Sippin on a Guinness at Shannachie's Pub in Willitz, Northern California. The table next to me is occupied by a black cat with white socks and grey whiskers. He's 18 and older than the pub. Apparently the place is his and nobody is in the mood to challenge him. I keep my distance. He looks innocent enough but a cat that owns a bar is not a feline to disagree with.
I'm considering heading home, which for tonight is the house we've been painting on School Street. It has new carpet and fresh paint and is thus way more inviting than the house I started today that reeks of dog piss and has smoke stained walls.
But then there's the girl sitting at the bar with the accent that I can't yet place. It's European and familiar but is just barely eluding definition. Her friend is willowy in a white floor length skirt, sweater, and scarf with eyes that are inordinately large for her face. And for the life of me, I just want to place that accent.
The jazz music flowing through the speakers begs a cool demeanor. Two locals throw dice on the floor as a patron sits next to the owner and sets his beer down beside the cat's curled form. I dream of forgiveness.
The scruffy bartender with a wool cheese cutter works through the days crossword as the aging men at the bar banter over the evening's brews and I consider sanding and refinishing the bar's aged hardwood floor and decide such an action would require penance.
I slowly rise to my feet, glance around the bar one last time, bidding the room a silent good bye and walk out into the evening rain. Heading back to the house, I take my time, allowing the cool rain to slowly soak through cotton. I'm chilled as I step through the front door and find relief in silence. I curl up inside my sleeping bag and allow the ringing in my ears to lull me gently to sleep, engulfed finally by the stark absence of thought.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Monday, November 22, 2010
Why Drink Coffee When the Coffee Shop Brews Beer?
Bully Bends in downtown Rapid City, South Dakota has the initial appearance of your everyday coffee shop. You step inside what appears to be cramped quarters to place your order, but instead of slinking off to the side doing your best to stay out of the way of traffic, those still ordering, and those also waiting, the barista simply asks your name. You find a seat in what turns out to be ample space around back and some magical being you've never seen before somehow comes directly to you delivering your coffee, soup, sandwich, pasty, pastry, burger, or beer. This is where the place suddenly jumps ahead of the competition.
For around back, almost hidden in between the kitchen and the john is a small bar, with 5 stools, 6 beers on draft, and 5 beers brewed on site in the basement by the owner and maker of soups. Their personal brews are only available in bottle (16 or 22 oz) while on tap they have available not one cheap beer. Allow me to list the wonders from left to right: Boulevard Wheat Beer, Fat Tire, Crow Peak Pile O' Dirt Porter, Stella Artois, Newcastle, and Guinness. I have yet to buy a pint.
Instead, I have been fixated on their incredibly tasty brews. Currently I'm halfway through a dark, rich, and creamy Bully Pulpit Porter. Next it will be on to the Trustbuster's Bitter Ale. At this point I should pause and explain the theme. The Bully Blends mascot is none other than President Theodore Roosevelt, Trustbuster, Rough Rider, Lion Hunter, Amazon Explorer, and simply and assuredly A Man Among Men. A tougher US President has never been elected and sadly the days of physical toughness combined with intellectual prowess seem to have gone the way of the Dodo. Love him or hate him, the 26th US President could still outride, outshoot, and outtalk the men of his day or the politicians of ours.
Yesterday, I passed a blustery afternoon exploring the Rough Rider Irish Red Ale, Nut Brown Maple Ale, and Pumpkin Ale. And if I must say, a more enjoyable afternoon could not have been spent. The beers were delectable and the homemade chili with cornbread I could eat every day from now til my death. As with most of my drinking experiences I have nothing to say about the individual beers but I can assure you that if you find yourself passing through Rapid City, South Dakota, a wasteful moment would not be spent sliding up to the bar at Bully Blends, ordering yourself a foamy brew, and raising a glass in cheers to the Bull Moose himself.
For around back, almost hidden in between the kitchen and the john is a small bar, with 5 stools, 6 beers on draft, and 5 beers brewed on site in the basement by the owner and maker of soups. Their personal brews are only available in bottle (16 or 22 oz) while on tap they have available not one cheap beer. Allow me to list the wonders from left to right: Boulevard Wheat Beer, Fat Tire, Crow Peak Pile O' Dirt Porter, Stella Artois, Newcastle, and Guinness. I have yet to buy a pint.
