I'd damn well rather look for a new road than sit by this call box and wait for a call that's supposed to come but never does. Again, and again.
It is useless to the both of us to say "end of the road." The road ended. I was at the end of it. And knowing you, you'll drive by again...see the end and wonder why. Not why you're there, but why you're there again. For your sake, you'd better hope I'm there next time you arrive. Don't forget the service contract you chose that read "no guarantees." Until then, wander I will.
We know why it was closed. This long road seemed to be repaved with the best intentions, as they always are. Hell, maybe that was the point of it, looking back, that this journey was so long and voluminous that it would trump everything. Contradictions...eh, it will work out.
But it didn't, for a single reason not needed to be rehashed. For a time later I would hear your car, stuck in the on-ramp of this road. There I was, on the side, stunned you were there. Half surprised and half annoyed. The personality wavered. I was expected to fix this...to open the road to at least one lane so that it may be travelled again. We both knew better, though.
Much time was passing, and I was on a different road. Occasionally, I'd hear you were thinking of taking the old road again...I'd wander over and see your going the other way, taillights igniting my brain. The closing of our road was simply reinforced, and I'd wander back again. I hadn't given it much thought.
So one June night, I sit watching a 1974 Tonight Show episode and hear a car horn. Your car horn. You are broken down. You've called me - me - to fix this. I am without any proper tools...more stunned that you even showed up here to grow genuine concern. But I know this road as good as you, so I knew you'd need to be repaired before you go anywhere else. But why me? Was I the last repairman in your mind? I don't know that I'd fix everything in the finest manner. But I did. I was overly thanked and I was told you drive by again the next night.
When you did, it was much too late. "Let's work on it tomorrow, or anytime on the weekend." Well, this situation has occurred twice. I am told to bring tools to fix you, or more importantly, to fix this road...overgrown with weeds, broken promises, meandering off ramps. And yet each service call is a reminder of why this road is why it is: I can't say it's my job to care...it's not work, but I'd damn well rather look for a new road than sit by this call box and wait for a call that's supposed to come but never does. Again, and again.
It is useless to the both of us to say "end of the road." The road ended. I was at the end of it. And knowing you, you'll drive by again...see the end and wonder why. Not why you're there, but why you're there again. For your sake, you'd better hope I'm there next time you arrive. Don't forget the service contract you chose that read "no guarantees." Until then, wander I will.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Everything Works if you let it
Part of the search for gold here in California comes with the territory. You know what mines have been picked...and you know what's fool's gold:
"Yeah, they're original episodes of Soul Train and everything, back from the '70s!"
Hmmm...why are there Japanese characters all over the screen?
"It's a cozy 1 bedroom...there's parking, it's not a busy street so it's not had to find a spot."
Who builds a place in Los Angeles withOUT parking?
For months, I have searched for new video swank, a new place to live, and the continued search for the drink. Vacancies would taunt me...collectors would have nothing new to trade but would love a copy of my stuff...I was buying drink at an alarming rate. And just 1 week ago, I was fearing the sad realization: this search will last into the dankness that is the summer, all of this during the time I'd rather be in a customized van, driving through the canyons to Malibu while Suburban Lawns plays on the stereo. That's what I have planned. Fuck, I'd even settle for a compact car and REO Speedwagon as long as we're on the right track. But depression got a hold on me and I feared having to step everything up: living search, new videos, more beer. But then everything turned right.
There's a new place with all new shit. There's new video gold from vaults that aren't to be opened. And...yeah, I still have to buy more drink. But this weekend, my last in a certain decade, I let it be Lowenbrau. It's all happening.
Oh yeah, summertime in southern California? I believe "swank" is the usual response.
"Yeah, they're original episodes of Soul Train and everything, back from the '70s!"
Hmmm...why are there Japanese characters all over the screen?
"It's a cozy 1 bedroom...there's parking, it's not a busy street so it's not had to find a spot."
Who builds a place in Los Angeles withOUT parking?
For months, I have searched for new video swank, a new place to live, and the continued search for the drink. Vacancies would taunt me...collectors would have nothing new to trade but would love a copy of my stuff...I was buying drink at an alarming rate. And just 1 week ago, I was fearing the sad realization: this search will last into the dankness that is the summer, all of this during the time I'd rather be in a customized van, driving through the canyons to Malibu while Suburban Lawns plays on the stereo. That's what I have planned. Fuck, I'd even settle for a compact car and REO Speedwagon as long as we're on the right track. But depression got a hold on me and I feared having to step everything up: living search, new videos, more beer. But then everything turned right.
There's a new place with all new shit. There's new video gold from vaults that aren't to be opened. And...yeah, I still have to buy more drink. But this weekend, my last in a certain decade, I let it be Lowenbrau. It's all happening.
Oh yeah, summertime in southern California? I believe "swank" is the usual response.
Monday, May 07, 2007
Kind Hearts Don't Make A New Story, Kind Hearts Don't Grab Any Glory
It's all coming together out here, everything swirling around, mixing and settling with sufficient pleasure, until the proper complexity is achieved. It sits until it needs to, and then it's magic time. Poured with care, extension of life, the ancient drink, sweet fruit turned sweeter. The head can cool off in this breeze, the brain bubbles sinking back to the bottom, to be downed with a final gulp, wonderful release.
Night time in Santa Barbara, and everyone's got something to get on about. The region is foreign to me, a mass of culture that is too intricate for my eyes, especially from where I've just come. The universe here speeds up, molecules bumping into each other at faster speeds, a closed system. Up north, things were easier.
Fuck, and tonight we'll be back in Inglewood.
The Santa Ynez Valley is a sight to behold for sure, but don't look too long or you'll learn too much. The thing here is the feel, the air that is circulating, the pulse. It's all slower, but that's too singular. This isn't Altoona, WI. It's slower, but with a purpose. Bill Hicks once said that smoking pot didn't make you lazy, it just opened your eyes to the utter uselessness of most of the activities in your life. That's what this place is like. A natural tonic, a blood re-organizer. We'll slow it right down, base it out, and we'll discover gold. Deep beneath the soil of this region is the soul, breathing out a fantastic blend of crops and atmosphere. The outward weather working in unison with the thirsty earth, it's a dance, a great stimulator. Is this how the ancient Greeks thought about it?
And so we'll float through these villas, oblivious to life outside of this place, the head on low vibration. We'll let all of the hangups melt away, all of the connections fuzz and fray, the rivers of streets will guide us, the signs will nudge us. We'll catch the sediment, and let it drift to the bottom of the glass, holding it up to examine, witnessing the slow settling with admiration.
After all, that's what happens when you add gold to water.
Night time in Santa Barbara, and everyone's got something to get on about. The region is foreign to me, a mass of culture that is too intricate for my eyes, especially from where I've just come. The universe here speeds up, molecules bumping into each other at faster speeds, a closed system. Up north, things were easier.
Fuck, and tonight we'll be back in Inglewood.
