Shades of Grey

This entry is about faults and wrongs and wrongs committed against those we love and how we perceive these same wrongs committed by others. We are very quick to designate people good or bad, kind or mean, angry or passive. Very black and white designations for people who are neither. This is a very common and base thought, I know, but allow me to elaborate. 

No one is wholly good or evil, we are all shades of grey. Some have a callous and gruff exterior hiding a soft side, others of us are just the opposite and there are makes and models to fit all the spaces in between. The key to understand is that we all fuck up. We all commit acts which bring pain and suffering to others. Sometimes these acts are conscious and sometimes we do them without a thought to the outcome or to the pain it may cause others. Sometimes we are just too selfish to even consider that our actions affect anyone other than ourselves. 

At times we are all callous, mean spirited, self serving, vengeful, and more. We are also all adept at forgiving and rationalizing the inhumanity in ourselves, even while demonizing the same in others. We must forgive it in ourselves, we must rationalize and forgive for it is the only way to survive. If we acknowledged these actions not a one of us would be able to face ourselves day in and day out. The only option is to forgive. 

And if we are to forgive these faults in ourselves, how, tell me how, we could not forgive the same in those that we love? I am not a good man, but I try to be forgiving for the single reason that I am not good. I try and I fail. If I cannot be the man I aspire to be how can I condemn others for the same?

Sometimes...Life bites back

So, this past week was packed full of excitment but generally not the kind of excitement one seeks out. Bad lack was the theme and I was the poor unfortunate protagonist. It started out Tuesday evening when a customer discovered they had pumped diesel into their unleaded SUV. So I went to seek out gas jugs and hose. I knew there was an assortment of hose sitting atop an old truck topper that was lying in the grass. I was sorting through the hose when suddenly I felt a bite on my bicep. I looked down expecting find a Crimtoad a.k.a. Sawyer Beetle but instead there was a yellow jacket. And following that advance scout was a swarm of yellow jackets boiling up my legs from the ground. I thought a retreat was in order and so I fled at full speed laughing all the way. They didn't pursue and I was stung a mere two times. Later in the evening I returned to the site of my retreat with jacket, gloves, head net, and wasp killer. The nest was hanging from the ceiling of the topper just inside the rear hatch. I forced open the front window of the topper and hosed down the nest with a full can of the wasp killer. Eliminating my enemy from existence.



Wednesday went by without issue as well as most of Thursday. Thursday night however, just about closing time I was walking through the kitchen and slipped on a wet floor. Feet flew out from under me and I came crashing to the floor, slamming against the wall behind me. Said wall unfortunately is home to quite possibly the only magnetic knife rack within 120 miles. The force of the fall brought over a half dozen kitchen knives crashing down upon me, fortunately missing all vital areas. I did receive one laceration of the left shoulder which flayed the skin back from the fatty undertissue and one puncture wound in the left elbow. The punture wound just happened to be right where the muscles and tendons connect at the elbow and so has been the most painful part of the experience.



The doctor at Urgent Care 3 hours south of our camp at the Yukon River opted not to use stitches and instead go with sterastrips. These are narrow adhesive strips that do basically the same thing as stitches by holding the wound together. I was asking the doctor whether they would stay on and he said they would last at least 7 days and showering would not be a problem as water would simply shed right off the sterastrips. All this the result of the glue he was using to secure the strips to the skin.



Well within 1 hour of leaving Urgent Care the sterastrips were already peeling off. So with a call to my roomates Uncle Frank, the paramedic, we learned that the glue was in fact benzoine (basically iodine) and not a glue at all and that water would most assuredly take the sterastrips right off the skin. My roomates family assisted in replacing the sterastrips with extras the doc did give me and it has been a struggle ever since keeping them on. My final decision is that it is best to go the ER where the doctors at least know the difference between glue and benzoine.

Life on the River

Here at Yukon River camp life on the river is in some ways very similar to life on the river floating down it’s murky waters towards the Bering Sea. The act of living is defined by ritual and routine and remembered for routine’s exceptions. On the river it is daily rituals of breaking and setting up camp, and the routine of floating. You alternate reading books, with watching the landscape as you drift by, and various isolated, poignant, and forgettable conversations. Occasionally something exciting and dramatic occurs that forces you to break from routine and thus becomes memorable. One day your boat may become swamped as waves crash over the stern while you eat dinner, or a grizzly may angrily pace up and down the shores of the opposite bank, perhaps boredom and cramped conditions may force you out of your dry tent and into a wind and rain storm to sip whisky and enjoy the chill wind and the biting rain assault your senses.