Instead, I have been fixated on their incredibly tasty brews. Currently I'm halfway through a dark, rich, and creamy Bully Pulpit Porter. Next it will be on to the Trustbuster's Bitter Ale. At this point I should pause and explain the theme. The Bully Blends mascot is none other than President Theodore Roosevelt, Trustbuster, Rough Rider, Lion Hunter, Amazon Explorer, and simply and assuredly A Man Among Men. A tougher US President has never been elected and sadly the days of physical toughness combined with intellectual prowess seem to have gone the way of the Dodo. Love him or hate him, the 26th US President could still outride, outshoot, and outtalk the men of his day or the politicians of ours.
Yesterday, I passed a blustery afternoon exploring the Rough Rider Irish Red Ale, Nut Brown Maple Ale, and Pumpkin Ale. And if I must say, a more enjoyable afternoon could not have been spent. The beers were delectable and the homemade chili with cornbread I could eat every day from now til my death. As with most of my drinking experiences I have nothing to say about the individual beers but I can assure you that if you find yourself passing through Rapid City, South Dakota, a wasteful moment would not be spent sliding up to the bar at Bully Blends, ordering yourself a foamy brew, and raising a glass in cheers to the Bull Moose himself.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
You Can Have My Heart for $2 pints of Guinness
While taking a vacation from my working vacation in California I stumbled across a nondescript bar with a familiar name along Main Street in Rapid City, SD. There was no way I was gonna pass up a bar called the Oasis. What with one of my favorite bars in Fairbanks bearing the same name and mixing the best Bloody's in town. I proceeded through the door and into the windowless and appropriately dark bar. It was about midday and the place was empty except the old bartender eyeing me suspisciously as I made my way up to the bar. He had grey hair going on long, slicked back with grease and a ragged face to match the hard life he most surely has lived. There was no nod, no verbal, nonverbal or otherwise greeting. So, eyeing the taps, I cheerfully requested a Bud Light. After checking my ID he grabbed me a Bud Light bottle and popped the cap.
With half the bottle empty he asked about my Alaskan ID and we were off to the races. Conversation flying all over the place. From bars named Oasis, to the recent SD smoking ban on bars, to politics, and finally a playful exchanging of PC-less jokes. Interrupted briefly by the postman (currently on his 24th year delivering the downtown route) a self declared, outnumbered liberal, who stopped in for popcorn, a soda, and brief banter with the bartender.
The turning point in the conversation came when I asked if the Oasis got hoppin over the weekends. According to him, it's the college hotspot thurs-sat nights, partially due to drink prices. The bar down the street serves Guinness for $6.25. The Oasis pours a pint of the tall, dark, and handsome for $2.25 before 6 and $3.25 after 6. I nearly kissed the man's feet.
He declared it offensive that a bar would charge such a high price. "The keg is bought for $100 and you get 125 pints out of a keg so the bar is already tripling it's money at $3. Why gouge the poor kids?" The gentleman had my heart at $2.25.
With half the bottle empty he asked about my Alaskan ID and we were off to the races. Conversation flying all over the place. From bars named Oasis, to the recent SD smoking ban on bars, to politics, and finally a playful exchanging of PC-less jokes. Interrupted briefly by the postman (currently on his 24th year delivering the downtown route) a self declared, outnumbered liberal, who stopped in for popcorn, a soda, and brief banter with the bartender.
The turning point in the conversation came when I asked if the Oasis got hoppin over the weekends. According to him, it's the college hotspot thurs-sat nights, partially due to drink prices. The bar down the street serves Guinness for $6.25. The Oasis pours a pint of the tall, dark, and handsome for $2.25 before 6 and $3.25 after 6. I nearly kissed the man's feet.
He declared it offensive that a bar would charge such a high price. "The keg is bought for $100 and you get 125 pints out of a keg so the bar is already tripling it's money at $3. Why gouge the poor kids?" The gentleman had my heart at $2.25.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
A Desire for Home
Sitting in a coffee shop's fake leather chair beside it's falsely glowing fireplace I feel a long way from the river, a long way from taking a rocky seat beside a real, warmth producing, stress relieving, comfort providing campfire while the Willamette gurgles by, occasionally releasing a rainbow trout for a brief peak of the outside world as it snatches a fly from the air.
Riding a bike through downtown streets waiting and watching for the traffic barreling by and listening to the roar of engines and bleating of horns I feel a long way off from the steady rhythm of paddles slicing through clear, running water pulling canoes steadily forth as the Heron's cries pierce the air like pterodactyls of times gone by and a slight wind rustles the drying leaves of autumn's trees.
Waking up in a soft bed with shielded light creeping through the cracks of drawn shades I feel a long way off from the early morning light beckoning me awake as it consumes the entirety of my tent and my being and insists that I rise and take part in it's splendor.