The Santa Ynez Valley is a sight to behold for sure, but don't look too long or you'll learn too much. The thing here is the feel, the air that is circulating, the pulse. It's all slower, but that's too singular. This isn't Altoona, WI. It's slower, but with a purpose. Bill Hicks once said that smoking pot didn't make you lazy, it just opened your eyes to the utter uselessness of most of the activities in your life. That's what this place is like. A natural tonic, a blood re-organizer. We'll slow it right down, base it out, and we'll discover gold. Deep beneath the soil of this region is the soul, breathing out a fantastic blend of crops and atmosphere. The outward weather working in unison with the thirsty earth, it's a dance, a great stimulator. Is this how the ancient Greeks thought about it?
And so we'll float through these villas, oblivious to life outside of this place, the head on low vibration. We'll let all of the hangups melt away, all of the connections fuzz and fray, the rivers of streets will guide us, the signs will nudge us. We'll catch the sediment, and let it drift to the bottom of the glass, holding it up to examine, witnessing the slow settling with admiration.
After all, that's what happens when you add gold to water.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
In A Minute There Is Time For Decisions And Revisions Which A Minute Will Reverse
When the world was created, it would be an awful comfortable thought that it was done with prudence, each to its place and all that. I suppose it would fit with our base level of understanding to see some order, some reason, and above all, some purpose. It's comforting, us as children, something to cozy up to and to reassure in times of intense physical distress. But reason was invented by us. Logic, thought up in the human brain. The natural world spins and wheels without any intelligence, and further, no magic stop sign. No, the truth is that survival drives everything, nothing wants to go down to the sunset, the totality of nature driving towards procreation, continuation, the circular rainbow.
It's not anything to despair over, in fact it's liberating. As you gaze in wonder at all this static, all of these straight and bent lines making shapes and revealing themselves in pleasing forms, it's nice to have a blank mind, to have it play out like a school of fish flitting to and fro, taking position and breaking up, always the show. After all, it's really all subjective, you only ever paint a picture of yourself (thanks, Chuck). I guess it's a struggle, in some ways, to knock down that sense of self, to observe this natural phenomenon and have no previous experience with which to relate to it, to search for meaning or structure and find none, and then to just sit, dumb, staring at the world working.
Adventure masks itself in this way, experience sometimes simply watering down all of the moments of self-awareness, knowledge gained in its purest form, without anything to build it upon. The basic element of experience is that learning, that acquisition of first-hand knowledge, something to store away in the Grey, perhaps to relate over pints some day. Somewhere along the line, however, experience was co-opted and became commercial, a package, something quantifiable. And then it became a numbers game. How much, places visited, things seen, rating systems, upgrades and super sizes.
The thing is that we're too small to do this. There are still corners of this earth where the right temperatures and tidal shifts create entire galaxies of biological activity that put our complexity-of-life to shame. Order it is not, more like layered opportunism, a sort of time-halted evolution. This coral universe starts with vegetation, and eventually it builds entire islands, civilizations to compete with one another, never dying, simply building and shifting, riding the tide and climate shifts. Such a world exists here, not for our eyes, nay for our excitement, a human-free zone, where exploration ends at observation. Why does it grow? Why does it change? Where is the form in it all? Questions volleyed to the depths, never resounding, lost to the creatures of the black.
I suppose in some ways this is that "draw to the sea" that Melville talks about, that yearning to discover and be amazed by the opposite of our natural home, the darkness to our light. And yes, there's truth in there, but I think the truth is simpler, something with a name. It's called progressive ignorance, forced dumbness and wonder, without words nor expressions with which to process the sights and sounds. It drove the space-men, and it drives us, although in smaller doses, and always with the element of safety looming. But to stare at that sun, those stars, this underwater fantasy, to stare into it is to accept that we know nothing, and that all we can do is see and feel.
It may make you feel less human to do this. But that's probably a good thing.
It's not anything to despair over, in fact it's liberating. As you gaze in wonder at all this static, all of these straight and bent lines making shapes and revealing themselves in pleasing forms, it's nice to have a blank mind, to have it play out like a school of fish flitting to and fro, taking position and breaking up, always the show. After all, it's really all subjective, you only ever paint a picture of yourself (thanks, Chuck). I guess it's a struggle, in some ways, to knock down that sense of self, to observe this natural phenomenon and have no previous experience with which to relate to it, to search for meaning or structure and find none, and then to just sit, dumb, staring at the world working.
Adventure masks itself in this way, experience sometimes simply watering down all of the moments of self-awareness, knowledge gained in its purest form, without anything to build it upon. The basic element of experience is that learning, that acquisition of first-hand knowledge, something to store away in the Grey, perhaps to relate over pints some day. Somewhere along the line, however, experience was co-opted and became commercial, a package, something quantifiable. And then it became a numbers game. How much, places visited, things seen, rating systems, upgrades and super sizes.
The thing is that we're too small to do this. There are still corners of this earth where the right temperatures and tidal shifts create entire galaxies of biological activity that put our complexity-of-life to shame. Order it is not, more like layered opportunism, a sort of time-halted evolution. This coral universe starts with vegetation, and eventually it builds entire islands, civilizations to compete with one another, never dying, simply building and shifting, riding the tide and climate shifts. Such a world exists here, not for our eyes, nay for our excitement, a human-free zone, where exploration ends at observation. Why does it grow? Why does it change? Where is the form in it all? Questions volleyed to the depths, never resounding, lost to the creatures of the black.
I suppose in some ways this is that "draw to the sea" that Melville talks about, that yearning to discover and be amazed by the opposite of our natural home, the darkness to our light. And yes, there's truth in there, but I think the truth is simpler, something with a name. It's called progressive ignorance, forced dumbness and wonder, without words nor expressions with which to process the sights and sounds. It drove the space-men, and it drives us, although in smaller doses, and always with the element of safety looming. But to stare at that sun, those stars, this underwater fantasy, to stare into it is to accept that we know nothing, and that all we can do is see and feel.
It may make you feel less human to do this. But that's probably a good thing.
Friday, March 30, 2007
She Ran Calling Wildfire
I was already surrounded by warmth. "Maybe it wasn't a good idea to get the shrimp Po'Boy. Oh shit, the place got a 'B' from the health department? I'm really gambling with my innards now." Whatever... deep breaths. It will pass. But it wasn't long returning to the monitoring cell to find large plume from just a mile away.
Moments later, this plume had already crossed the top of the hills and was threatening both the Hollywood sign and Burbank itself. Dry timber and old wolf carcass was igniting faster than a wrapped seed backstage. Already, a thick, dank smell was enveloping the building. And as I look left to the Hollywood Mortuary, I'm reminded of a question asked of me just 2 hours earlier. "Has there ever been a fire there?"
It would seem strange to implicate a size zero in an arson scam, so I chalked it up to a coincidence and tried to continue my gold mining when an urgent call came through.
"Get your gear. We're going in."
Now, when someone calls and tells you that it could mean a lot of things. Bring the cups, the dippin' sauce truck overturned. Bring a straw, the party is beginning. Bring your headphones, I have a new record. But this time, I didn't even get a chance for a second thought. The Filthy Mutha immediately called back.