At Yukon River Camp life isn’t so different. It is defined by living and working with the same 7 people for 5 months, completing the same chores every day, and reusing the same conversations to pass the time. Books are read, movies watched, and watched again. Rituals are defined and then perfected to the point of thoughtless repetition early on. The tourists come through, ask the same questions as the last , get on the same coach and head north or south on the only road. Every day becomes the same as the last and no different than the next. Remembered only due to exceptions.

A couple weeks ago, there was an exception. I arose early, to drink coffee down by the river, as I do almost every day. I have a screen tent in an old hot shot encampment with a camp chair. I sleep just up the river in a two man tent. So I woke up, stumbled from my tent, grabbed the stove, coffee, pot and water and staggered down river to the screen tent. (I wasn’t drunk yet, but due to a lifetime of Scotch and cheap beer, followed by coffee upon waking up I stumble, stagger, tumble, and bumble through life until either the second cup of coffee hit’s the blood stream or the third Bloody Mary reaches my head). I reached the screen tent and began to unzip the door when suddenly a flurry of activity caused me to jump back and desperately search through the haze for the source of this most unwelcome excitement. There inside the screen tent occasionally standing on the ground, occasionally flying into the wall seeking release was a Boreal Owl. His head turned backwards his eyes never left me as he struggled to get free. Eventually he calmed down and I put my coffee gear on the ground in order to unzip the door. I was positive he would see his opportunity and bolt for the door, hesitating just long enough to scrape my face off my skull, but instead I was able to tie the screen door up out of the way and walk off to the side. I waited and watched for a time but his eyes did not leave me and he made no further attempt to escape. So I left. Fuck it, there’s coffee in the café. On the way to the café I ran into one of the cooks with a camera so we headed back down to the river. The Boreal Owl was still in the tent, now sitting in the middle of the floor and apparently sleeping. He heard us approaching and lazily opened his eyes before closing them again. Jerry snapped off a few photos and then we decided to flush him out. His eyes popped open when we started moving again and he watched as we made our way around the back of the tent. He didn’t make a move however until Jerry shook the wall of the tent at which time he took off out the tent and banked downstream. And that is the story of how Jerry and I released a Boreal Owl back into the wild.

Yukon River Camp

So, we are just about to enter week 2 of employment at the Yukon River Camp. The first week was spent getting the camp up and running after being shut down for the winter. The camp which sits at the intersection of the Dalton Highway and the Yukon River is an old pipeline camp from the 70's. It is constructed of Atco units and mobile homes and was not meant to last 30+ years. So, it hasn't. It takes an enormous amount of work to keep the systems functioning and online which just makes things interesting. The camp is essentially just a cafe with gas and lodging. Not many people rent the roomos as it is only 3 hours from Fairbanks but tours come through the cafe as well as independent travellers and river people. Right now we're dead but soon things should get interesting. This has been a way too serious entry and as a result I shall now interrupt myself with some silliness....

Yukon River Camp Men's Room Graffiti:

Bombing for Peace is like fucking for Virginity

Fuck you city trash hippy!

****************

Welcome to Heven

************

Al Diles

loves

Scotch!

**********

FUCK!

**********

Chinatown

I spent today exploring Boston's Chinatown and there were a few high points which I have listed below in no particular order:

1) The ATM machine with the language options of English and Spanish.

2) Multiple restaurants displayed their live fish in tanks at large street side windows.  One restaurant in particular had fish, lobster, and roasting duck proudly displayed.  All looked very impressive except for the suspiciously still and upside down fish that was up front and center.

3) While walking down the street I was struck by a very strong but not necessarily unpleasant smell.  I then noticed the crates of live chickens being unloaded off a truck and delivered to a restaurant. 

4) A sign in the dumpling restaurant where I enjoyed lunch that strictly instructed all who entered the restrooms to "Watch your Hands".

From Raleigh to Boston

So it turns out the Raleigh-Durham area is a huge improvement over the Houston area.  I didn't make friends with any Indian liquor store clerks but I'll get over that soon enough.  I did find Schlitz beer in six pack cans.  This quite possibly might be the high point of my lower 48 adventures.  The story of Schlitz is one of greatness followed by crushing failure and now decades later a resurgence under the ownership of our friends at Pabst Brewing.  I suggest everyone look it up and take pride in American heritage.  