Being a bystander, a nonparticipant, in the steady flow of sea bound waters I feel separated from my place in this world, not a chosen place, at least not a place which I chose for myself. Instead a place that was chosen for me by the waters, and having been chosen there is longing in separation. But following this longing comes the intense joy, satisfaction, and relief found in reunion.
And so I am thankful for this longing, thankful for this intense desire to be back on water, for without this longing I would not know the same pleasure experienced in union.
Riding a bike through downtown streets waiting and watching for the traffic barreling by and listening to the roar of engines and bleating of horns I feel a long way off from the steady rhythm of paddles slicing through clear, running water pulling canoes steadily forth as the Heron's cries pierce the air like pterodactyls of times gone by and a slight wind rustles the drying leaves of autumn's trees.
Waking up in a soft bed with shielded light creeping through the cracks of drawn shades I feel a long way off from the early morning light beckoning me awake as it consumes the entirety of my tent and my being and insists that I rise and take part in it's splendor.
Being a bystander, a nonparticipant, in the steady flow of sea bound waters I feel separated from my place in this world, not a chosen place, at least not a place which I chose for myself. Instead a place that was chosen for me by the waters, and having been chosen there is longing in separation. But following this longing comes the intense joy, satisfaction, and relief found in reunion.
And so I am thankful for this longing, thankful for this intense desire to be back on water, for without this longing I would not know the same pleasure experienced in union.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Why the River
I have often wondered and occasionally been asked what it is that draws me to running water. While on the gentle waters of the Willamette I pondered this question. On the wide, slow waters of the Columbia I broached the question with Greg and Suzanne. Testing my theory, we wrestled with a multitude of answers. Overcome by bourbon and nearly swallowed by rough waters we chewed up and spat out the possibilities. Ultimately sober and virtually indestructible we settled upon an answer.
A friend once adamantly insisted that life is not meant to be easy. Instead it is meant to be hard. On the Willamette I proposed, and we decided that this is incorrect. Life is easy. People have been living for millennia. Over tens of thousands of years we’ve gotten pretty damn good at it. I would argue that the only thing easier than living is dying. As we all know only three things are necessary to life. Food, water, and shelter. Man figured that out back before we were Man.
We, individually, make life difficult. Due to restlessness, jealousy, boredom, ambition we “shake” things up and through doing so make our lives and the lives of those around us difficult. If we could all be satisfied with living (i.e. food, water, and shelter) then life would be easy. Unfortunately being satisfied with what we have has always been considered a flaw instead of a virtue.
While hitching a ride on wide waters flowing ever onward, Life insists that you be satisfied with her and her alone. And satisfied with life you begin to realize, to see, the connections that bring life together. The fly hatches drawing the trout, which brings the osprey and finally the eagle. The beaver slowly, almost lazily but with steady efficiency works timelessly as the waters flow around him. Drawing a breath and reaching into the cold, running waters you can almost touch the hand of the woman cleansing herself in the holy waters of the Ganges tens of thousands of miles away, the same body of water you are floating now.
It is the return to life’s essentials, a return to simplicity and innocence that brings me to running water. While floating a river there is only food, water, shelter to be concerned with. The simplicity that would benefit us in our daily lives is unavoidable on the river. The river carries us ever onwards, provides for us, and connects us. Next time you’re out walking and you come across an ancient flowing waterway take a moment. Walk down to its banks and reach into the cool waters, close your eyes and feel the steady, gentle pulse of the Earth. Then you will begin to understand why I can’t help but float the river.
A friend once adamantly insisted that life is not meant to be easy. Instead it is meant to be hard. On the Willamette I proposed, and we decided that this is incorrect. Life is easy. People have been living for millennia. Over tens of thousands of years we’ve gotten pretty damn good at it. I would argue that the only thing easier than living is dying. As we all know only three things are necessary to life. Food, water, and shelter. Man figured that out back before we were Man.
We, individually, make life difficult. Due to restlessness, jealousy, boredom, ambition we “shake” things up and through doing so make our lives and the lives of those around us difficult. If we could all be satisfied with living (i.e. food, water, and shelter) then life would be easy. Unfortunately being satisfied with what we have has always been considered a flaw instead of a virtue.
While hitching a ride on wide waters flowing ever onward, Life insists that you be satisfied with her and her alone. And satisfied with life you begin to realize, to see, the connections that bring life together. The fly hatches drawing the trout, which brings the osprey and finally the eagle. The beaver slowly, almost lazily but with steady efficiency works timelessly as the waters flow around him. Drawing a breath and reaching into the cold, running waters you can almost touch the hand of the woman cleansing herself in the holy waters of the Ganges tens of thousands of miles away, the same body of water you are floating now.