"You'd better get to NBC quick. I've got a bulldozer and the smoke is aiming this way. The Valley could go down at this minute. Get your camera."
I'm no photographer. I don't own a camera. But I had only 60 seconds to guess what he meant. Problem with this situation was that the whiskey had to stay home (we didn't need to help this thing). A few other dry weeds (used for evidence, naturally) and some brown shades were along with me when I arrived at the Peacock. And what I saw was not a bulldozer. It was a helicopter. It was about to take off. And there was Filthy Mutha, a Coleman cooler in one hand and a bullhorn in the other. "You got the supplies?" I had to set him straight.
"You dirty falk. If you think you're going to put out this fire with a 12 pack of Coors, you're dead wrong." I guess I was being too patriotic because that wasn't the mission at all.
"Put it out? That ain't our job. We gotta get shots of this now. We're going live right after Days of Our Lives." Of course, can't keep the large sows away from their stories. And of course, I really should have been in the job's chopper, but it wasn't considered a news story there. If you're going to die, you're going to die watching General Hospital. So, up we went. Going off of instruction, we took off north and circled back around.
"Trip, I'm going to have him drop us off at Mount Lee. We're going to save our sign. In the honor of all those who view it. For those who changed it to read "Hollyweed" for the filming of Hollywood Hot Tubs. For Dealville."
We touched down and before a word otherwise the copter was gone. Armed with the bullhorn, Coors beer, and a handheld extinguisher stolen from the copter, we stood. And we waited. And saw the fire move downhill, toward Burbank. More and more helicopters landed to get water and continue the fight. Just as it seemed the sign would never see fire and the blaze controlled, I saw Filthy Mutha eating a plant.
"Check it out, Blood. Raspberries."
They weren't Raspberries. He's not actually a bird. That's not an apostrophe on the Hollywood sign. That's a man who lacked a mission, and still won. The hills are saved thanks to the brave and the insane.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
The Warrant Of Fitness Is Bullshit
Did you get all that Google? Route them all to right here.
Progressive ideals and a socialistic mentality rise to the surface here, coating it like a gel, settling over this population like invisible anthrax. The Right Thing To Do undebated, no time wasted on the pursuit of money and power, morals not based on 2000 year old scriptures, but on common human understanding, positive nature, Workable Solutions. And for all of that, you have to stand back and applaud. Shitting hell, they're light years ahead of us in that regard. At least they'll be first picked for the good jobs when the Chinese are carving up the planet like colonial Africa in a matter of decades.
Pulled over the eyes, though, a government dead as the church that supported it - a monarchy and parliament gone sour and meaningless with time, leaving the people crying out for the mother figure to set it all right, yet lacking provisions to rebel against this old order. Socialism bent by traditions. Marxism it's not. Progressive ideals being boiled by too much state involvement, burning off the fragile, essential meanings, leaving the only the Procedural.
And so it happens that you would like to institute a governmental policy to keep safe cars on the road, forcing drivers to repair their vehicles every six months to a standard set by the state. And so it happens that the hammer falls hard on the drivers of the sketchier vehicles. And so it happens that the drivers seek out the sketchier mechanics, and vice versa, and the cracks open, and the entire operation is exposed as meaningless and trivial, not solving the problem at all, never stopping a crime, only inventing an infraction, taking it away from its goal. The state saying to us that it is not necessary to carry insurance, and if you hit someone else, figure it out in court. But drive with a bald tire and you can get a fine.
I suppose it makes a small bit of sense in a country where you drive south to get to the colder temps, and mountains hold snow in the summer.
The thing is, the ideal itself stands up to reason, and the underlying force, that of socialism, drives our humanness in an essential direction, it connects us and creates more good than bad. It sees our flaws, asks and answers, bathing itself in our own human foolishness and ability to amaze. But it's never pure. By its own definition it isn't white, it isn't 24 karat. It can never be. I suppose the call for common sense in this system disappears down the well, into an abyss, echoing back like an unanswerable riddle. So you don't use heat to regulate the temps of the buildings, you just let the bodies do their work. You don't tax purchases, you tax income. You don't instigate wars, you don't overspend, overtax, you do it fairly and equally, you cut the fat and lean the pigs. Well, it's a nice feeling, but there's too much that hides, too much invisible. Behind it, rearing its face when most inconvenient, is a system lousy with old-world problems, the monarchy praised, silently sacrificed to. Like platelets, small components of the nation's blood too measurable to quantify, too essential to change.
And so, National Identity achieved. Borne of old colonial attitudes, the Empire standing tall, the Union Jack with the ever watchful eye. Yet reared with native culture, mixed, mashed, a child growing slowly, never rebelling, not making much noise, the people rising to be the most precious commodity.
Look, I come from the Land of Guns. I'm too familiar with shit going on behind the curtain, and I guess that's what pisses me off the most. That I would find it going on in a pure land such as this. That I could find a taint, a thumb print on the pristine paint. If it's here, it's everywhere, and that means it's everyone, and that's not the news I hoped to deliver.
So, essentially, give a government a chance, and it will eventually balls-up a simple concept. That's not a civics lesson, that's shit you already knew.
Progressive ideals and a socialistic mentality rise to the surface here, coating it like a gel, settling over this population like invisible anthrax. The Right Thing To Do undebated, no time wasted on the pursuit of money and power, morals not based on 2000 year old scriptures, but on common human understanding, positive nature, Workable Solutions. And for all of that, you have to stand back and applaud. Shitting hell, they're light years ahead of us in that regard. At least they'll be first picked for the good jobs when the Chinese are carving up the planet like colonial Africa in a matter of decades.
Pulled over the eyes, though, a government dead as the church that supported it - a monarchy and parliament gone sour and meaningless with time, leaving the people crying out for the mother figure to set it all right, yet lacking provisions to rebel against this old order. Socialism bent by traditions. Marxism it's not. Progressive ideals being boiled by too much state involvement, burning off the fragile, essential meanings, leaving the only the Procedural.
And so it happens that you would like to institute a governmental policy to keep safe cars on the road, forcing drivers to repair their vehicles every six months to a standard set by the state. And so it happens that the hammer falls hard on the drivers of the sketchier vehicles. And so it happens that the drivers seek out the sketchier mechanics, and vice versa, and the cracks open, and the entire operation is exposed as meaningless and trivial, not solving the problem at all, never stopping a crime, only inventing an infraction, taking it away from its goal. The state saying to us that it is not necessary to carry insurance, and if you hit someone else, figure it out in court. But drive with a bald tire and you can get a fine.
I suppose it makes a small bit of sense in a country where you drive south to get to the colder temps, and mountains hold snow in the summer.
The thing is, the ideal itself stands up to reason, and the underlying force, that of socialism, drives our humanness in an essential direction, it connects us and creates more good than bad. It sees our flaws, asks and answers, bathing itself in our own human foolishness and ability to amaze. But it's never pure. By its own definition it isn't white, it isn't 24 karat. It can never be. I suppose the call for common sense in this system disappears down the well, into an abyss, echoing back like an unanswerable riddle. So you don't use heat to regulate the temps of the buildings, you just let the bodies do their work. You don't tax purchases, you tax income. You don't instigate wars, you don't overspend, overtax, you do it fairly and equally, you cut the fat and lean the pigs. Well, it's a nice feeling, but there's too much that hides, too much invisible. Behind it, rearing its face when most inconvenient, is a system lousy with old-world problems, the monarchy praised, silently sacrificed to. Like platelets, small components of the nation's blood too measurable to quantify, too essential to change.