While in Raleigh Dave, Laura, Stef, Carrie, and I went to a barbecue joint.  We were greeted by a large black man.  His first question was regarding whether we had been there before and upon learning that we hadn't he laid out samples of his available barbecue: pulled pork, ribs, and chicken.  While introducing us to his side dishes he quietly but proudly mention that he is the owner and cook.  I had the pulled pork, the collared greens, barbecue stew, and hush puppies.  I could not stop eating until the entire pile had disappeared from my plate.  The next day while driving north to Boston we stopped at McDonald's for a quick lunch.  It was the contrast of these two meals which finally brought to light for me the definitive reason I dislike chains.  The reason why that connoisseur of barbecue is content and full of pride in his work and his life is simply because his work provides him with this.  He can look back on the long day spent preparing and serving his food with a great feeling of pride and accomplishment because it is his.  The work is his, the recipe is his, the building is his.  He is surrounded by the fruits of his own labor.  In contrast the chain restaurant or store is owned by some crusty old white guy at a desk in New York smiling at his profits.  The cooks have no attachment to the building or the food other than minimum wage.  There is no pride nurtured through work, no looking back on the day and feeling like you have accomplished anything.  You and all your co-workers go through the day as a drone, serving more drones steadily working their way through the lines at the register, expecting nothing but meager sustenance.  Even the franchised chains with a local owner are truly no better.  The owner may have put up the capital to "buy" the restaurant but they aren't truly the owners.  They are responsible in a financial way but have no room for creativity, no room for truly making the place their own.  It is a place of crushed dreams and bitter souls.

On to Boston

I have spent the last week visiting family in Florida, friends in North Carolina, and have recently arrived in Boston.  During all this I have been heavily medicated with Dilantin, you know, to keep the seizures at bay.  I don't do medicine.  It just doesn't agree with me.  Side effects tend to be the dominant effect.  I really don't understand the terminology of "side" effect in the first place.  I would generally say an effect is an effect.  And for me the effects of Dilantin are numerous and unfriendly.  So, I decided not to take it anymore.  I count on having a good discussion regarding this with my neurologist next week.  Today is the first day in which I have not taken any Dilantin and already the skin of my hands has stopped peeling off, my tongue no longer feels thick and coated with fur, my teeth feel like they plan on residing in my gums for a bit longer instead of jumping ship at the first opportunity, the headaches and sore throat have begun to recede, my strength is beginning to return, and my head feels like it is once again firmly connected to my shoulders.  So, now that that is all taken care of I think I am ready to proceed with my life as I intend to live it.  Heavily medicated with alcohol.  I figure I'll give it another day or two to work the rest of the meds out of my system but then it's beer time.   

Escaping Houston

So tomorrow I escape the mini mall expanse of Houston, Texas and fly east for the suburbs of Tampa Bay. I thought I'd briefly give the account of one more redeeming feature of Houston. Friday, the day before the seizing, I took the bus downtown and walked south to Montrose, the old part of downtown and current gay district. Well it was definitely gay. My first indication I'd crossed the gay-straight barrier was when some dude in super tight clothing drove by me in an SUV. This would have been nothing abnormal but the fact that he was pumping his arm in the air to the tune of some atrocious 1980's song by a band not unlike Flock of Seagulls. I had lunch at a little cafe that would have been heavily vegetarian in any other gay neighborhood in the states but in Houston every dish had meat but the Bocca Burger. Every male working in the joint did speak with a lisp and I got the feeling they were none too happy with me for not having one.

The find of the afternoon however was a junk store that filled what had once been an expansive auto garage. I didn't get how many bay doors there was but I would say around 6 and inside every square inch of space was filled with what was presumable for sale, though why shoe boxes full of someone's family photos would be for sale I really can't say. There was no room for existing in the shop except for an incredibly narrow path through the junk that did not allow space for two teenage anorexics to pass. There was an incredible assortment of items and I feel like I should list my favorites: an exercise bike from the turn of the last century complete with wooden pedals and a crank to adjust the tension, a neatly organize row of broken tools including hammers with broken handles, knives with broken blades, etc, nearby and also oddly organized and hanging were bungy cords in perfect shape and not the cheap elastic ones. We're talking the high quality rubber bungy's, and to top it off was a greatest hits CD of Robert Earl Keen. The CD I decided was best left there for some other soul to light happily upon.

After this I then met Alec and another friend at a bar with lots of outdoor seating where I filled my belly full of beer in anticipation of the following days adventures. Well, now, I am off to Florida to see what fine adventures I can get myself into there. By God, I just hope a friendly is there to see me seize this time.

