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.

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.)

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.

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.