And so, National Identity achieved. Borne of old colonial attitudes, the Empire standing tall, the Union Jack with the ever watchful eye. Yet reared with native culture, mixed, mashed, a child growing slowly, never rebelling, not making much noise, the people rising to be the most precious commodity.
Look, I come from the Land of Guns. I'm too familiar with shit going on behind the curtain, and I guess that's what pisses me off the most. That I would find it going on in a pure land such as this. That I could find a taint, a thumb print on the pristine paint. If it's here, it's everywhere, and that means it's everyone, and that's not the news I hoped to deliver.
So, essentially, give a government a chance, and it will eventually balls-up a simple concept. That's not a civics lesson, that's shit you already knew.
Friday, February 16, 2007
I Coulda Been A Contender, Instead Of A Bum, Which Is What I Am, I Mean Let's Face It
What follows is the tale of a night spent working on the docks in Nelson Port, New Zealand.
The sun's going down and the tide's coming up, but the shifts of nature have no pragmatic purpose to the people in this place. The earth may be spinning, the darkness may blanket us all, and the cold Tasman breeze may kick up a few more knots, but regardless, those sacks of meal aren't going to move themselves. It's time for work.
8pm. Talley's Wharf. Nelson, New Zealand. I walk through a gigantic gate and down an immense docking zone, towards central base. Shadows in the distance, huge hulking figures like statues, some spitting, most smoking. As I arrive at the smoko, I see men young and old, some frail, some built like tanks, nearly every one of them very, very intimidating. The little ones are the talkers: young Maori boys for the most part, cussing and gesturing, constantly running their mouths about all manner of activities in their lives - legal and not. The big ones are just goddamned huge, big enough to play professional sports, me thinks. They stay quiet, only fixing me with their eyes, seemingly sizing me up. I just look at the ground. If one of them talks to me, I'll just turn around and walk out of here. It feels like a prison work release program because I'm surrounded by insanely large and very, very pissed-off-looking men, and nobody has smiled once since I got here. I think it's going to be a long night.
My contact told me to ask for Bull or Wattie, so I bite the bullet and ask the biggest guy I can find if he knows where I can find Bull, hoping he'll say "Yeah, that's me" and we will both smile and I will have a moment to share with him later when I'm on the stand testifying against one of the workers. No dice. The man just points to the door and says what I figure out 4 minutes later is "He's through there". Most of the time in this country, I have no problem cutting through the accent, but that's because I've been dealing primarily with New Zealanders involved in travel and hospitality. These aren't them. They curse non-stop, and use almost exclusively slang. So as I stand trying to figure out what "Aye, Bully's frough dere, eh?" means, I take a leave and throw my lunch in the fridge.
A few moments later, Bull steps out from the "office" (I suppose there's a desk in there somewhere, but it looks like a bar urinal with pictures of ships on the wall). I know he's Bull with one look. Easily topping 350, decked in an extremely tight tank top and sweat pants gone rotten with sea salt, he's got a cigarette dangling from his lips, and he's fishing another one out of the pack (no pun intended). He labors to the picnic table that doubles as "office furniture" and sits down breathing alarmingly heavy. He begins giving out assignments to everyone, usually with one or two words, sometimes with simple grunts and gestures. One of the talkative kids he tells to "gear up for meal", to which the kid screams out profanity and saunters to the booth to get his overalls. He turns to me, asks me my name, says "Ok, Brew, you're Team 3, with this guy." Before I can point out his mistake, a wiry, scruffed, middle-aged man walks up next to me and introduces himself as Stephen. He rolls a cigarette, looking up at the fading night sky. Bull glances around and says "Alright. Now who's got wheels?"
We load into whatever transport we can find and drive to the other end of the port, a wharf revealing a towering ship packed to the gills with frozen foods. The sun is down now, purple light reflecting off the clouds and seagulls chattering and screeching, growing impatient. We're shown to a truck-sized container and are told we have to fit 650 sacks into it. We wait in silence, and soon enough, the forklift arrives, driven by Ben Kingsley himself. Completely bald, with a very small patch of beard, and cursing every other word, I find it strange that Don Logan from Sexy Beast has gone on to drive lifts on the docks in Nelson, but before I can comment, he asks me where I'm from. "Aye, a bloody fookin American, getting a bit rough in there, in't it?" I drop a sack of fish meal on Stephen's foot. "Must be all that fookin wrestlin' yous got over there!" Later, after discovering he hasn't had a break for over 2 hours, he proclaims to us "Aye, Dougie's taken 2 fookin smokos, I'm sittin here bloody fooked with nay a smoko in 2 hours, waitin on him takin his sweet time, and fook it all, I'll just fook off and the fook with all of them, I'll be right down the road straightaway, know what I mean?" He explains to us that he used to do what we are doing - lifting 66 pound bags of dried fish meal and stacking them to the ceiling of the container - but he then decided it would be easier to just drive the forklift around instead. Stephen acknowledges this by falling into a violent coughing fit that doubles him over. Later, he tells me that a few years ago, he injured his back so bad on the job that the surgeon told him he was never going to walk again. Stephen replied "Fookin watch me" and walked out of the hospital 2 months later. He works without a back brace, explaining that if he gets hurt again, "the boss men are going to have bloody hell to pay".
We work for an hour, then we get a half hour break (dubbed a "smoko" here, for reasons unknown), then we're back on, and repeat. It sounds like a nice rotation, but the half hour break is absolutely needed. By the end of the first hour of work, I'm already wasted. We unload an average of 8 containers of sacks every hour, each with around 25 sacks. That equates to 100 a piece, which means I'm pretty much constantly lifting 30kg bags of nasty fish meal and positioning them so we can fit more into the truck. When smoko comes, it comes with huge relief. We head to the trailer for some Milo drink and whatever food we brought with us. A huge sign above the garbage can proclaims "If you don't want to use this rubbish bin, DON'T use this smoko!" I glance around the tiny room and every table is littered with trash. Half eaten chicken bones, empty McDonald's wrappers, sandwiches unwrapped and attracting flies, chipbags and soda cans literally cover every square inch. I look at the nearly-empty garbage can, 9 feet away. It stands at the entrance to the trailer, meaning these men must've just finished whatever they were eating, dropped it on the table without a second thought, and walked out the door for their shift. No wonder the seagulls are going crazy. They know that just through this door, it's paradise.
"Fook these bloody fookin overalls!!" An old man has stumbled into the trailer and proclaims this to no one in particular. He strips off the one piece suit - designed with Hannibal Lecter in mind - and throws it to the ground. He turns to me. "THIS is how I want to work!" He is standing there before me, dressed in a filthy undershirt (a size too small, naturally) and a New Zealand knock-off of Umbro soccer shorts. He's about two quick awkward movements away from giving us all a peep show. He flies towards the door yelling "And if the boss men don't like it they can take a hard shit!" The whole encounter has lasted 25 seconds, but it will burn my brain for weeks to come.