It is the return to life’s essentials, a return to simplicity and innocence that brings me to running water. While floating a river there is only food, water, shelter to be concerned with. The simplicity that would benefit us in our daily lives is unavoidable on the river. The river carries us ever onwards, provides for us, and connects us. Next time you’re out walking and you come across an ancient flowing waterway take a moment. Walk down to its banks and reach into the cool waters, close your eyes and feel the steady, gentle pulse of the Earth. Then you will begin to understand why I can’t help but float the river.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Crossing the Columbia
We were leaving Cathalamet, our only stop on the Washington side of the Columbia. We had come in fighting a bothersome head wind and camped on a small island just opposite the protected harbor. We took it slow that morning as some of us had hit the liquor a little more than necessary the previous evening at The Old Pasttime. The night and morning were calm so we packed up looking forward to a calm day on the water.
About 10 seconds before shoving off I noticed golden leaves gently falling to the ground. Looking up at the harbor flag it was blowing for the first time all day. I nodded to Greg and we chuckled softly as we pushed the boats into the water. As I paddled out into the main channel the bow of the boat got pushed hard by a strong upriver wind. I was forced to dig hard to keep the bow of the boat from swinging upriver in the wind. I got myself headed downstream and proceeded to make very little headway it what had suddenly become a nasty headwind.
We were shooting for the Oregon bank to maneuver behind some islands seeking shelter not just from the notorious Columbia headwinds but also from the shipping lanes. Ocean Freighters are bigger than barges, impossible to stop, and nearly silent. Just days before I had been ambushed by one coming up behind me. Luckily I was on the outside of the channel or our expedition may have suddenly been one boat short. Didn’t hear the damn thing until it was right on me.
Unfortunately for us the islands we were seeking were on the other side of the channel which on the Columbia means a several mile crossing. Greg and Suzanne were fine in their boat but I was solo in the old Indian River canoe. Steering a 17 foot canoe solo into a headwind is quite tricky. Not only is your weight distribution off without someone in the bow but in this situation more than any other you miss the power and steering contributions from the bow-man. I was in for a fight. We had a 1.5 mile hop to the first island which would also bring us to the shipping channel, where it crosses from the Oregon to the Washington bank.
As a result this first crossing was relatively safe. Since the wind had just started the waves hadn’t gotten the opportunity to really accumulate so most of this crossing was flat. It was just a matter of power and the exhausting ordeal of only paddling on the left side to keep the line I needed to cross without spinning. We made it to the first island and at this point I was bearing down on exhaustion but still had another 1.5 miles to the next island, the waves were beginning to build, and this time we’d be crossing the shipping lane. This is something like crossing the street but for a better idea of the pace of things imagine you are a turtle crossing the highway. It is advisable to look both ways but once on the street you gotta just put your head down and barrel across in your fastest, most desperate plod. Occasional glances up to allay the fears that suddenly a Mack truck is gonna be barreling down on your hopeless ass. The sweat pours and you pump your stumpy little legs with all the speed and power you got and still the heavenly grasses on the other side of the road never seem to get even an inch closer until your absolutely positive that truck is gonna come barreling around that corner at any second and then BAM! Your nose hits the grass and your momentum carries you tumbling down into the ditch where you sit dazed and exhausted flat on your back wondering how you’re gonna flip yourself over but at the same time not giving a shit about it cause you’re ALIVE!
(Just to give you an idea of the thing)
I took about a 45 degree angle to the next island, looked both ways, and sprinted for it battling against waves and winds, doing my best to ignore my virtual lack of progress. About halfway across the water became turbulent. We couldn’t tell with the wind and the waves what was causing this added turbulence but most likely had something to do with multiple river currents meeting. This added with the headwinds caused some mighty chop to the river.
As we entered the turbulence, the waters went from 1 foot waves to 3 foot chop. All thoughts of shipping lanes and freighters disappeared as we concentrated on maintaining control of our boats. For me, to get spun here, could mean disaster. I would lose all ability to control my canoe and simply be at the mercy of the winds and the water. I dug in. The weariness in my arms disappeared and stroke after stroke I coaxed the canoe farther, deeper into the choppy waters. Waves were cresting all around as I was tossed about like a cork. I kept my eyes forward and allowed the canoe to find it’s balance as I focused on pushing it forward. When suddenly directly ahead of me rising out of the water in brilliant defiance a salmon leapt above the waves and hovered, momentarily suspended, above a cresting wave before plummeting back into the dark, green of the Columbia.