Just Call me Julius

So, the day started off pretty good. Alec and I went to the
Waffle House. Houston's 4th shot at redemption. And things
were looking pretty good for Houston. I got two eggs, sausage, grits, and a waffle with coffee and they threw in the cigarette ash for free. Then I woke up for the second time yesterday and this time I was staring up into whiteness. There was a glow flooding me from above and two bald men in white staring down at me intently. It's an odd feeling to wake up with a couple assholes staring at you. But there's not much you can do when you're strapped to a gurney so, hey, you just go with it. I never knew how much waking up in an ambulance was so much like the movies but somebody gets the Oscar for a reason, right? They asked me what my name was and I'm pretty sure I got that one right but I definitely flunked the rest of the pop quiz. "What town are you in?"
Pause..."I don't know"
"What year is it?"
"2008"
"Close enough. It's 2009 but it just changed over."
"Do you know what you were doing before now?"
"No what happened?"
"Have you ever had a seizure before?"
"One. Maybe, we weren't really sure."
The question and answer session went on for awhile, and slowly the day's activities were revealed. I will say that my memory came back way faster this time than the last time. I was still remembering shit days later the last time. Yesterday I got everything back within a few minutes of regaining "consciousness". I say "consciousness" because obviously I was awake, I just don't remember any of it. Generally you don't do your best to kick the shit out of the paramedics on scene when your unconscious. But after they managed to get me calmed down and by that I mean strapped to the gurney, they took pretty good care of me and to the tune of approximately $1,500.
Once we got to the ER that's when the real treatment started. They hooked me up to the heart monitor, set an IV to pump anti -seizure meds into me because hey when it comes to seizures every second counts. You can't afford to let another happen in the next 4-15 years without taking serious precautions. You gotta be on top of your shit. What else did they do? A couple doctors, nurses came in and out and asked me some of the same questions each other already had and the paramedics before them. Then they told me they were going to do a CAT Scan and that's where I said "Whoaaa, bitch." They hadn't strapped me to this gurney yet and I was about to make them pay for their negligence. "How much is that going to cost me?" After much debating and the appearance of a flaming gay, Indian financial employee it was revealed that "Well, we can't really be sure each scan varies in price but anywhere between $2,000 and $4,000." So I kindly said "Fuck that."
Left soon after, and I'm not even sure why I was even there. Apparently some jackass driving by called 911 and the paramedics took care of the rest. Unless injured there isn't any reason for a seizer to go the ER. There isn't anything anybody can really do about it. Get on medication but that shit is expensive. Anyway, total cost of my Saturday afternoon is going to be several thousand dollars, not to mention a sore left tricep, right deltoid, two calves, injured back, and one seriously bit tongue. The downside is I most likely will not be going to South Africa in two weeks. The upside is I got to ride in an ambulance.

Houston Desperately Seeks Redemption

As I bus and walk and meander through the streets of Houston, Texas there are some general trends I have come to notice. And by trends I refer to mini malls stacked upon mini malls, hidden within the nooks and crannies of mini malls, tucked in the cleavage of lingerie stores lurking in mini malls. It has become my mission to seek out that which may redeem Houston in my eyes, if not in the eyes of the mini-mall rats. And so what follows is a work in progress of the redeeming features of Houston, Texas:



1) La Carafe - a shitty little downtown bar. It resides in the oldest commercial building in town built around 1850 and it looks it. The plaster walls are slowly falling apart revealing the brick within, the bar is built stout out of 2 by 8's and carved deep by the knives of many a stranger. Old photos adorn the walls and they only take cash for the beer and wine that they sell cheaply when considering the plush, formal bars that make up the rest of downtown




2) All Stars Gentleman's Club - this one could easily go against redemption. But in reality it is an anomaly and as such provides some sort of strange redemption for a town so lacking in irregularities you'd think it was the backdrop for a Hanna Barbara chase scene. So here we go, for Alec's birthday I decided to take him to a strip joint. Fortunately for us we had a driver. Unfortunately we'd been watching the playoffs all day and I was wearing shorts, sandals, and a wife beater. Perfectly normal, right? Well the high class strip joints of Houston weren't having it. After peeling out past the valet parking we were denied at the door of TREASURES do to my "casual attire". So naturally we went to the Penthouse Club where a door man met us to inform us regrettingly that the Penthouse was closed down temporarily (prostitution) but that the All Stars across the street was the partner joint and all the girls had been employed there. After declining his offered ride across the street in a golf cart we headed over to find our fortune in naked breasts. Disappointment lurked in latex, for though All Stars is a topless bar, nipples are strickly forbidden from being displayed to the innocent eyes of the ne'er-do-wells of Houston. So instead of relishing in the glory of the full, youthful shape and smooth skin of the female form we were presented with breasts encased in worn, flaky, peeling latex leading to what might have been a nipple but just as easily could have been the spent, chewed on pencil eraser lying on the floor of the local elementary school.