We throw sacks of fish meal all night, one container after the other, moving around the wharf and loading them into whatever they tell us to. Bull oversees the whole operation, and like he's in the Usual Suspects, he's smoking every single time I see him. The work that we do depends on a lot of different steps and people, so if the kids in the hole don't load the sacks faster than we can unload them, we've got heaps of down time. If the driver accidentally runs over a brick and has to get another forklift to lift his forklift off of it, then more down time. When the crane operator nearly takes an entire pallet over the edge and into the yawning sea, even more down time. All of it provides an opportunity to watch the sun rise behind the mountains. It shows itself briefly, then disappears beneath the clouds, the day waking under an overcast sky covered with ominous black spots. It's 7am. We have an hour and a half left.
Towards the end, we've separated the men from the beasts, as it were. Stephen and I are demolished, now leaning against anything we can between containers - which are being delivered faster than we can keep up with. However, at 8:00, a gigantic man emerges from the hole. He strides down the ladder like he just got to work, and proceeds to more than triple the pace of both Stephen and I. He lifts sacks like they are pillows, tossing them 5 feet, one on top of the other, at an unending pace. He's an absolute machine. He's spent the entire night inside the ship without a whisp of fresh air, picking these huge hulking bags off the floor and tossing them up onto the deck, and now he's down here loading them off as if he's just going through the motions. At times, I just want to stand back and watch him go, but I feel compelled to at least help a tiny bit, so every now and again I grab a sack and set it down, trying to not get in his way. He sees me nearly defeated with exhaustion and says "Take a small break bro, you've been doing this all night, no worries." Yeah, but so have you. "Aye, no bother to me though, is it?"
Quitting time comes at 8:30am, and we all shuffle towards the trailer to grab our stuff and catch a ride back to the carpark on the other side of the port. Bull gets everyone around, thanks them for the work, and tells us that there is going to be a second shift that afternoon, at 2pm. God in heaven above. As we split up, he comes around asking us if we're going to be there. Almost unanimously, these men agree to come back in 5 and a half hours to do this again. When Bull gets near, he looks at me and sees a broken man covered in sweat and fish meal, arms cut through from the vinyl coverings, hunched and panting. He just raises his eyebrows in questioning. I say "I can't". He nods. I've never seen someone less surprised.
We go our separate ways, gathering up our things and heading back home. To most, that means a short nap and then back at it again. To me, I'm going down for the count, a 10 hour day sleep in which you could fire a shotgun in the room and I wouldn't be bothered to even turn over. The shift is over, the day has begun, and the clouds start to burn off. Soon, sunshine beams off the Tasman, and I stare out towards the wharf, hoping to holy hell I never find myself back there, but wondering just how far I could push myself if I absolutely had to.
Then sleep comes, and I dream of fish meal.
The sun's going down and the tide's coming up, but the shifts of nature have no pragmatic purpose to the people in this place. The earth may be spinning, the darkness may blanket us all, and the cold Tasman breeze may kick up a few more knots, but regardless, those sacks of meal aren't going to move themselves. It's time for work.
8pm. Talley's Wharf. Nelson, New Zealand. I walk through a gigantic gate and down an immense docking zone, towards central base. Shadows in the distance, huge hulking figures like statues, some spitting, most smoking. As I arrive at the smoko, I see men young and old, some frail, some built like tanks, nearly every one of them very, very intimidating. The little ones are the talkers: young Maori boys for the most part, cussing and gesturing, constantly running their mouths about all manner of activities in their lives - legal and not. The big ones are just goddamned huge, big enough to play professional sports, me thinks. They stay quiet, only fixing me with their eyes, seemingly sizing me up. I just look at the ground. If one of them talks to me, I'll just turn around and walk out of here. It feels like a prison work release program because I'm surrounded by insanely large and very, very pissed-off-looking men, and nobody has smiled once since I got here. I think it's going to be a long night.
My contact told me to ask for Bull or Wattie, so I bite the bullet and ask the biggest guy I can find if he knows where I can find Bull, hoping he'll say "Yeah, that's me" and we will both smile and I will have a moment to share with him later when I'm on the stand testifying against one of the workers. No dice. The man just points to the door and says what I figure out 4 minutes later is "He's through there". Most of the time in this country, I have no problem cutting through the accent, but that's because I've been dealing primarily with New Zealanders involved in travel and hospitality. These aren't them. They curse non-stop, and use almost exclusively slang. So as I stand trying to figure out what "Aye, Bully's frough dere, eh?" means, I take a leave and throw my lunch in the fridge.
A few moments later, Bull steps out from the "office" (I suppose there's a desk in there somewhere, but it looks like a bar urinal with pictures of ships on the wall). I know he's Bull with one look. Easily topping 350, decked in an extremely tight tank top and sweat pants gone rotten with sea salt, he's got a cigarette dangling from his lips, and he's fishing another one out of the pack (no pun intended). He labors to the picnic table that doubles as "office furniture" and sits down breathing alarmingly heavy. He begins giving out assignments to everyone, usually with one or two words, sometimes with simple grunts and gestures. One of the talkative kids he tells to "gear up for meal", to which the kid screams out profanity and saunters to the booth to get his overalls. He turns to me, asks me my name, says "Ok, Brew, you're Team 3, with this guy." Before I can point out his mistake, a wiry, scruffed, middle-aged man walks up next to me and introduces himself as Stephen. He rolls a cigarette, looking up at the fading night sky. Bull glances around and says "Alright. Now who's got wheels?"
We load into whatever transport we can find and drive to the other end of the port, a wharf revealing a towering ship packed to the gills with frozen foods. The sun is down now, purple light reflecting off the clouds and seagulls chattering and screeching, growing impatient. We're shown to a truck-sized container and are told we have to fit 650 sacks into it. We wait in silence, and soon enough, the forklift arrives, driven by Ben Kingsley himself. Completely bald, with a very small patch of beard, and cursing every other word, I find it strange that Don Logan from Sexy Beast has gone on to drive lifts on the docks in Nelson, but before I can comment, he asks me where I'm from. "Aye, a bloody fookin American, getting a bit rough in there, in't it?" I drop a sack of fish meal on Stephen's foot. "Must be all that fookin wrestlin' yous got over there!" Later, after discovering he hasn't had a break for over 2 hours, he proclaims to us "Aye, Dougie's taken 2 fookin smokos, I'm sittin here bloody fooked with nay a smoko in 2 hours, waitin on him takin his sweet time, and fook it all, I'll just fook off and the fook with all of them, I'll be right down the road straightaway, know what I mean?" He explains to us that he used to do what we are doing - lifting 66 pound bags of dried fish meal and stacking them to the ceiling of the container - but he then decided it would be easier to just drive the forklift around instead. Stephen acknowledges this by falling into a violent coughing fit that doubles him over. Later, he tells me that a few years ago, he injured his back so bad on the job that the surgeon told him he was never going to walk again. Stephen replied "Fookin watch me" and walked out of the hospital 2 months later. He works without a back brace, explaining that if he gets hurt again, "the boss men are going to have bloody hell to pay".
We work for an hour, then we get a half hour break (dubbed a "smoko" here, for reasons unknown), then we're back on, and repeat. It sounds like a nice rotation, but the half hour break is absolutely needed. By the end of the first hour of work, I'm already wasted. We unload an average of 8 containers of sacks every hour, each with around 25 sacks. That equates to 100 a piece, which means I'm pretty much constantly lifting 30kg bags of nasty fish meal and positioning them so we can fit more into the truck. When smoko comes, it comes with huge relief. We head to the trailer for some Milo drink and whatever food we brought with us. A huge sign above the garbage can proclaims "If you don't want to use this rubbish bin, DON'T use this smoko!" I glance around the tiny room and every table is littered with trash. Half eaten chicken bones, empty McDonald's wrappers, sandwiches unwrapped and attracting flies, chipbags and soda cans literally cover every square inch. I look at the nearly-empty garbage can, 9 feet away. It stands at the entrance to the trailer, meaning these men must've just finished whatever they were eating, dropped it on the table without a second thought, and walked out the door for their shift. No wonder the seagulls are going crazy. They know that just through this door, it's paradise.
"Fook these bloody fookin overalls!!" An old man has stumbled into the trailer and proclaims this to no one in particular. He strips off the one piece suit - designed with Hannibal Lecter in mind - and throws it to the ground. He turns to me. "THIS is how I want to work!" He is standing there before me, dressed in a filthy undershirt (a size too small, naturally) and a New Zealand knock-off of Umbro soccer shorts. He's about two quick awkward movements away from giving us all a peep show. He flies towards the door yelling "And if the boss men don't like it they can take a hard shit!" The whole encounter has lasted 25 seconds, but it will burn my brain for weeks to come.
We throw sacks of fish meal all night, one container after the other, moving around the wharf and loading them into whatever they tell us to. Bull oversees the whole operation, and like he's in the Usual Suspects, he's smoking every single time I see him. The work that we do depends on a lot of different steps and people, so if the kids in the hole don't load the sacks faster than we can unload them, we've got heaps of down time. If the driver accidentally runs over a brick and has to get another forklift to lift his forklift off of it, then more down time. When the crane operator nearly takes an entire pallet over the edge and into the yawning sea, even more down time. All of it provides an opportunity to watch the sun rise behind the mountains. It shows itself briefly, then disappears beneath the clouds, the day waking under an overcast sky covered with ominous black spots. It's 7am. We have an hour and a half left.
Towards the end, we've separated the men from the beasts, as it were. Stephen and I are demolished, now leaning against anything we can between containers - which are being delivered faster than we can keep up with. However, at 8:00, a gigantic man emerges from the hole. He strides down the ladder like he just got to work, and proceeds to more than triple the pace of both Stephen and I. He lifts sacks like they are pillows, tossing them 5 feet, one on top of the other, at an unending pace. He's an absolute machine. He's spent the entire night inside the ship without a whisp of fresh air, picking these huge hulking bags off the floor and tossing them up onto the deck, and now he's down here loading them off as if he's just going through the motions. At times, I just want to stand back and watch him go, but I feel compelled to at least help a tiny bit, so every now and again I grab a sack and set it down, trying to not get in his way. He sees me nearly defeated with exhaustion and says "Take a small break bro, you've been doing this all night, no worries." Yeah, but so have you. "Aye, no bother to me though, is it?"
Quitting time comes at 8:30am, and we all shuffle towards the trailer to grab our stuff and catch a ride back to the carpark on the other side of the port. Bull gets everyone around, thanks them for the work, and tells us that there is going to be a second shift that afternoon, at 2pm. God in heaven above. As we split up, he comes around asking us if we're going to be there. Almost unanimously, these men agree to come back in 5 and a half hours to do this again. When Bull gets near, he looks at me and sees a broken man covered in sweat and fish meal, arms cut through from the vinyl coverings, hunched and panting. He just raises his eyebrows in questioning. I say "I can't". He nods. I've never seen someone less surprised.
We go our separate ways, gathering up our things and heading back home. To most, that means a short nap and then back at it again. To me, I'm going down for the count, a 10 hour day sleep in which you could fire a shotgun in the room and I wouldn't be bothered to even turn over. The shift is over, the day has begun, and the clouds start to burn off. Soon, sunshine beams off the Tasman, and I stare out towards the wharf, hoping to holy hell I never find myself back there, but wondering just how far I could push myself if I absolutely had to.
Then sleep comes, and I dream of fish meal.
Friday, February 09, 2007
The wheelbarrow is full
When you mine for gold in Dealville, sometimes you get lucky. Sure, skill plays a large part, but sometimes you just find gold even when you're not looking for it. And that's California Gold right there, surrounding you like an ocean breeze, wandering runaway or discarded can of spray paint.
This evening, DZA and I will attend a television show taping in Hollywood. The content of this show is not something that deserves elaboration. But one of the guests does: Tenacious D. Yes, the most rocking band in history will take the stage. We will watch them play many songs. We will rock out to the songs while girls will get pregnant just by listening to them rock.
Of course, that's what I think will happen. I am not aware of the actuality of my evening. I was once told a story from someone who's name is of no consequence. He was a teen at the time, and was joining a friend at a twi-night doubleheader at Met Stadium in August of 1979. A's vs. Twins. Unbeknownst to him, his friend convinced his dad to drop him off at the stadium instead of staying with them. The pair made some fast friends amongst the empty seats, and next thing you know, they are in someone's van, driving to the new Eden Prairie mall to see a midnight showing of "The Song Remains the Same." So, in a haze, you can't fault the guy for calling his father at 3AM from a gas station asking for a ride because; let's face it, would YOU want to walk 10 miles down a highway to get home? Shit, you'd be lucky if you even knew your name.
Point being: if, later on, I'm at an all-night Chinese restaurant singing songs from the Pretenders, sitting on a sidewalk eating terrible pizza, or trying to pick up a radio station from Mexico, know that I have no idea what the fuck is going on. But it's all gold.
This evening, DZA and I will attend a television show taping in Hollywood. The content of this show is not something that deserves elaboration. But one of the guests does: Tenacious D. Yes, the most rocking band in history will take the stage. We will watch them play many songs. We will rock out to the songs while girls will get pregnant just by listening to them rock.
Of course, that's what I think will happen. I am not aware of the actuality of my evening. I was once told a story from someone who's name is of no consequence. He was a teen at the time, and was joining a friend at a twi-night doubleheader at Met Stadium in August of 1979. A's vs. Twins. Unbeknownst to him, his friend convinced his dad to drop him off at the stadium instead of staying with them. The pair made some fast friends amongst the empty seats, and next thing you know, they are in someone's van, driving to the new Eden Prairie mall to see a midnight showing of "The Song Remains the Same." So, in a haze, you can't fault the guy for calling his father at 3AM from a gas station asking for a ride because; let's face it, would YOU want to walk 10 miles down a highway to get home? Shit, you'd be lucky if you even knew your name.