To their credit the beer flowed readily and there were plenty of girls walking about including a 45 year old mother of 5 with fake tits, the February Penthouse Playmate, and a not so fresh faced 18 year old. It may have been easy to get a beer but earning a lapdance took way more than just money. Overall, it was a disappointing journey for the the city reknowned for having the best strip joints in the country. Personally, I'd just spend a few more minutes at the porn rack at your local Indian convenience store.



3) "Hello, Boss. Back again, Boss?"

"Yeah, back for more," I reply as I set the 6 pack of 16 oz cans of Red Dog on the counter. He looks at the beer and smiles, "Ahhh, Tea Time."

"What?" I asked.

"Looks like it's Tea Time."

Just the latest reason why my favorite Indian convenience store worker is on this list...Let me count the ways. He's a middle aged slightly pudgy version of the norm. He wears gold jewelry and more than enough cologne to overpower the scent of curry seeping through his pores. He's remembered me since the first day I stepped foot into his domain and he's always got a barely intelligible wise crack about me buying beer before most people have had lunch. He sells beer, a token few snack foods, and porn. Some beer is in six pack bottles, some in 12 pack cans, but the selection is all in 6 packs of 16 oz cans. The food is overpriced and dusty and I'm sure is there to fill a licensing requirement by the city. The porn is ample and hardcore. It fills your standard two shelf convenience store magazine rack. Some I've never seen before and a select few are in combo packs of DVDs and magazines for one low price. Front and center sandwiched between Club, Swank, and Hustler is a signed hard backed copy of a book chronicling the highs and lows of the illustrious career of the Backstreet Boys. I considered taking a picture but feared documentation may sully the purity of the experience.





4) A fourth has yet to have been discovered. Today I head into the heart of Houston's old town which in recent years has become the gay neighborhood. If I return whole, there might be another entry arguing in favor of Houston's redemption.

In Texas Everything is Bigger...Unless You're from Alaska

Yesterday evening I bought a six pack of "Texas" Busch beers with the exclusive intent of getting drunk. I know they were "Texas" Busch beers because the cans proclaimed this proudly to the world. And these weren't your ordinary 12 oz cans of beer. No, these were 16 oz. cans. A full pint bound together with a reinforced plastic bird killer. Everything's bigger in Texas...At the liquor store I couldn't buy 12 oz cans in a 6-pack. Though there was a cooler of individual cans. Just in case you only needed one for the road. So, I grabbed a 6-pack of "Texas" Busch Pints and headed for the counter where I exchanged friendly banter with the middle aged, slightly grey streaked, overweight Indian clerk who inflated my liquor starved and shriveling ego by referring to me as Boss. I refrained from letting him know that in Alaska our Busch beer comes in 40's and we buy it by the case. I thanked him, as much for the Boss as for the beer, and headed across the street to my friend's apartment.

The apartment is surrounded by a steel fence. All entrances are gated and you need a special remote to open said gate. I, of course, don't have such a remote. Thus I rely on timing and old fashioned resourcefulness. Meaning I hang around until someone opens the gate and then I dash through occasionally throwing in an Indiana Jones slide just for good measure. Initially I was worried about the video cameras posted around, ensuring the security of the residents, to catch sight of my loitering and cause trouble to rain down upon me. However, I quickly noticed that the video cameras are not looking out upon the dangerous world, tracking suspicious looking characters lurking near the entrance clinging to 6 packs of "Texas" Busch, but instead are trained within, carefully monitoring the activities of the residents, presumably ensuring noone escapes into the minimall infested streets of Houston.

Once I had maneauvered my way through the gate, I sprinted up the stairs and casually sat on my buddy's balcony. Cracking my first "Texas" Busch beer, I looked down upon the fire station below, which is, unfortunately, the view. I could have done with a swimming pool surrounded by nubile young Houstonian women instead of a helipad, but hey in life you get what you deserve or so say grumpy old white men the world round. So obviously I deserve helipads and middle aged white men sliding down poles. Time for "Texas" Busch 2.

So sat I for the rest of the evening, downing 96 oz. of "Texas" Busch beer. I pondered much about life, desperately seeking the profound. But the only thing I discoverd worth knowing is that through 96 oz. of "Texas" Busch beer it is ridiculously hard to find a buzz.