Point being: if, later on, I'm at an all-night Chinese restaurant singing songs from the Pretenders, sitting on a sidewalk eating terrible pizza, or trying to pick up a radio station from Mexico, know that I have no idea what the fuck is going on. But it's all gold.
Friday, February 02, 2007
If You Get That Big Score, Then You Never Have To Wake Up Early
(Editor's Note: We've had only intermittant contact with Dee Louis as he has progressed further into the dredges of the southernmost places of the earth. As he teeters on the edge, we provide this dispatch, looking more like a cry for help than informed literature. The title is quoted from a particularly sauce-drenched conversation with Ms. Shady, his muse)
A long time ago, I visited the state of my birth, Arkansas. A hot, dusty place inhabited by hair and empty wallets, universities and hippie communes, somehow both lost AND forgotten. I thought of the sun-parched earth "How could any roots take hold here?" Folks drift through towns like Eureka Springs and Ballmer like ditchweeds. The past seemingly unable to get a grip, stories and generations flying away in the singing sand. I do specifically remember ordering a footlong and seeing the confusing sign reading "Absolutely NO SHARING!", so it wasn't all bad I guess.
I suppose that lack of permanence, that shifting sands and winds feel, it concentrates strongly in a place like this. We're operating without a chute now, totally floating from place to place and slowly are losing our sense of home. That word never lends itself to any positive thought. Home is too entrenched, too constricting. I'd much prefer "Sleep Hole". Nah, but without that pull, without much to bother and complain about, life becomes something of an oddity. Honestly, how can you get down about anything in a situation like this? The only thing that is amplified to an extreme negative is the lazy behavior, but that's just because there's nothing else to focus on. It's easy to sit and talk about shit you ain't gonna do when rent's coming up and your car's in the shit house.
Another thing you must understand is that - like the pull of the tide - this place turns my writing to a convoluted fucking mess. So bear with me.
They tumble through this place and others, worshipping at the feet of this particular buddha, holding out for that dying candle, that flicker of permanence, letting it slip away and facing themselves in the reflection. Cut loose with 25,000 frequent flyer miles, lives wedged into people-sized luggage, eyes ever wide and sponge-like. True warriors, I suppose. Fighting against ideals that in the place where I now call home - The Great White - are suffocating and all-encompassing. To witness a backpacker in Minny is like meeting a Turkish German. Once in a lifetime if you're lucky, and thanks to christ, not once more.
This wave of temporary people, they crash through and recede and another arrives with stunning regularity and sameness, but the personalities behind the numbers are insanely different. The stories are filling up like a hard drive, and we're going to have to begin dumping. The situations, the backgrounds, never in my life have I come across this hodge-podge of humanity, and that includes 8 trips to Vegas. Hell, there, you're just looking at 3 million different versions of the same sad story. Here, you're tasting the corners, licking the salt as it were.
There's something burning in them, something like a booster always giving them movement, if not always direction. As the sign says, "The best plan is no plan". This coming from the mouth of a German who parked a mile away from a vineyard to hear Eric Clapton make it talk. It's just natural, a way of life to them. Just as you would parrot back a list of your values and hopes, they would rifle off Capitals, Culture, and Time Spent. It really makes for good talk, all of this stimuli like nothing you've ever heard, sentences presented in semi-english that you wouldn't even understand if the Queen herself spoke them. The home fires burn out, but the soul is wealthy in fuel.
I figure that wealth must be something unmeasurable, something that not many from back in The White have a sense of, something not to be revered but bottled up and mocked. I figure, also, that I would've been one to do that as well, so it stands to reason that I should be here, now looking through the mirror, forced into a change brought on by 19 hours of travel. Payment for my past transgressions - pennance for my former prejudices. The only ignorance I have ever so knowingly nurtured, so expressly embraced, is one of Isolation. That's the big bear in the room, the swinging left turn that lives hinge on. You can't go back from either direction... once you're here, you have no steps to retrace. Thinking about it only deepens the resolve, only further smashes your previous actions, only swims you out, beyond the chop.
And, like I said, once you take off, sever those roots, start treading on hollowed ground, well that's when it starts to make more sense. I guess it's not knowledge per se - something parallel to that, something words only dramatize.
You could call it soul, and you wouldn't get much argument.
The past lingers in memories stored in caverns of The Grey, and likely will never relenquish its grip on unconscious thought. Burn the home down, but it just keeps right on blazing in your mind. Fight like hell to get out of it, and like me, you'll end up making the memory stronger, feeling your roots like appendages, unable to shake what feels unnecessary. The only solution is to force it. The only way you cut the ties is with a violent jerk, something so strong mere electrical brain power can't keep up. A flight lasting almost an entire day to a place where shadow is in sunlight, and you meet a guy on a beach with two dogs that are part dingo. This is how it happens, how you change.
This is how you start to understand these travellers. How friendship and Good Contact takes the place of ignorance and apathy.
You look through the one way mirror, and it only strengthens your sight, only sharpens your rods and cones.
Then you can recognize yourself when it turns around.
A long time ago, I visited the state of my birth, Arkansas. A hot, dusty place inhabited by hair and empty wallets, universities and hippie communes, somehow both lost AND forgotten. I thought of the sun-parched earth "How could any roots take hold here?" Folks drift through towns like Eureka Springs and Ballmer like ditchweeds. The past seemingly unable to get a grip, stories and generations flying away in the singing sand. I do specifically remember ordering a footlong and seeing the confusing sign reading "Absolutely NO SHARING!", so it wasn't all bad I guess.
I suppose that lack of permanence, that shifting sands and winds feel, it concentrates strongly in a place like this. We're operating without a chute now, totally floating from place to place and slowly are losing our sense of home. That word never lends itself to any positive thought. Home is too entrenched, too constricting. I'd much prefer "Sleep Hole". Nah, but without that pull, without much to bother and complain about, life becomes something of an oddity. Honestly, how can you get down about anything in a situation like this? The only thing that is amplified to an extreme negative is the lazy behavior, but that's just because there's nothing else to focus on. It's easy to sit and talk about shit you ain't gonna do when rent's coming up and your car's in the shit house.
Another thing you must understand is that - like the pull of the tide - this place turns my writing to a convoluted fucking mess. So bear with me.
They tumble through this place and others, worshipping at the feet of this particular buddha, holding out for that dying candle, that flicker of permanence, letting it slip away and facing themselves in the reflection. Cut loose with 25,000 frequent flyer miles, lives wedged into people-sized luggage, eyes ever wide and sponge-like. True warriors, I suppose. Fighting against ideals that in the place where I now call home - The Great White - are suffocating and all-encompassing. To witness a backpacker in Minny is like meeting a Turkish German. Once in a lifetime if you're lucky, and thanks to christ, not once more.
This wave of temporary people, they crash through and recede and another arrives with stunning regularity and sameness, but the personalities behind the numbers are insanely different. The stories are filling up like a hard drive, and we're going to have to begin dumping. The situations, the backgrounds, never in my life have I come across this hodge-podge of humanity, and that includes 8 trips to Vegas. Hell, there, you're just looking at 3 million different versions of the same sad story. Here, you're tasting the corners, licking the salt as it were.
There's something burning in them, something like a booster always giving them movement, if not always direction. As the sign says, "The best plan is no plan". This coming from the mouth of a German who parked a mile away from a vineyard to hear Eric Clapton make it talk. It's just natural, a way of life to them. Just as you would parrot back a list of your values and hopes, they would rifle off Capitals, Culture, and Time Spent. It really makes for good talk, all of this stimuli like nothing you've ever heard, sentences presented in semi-english that you wouldn't even understand if the Queen herself spoke them. The home fires burn out, but the soul is wealthy in fuel.
I figure that wealth must be something unmeasurable, something that not many from back in The White have a sense of, something not to be revered but bottled up and mocked. I figure, also, that I would've been one to do that as well, so it stands to reason that I should be here, now looking through the mirror, forced into a change brought on by 19 hours of travel. Payment for my past transgressions - pennance for my former prejudices. The only ignorance I have ever so knowingly nurtured, so expressly embraced, is one of Isolation. That's the big bear in the room, the swinging left turn that lives hinge on. You can't go back from either direction... once you're here, you have no steps to retrace. Thinking about it only deepens the resolve, only further smashes your previous actions, only swims you out, beyond the chop.
And, like I said, once you take off, sever those roots, start treading on hollowed ground, well that's when it starts to make more sense. I guess it's not knowledge per se - something parallel to that, something words only dramatize.
You could call it soul, and you wouldn't get much argument.
The past lingers in memories stored in caverns of The Grey, and likely will never relenquish its grip on unconscious thought. Burn the home down, but it just keeps right on blazing in your mind. Fight like hell to get out of it, and like me, you'll end up making the memory stronger, feeling your roots like appendages, unable to shake what feels unnecessary. The only solution is to force it. The only way you cut the ties is with a violent jerk, something so strong mere electrical brain power can't keep up. A flight lasting almost an entire day to a place where shadow is in sunlight, and you meet a guy on a beach with two dogs that are part dingo. This is how it happens, how you change.
This is how you start to understand these travellers. How friendship and Good Contact takes the place of ignorance and apathy.
You look through the one way mirror, and it only strengthens your sight, only sharpens your rods and cones.
Then you can recognize yourself when it turns around.
Monday, January 01, 2007
A Little Less Conversation
I suppose the full reason of this sojourn will never really be known - the dark meaning behind it all too complex and muddled to make any sense out of it. I suppose you can attach whatever it is that you would like to it, go through me and project thoughts and ambitions of your own. Go ahead. It's ok, I really don't mind. I suppose, also, that it's my responsibility to discuss at least a few of the motivations and triggers, at least pull a small corner of the curtain back, otherwise it's rambling goddamned nonsense, and you get enough of that from Other Ones.
The truth is that the talk got to be too much. Too many dreams failed, too many plans allowed to rot, too many projects and hopes discarded despite the efforts of the Few.
I can take failure. I am no stranger to the everlasting self-doubt and the inability to perform actions that others handle with relative ease. I understand things are hard, and I also understand that there is a True Life, one with all sorts of unaccommodating demands and trivial hang-ups, and that it gets in the way quite often. Look, I'm living this shit too. Or at least I was.
No, the truth was the talk, that's what launched the ships. It was buried deep in the idea that you could just say whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted, and that someone else would listen to this and be forced to comment, like some puppet act. Also, that there would be no reprecussions, no punishment to go with the inaction. That something could be tossed about like a volleyball, batted around for a day or a week or a minute, and then left to sit for the rest of eternity.
And that there were fields of these dead plans that stretched further than I could see with my own fucking eyes.
Well, that was part of it, a Negative part that holds a lot less weight here, something that was like sprinkles on frosting, nothing of substance, just a provision thrown into the soup. I'd rather not have it that way, surely, but it's there and I'm not in the business of floating bullshit from across The Blue. Leave that up to Hemingway, if and when you can find him.
I should, though, tell you that it lives and breathes. It has a soul, this inaction, this burrowing insect, and it follows even to far away lands. The talk, it hitched a ride in my suitcase, got out and smelled the fresh Green air and made itself at home.
I suppose it would. It's not like you just leave it behind, like a posession. It's a fucking Brain Part, a web of thoughts and behaviors that would take a fall down some steep steps to jar loose or even damage. No, it's not going out like that.
And so that struggle, which the California Gold Squadron is keen to observe, it's played out across oceans, on other continents like a bastardization of our American Sport. So hell, watch it and put money on it. I guess to an observer, it might be quite interesting. I suppose if I'm ever to escape it, I've got to violently rebel against it. And I think, to many degrees, I've already done that. I am, after all, here.
Exactly why still remains a mystery. And now, it's even more complex, even more important to Unlock.
In the battle against Reason, you can only be unreasonable, and that means that you can end the battle any time you want.
The truth is that the talk got to be too much. Too many dreams failed, too many plans allowed to rot, too many projects and hopes discarded despite the efforts of the Few.
I can take failure. I am no stranger to the everlasting self-doubt and the inability to perform actions that others handle with relative ease. I understand things are hard, and I also understand that there is a True Life, one with all sorts of unaccommodating demands and trivial hang-ups, and that it gets in the way quite often. Look, I'm living this shit too. Or at least I was.
No, the truth was the talk, that's what launched the ships. It was buried deep in the idea that you could just say whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted, and that someone else would listen to this and be forced to comment, like some puppet act. Also, that there would be no reprecussions, no punishment to go with the inaction. That something could be tossed about like a volleyball, batted around for a day or a week or a minute, and then left to sit for the rest of eternity.
And that there were fields of these dead plans that stretched further than I could see with my own fucking eyes.
Well, that was part of it, a Negative part that holds a lot less weight here, something that was like sprinkles on frosting, nothing of substance, just a provision thrown into the soup. I'd rather not have it that way, surely, but it's there and I'm not in the business of floating bullshit from across The Blue. Leave that up to Hemingway, if and when you can find him.
I should, though, tell you that it lives and breathes. It has a soul, this inaction, this burrowing insect, and it follows even to far away lands. The talk, it hitched a ride in my suitcase, got out and smelled the fresh Green air and made itself at home.
I suppose it would. It's not like you just leave it behind, like a posession. It's a fucking Brain Part, a web of thoughts and behaviors that would take a fall down some steep steps to jar loose or even damage. No, it's not going out like that.
And so that struggle, which the California Gold Squadron is keen to observe, it's played out across oceans, on other continents like a bastardization of our American Sport. So hell, watch it and put money on it. I guess to an observer, it might be quite interesting. I suppose if I'm ever to escape it, I've got to violently rebel against it. And I think, to many degrees, I've already done that. I am, after all, here.
Exactly why still remains a mystery. And now, it's even more complex, even more important to Unlock.
In the battle against Reason, you can only be unreasonable, and that means that you can end the battle any time you want.
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