I shouted out to Greg and Suzanne but of course it was too late and then I just sat, momentarily stunned into a dangerous submission, relaxed hands gently holding a still paddle, eyes searching the waters hoping for another glimpse. When I awoke from my reverie seconds later to crashing waves and the roar of water, the wind was nearly in full control of the canoe. The beauty glimpsed moments before forgotten, I fought hard to correct my angle and urge the canoe across the waters to the next island.
As we reached the island we ducked back into a slough that split the island in two and just like that we left the chaos of high winds and crashing waves and entered the peaceful lull of still waters. Unfortunately the backside of the island offered little protection as we left the slough, so we modified our plans and headed back upriver to the head of the island. There we found good protection and one of the best campsites of the trip. We settled in, forced to be content with not much more than a two mile day. Looking out on the horizon we could still see Cathalamet on the hillside just upriver.
About 10 seconds before shoving off I noticed golden leaves gently falling to the ground. Looking up at the harbor flag it was blowing for the first time all day. I nodded to Greg and we chuckled softly as we pushed the boats into the water. As I paddled out into the main channel the bow of the boat got pushed hard by a strong upriver wind. I was forced to dig hard to keep the bow of the boat from swinging upriver in the wind. I got myself headed downstream and proceeded to make very little headway it what had suddenly become a nasty headwind.
We were shooting for the Oregon bank to maneuver behind some islands seeking shelter not just from the notorious Columbia headwinds but also from the shipping lanes. Ocean Freighters are bigger than barges, impossible to stop, and nearly silent. Just days before I had been ambushed by one coming up behind me. Luckily I was on the outside of the channel or our expedition may have suddenly been one boat short. Didn’t hear the damn thing until it was right on me.
Unfortunately for us the islands we were seeking were on the other side of the channel which on the Columbia means a several mile crossing. Greg and Suzanne were fine in their boat but I was solo in the old Indian River canoe. Steering a 17 foot canoe solo into a headwind is quite tricky. Not only is your weight distribution off without someone in the bow but in this situation more than any other you miss the power and steering contributions from the bow-man. I was in for a fight. We had a 1.5 mile hop to the first island which would also bring us to the shipping channel, where it crosses from the Oregon to the Washington bank.
As a result this first crossing was relatively safe. Since the wind had just started the waves hadn’t gotten the opportunity to really accumulate so most of this crossing was flat. It was just a matter of power and the exhausting ordeal of only paddling on the left side to keep the line I needed to cross without spinning. We made it to the first island and at this point I was bearing down on exhaustion but still had another 1.5 miles to the next island, the waves were beginning to build, and this time we’d be crossing the shipping lane. This is something like crossing the street but for a better idea of the pace of things imagine you are a turtle crossing the highway. It is advisable to look both ways but once on the street you gotta just put your head down and barrel across in your fastest, most desperate plod. Occasional glances up to allay the fears that suddenly a Mack truck is gonna be barreling down on your hopeless ass. The sweat pours and you pump your stumpy little legs with all the speed and power you got and still the heavenly grasses on the other side of the road never seem to get even an inch closer until your absolutely positive that truck is gonna come barreling around that corner at any second and then BAM! Your nose hits the grass and your momentum carries you tumbling down into the ditch where you sit dazed and exhausted flat on your back wondering how you’re gonna flip yourself over but at the same time not giving a shit about it cause you’re ALIVE!
(Just to give you an idea of the thing)
I took about a 45 degree angle to the next island, looked both ways, and sprinted for it battling against waves and winds, doing my best to ignore my virtual lack of progress. About halfway across the water became turbulent. We couldn’t tell with the wind and the waves what was causing this added turbulence but most likely had something to do with multiple river currents meeting. This added with the headwinds caused some mighty chop to the river.
As we entered the turbulence, the waters went from 1 foot waves to 3 foot chop. All thoughts of shipping lanes and freighters disappeared as we concentrated on maintaining control of our boats. For me, to get spun here, could mean disaster. I would lose all ability to control my canoe and simply be at the mercy of the winds and the water. I dug in. The weariness in my arms disappeared and stroke after stroke I coaxed the canoe farther, deeper into the choppy waters. Waves were cresting all around as I was tossed about like a cork. I kept my eyes forward and allowed the canoe to find it’s balance as I focused on pushing it forward. When suddenly directly ahead of me rising out of the water in brilliant defiance a salmon leapt above the waves and hovered, momentarily suspended, above a cresting wave before plummeting back into the dark, green of the Columbia.
I shouted out to Greg and Suzanne but of course it was too late and then I just sat, momentarily stunned into a dangerous submission, relaxed hands gently holding a still paddle, eyes searching the waters hoping for another glimpse. When I awoke from my reverie seconds later to crashing waves and the roar of water, the wind was nearly in full control of the canoe. The beauty glimpsed moments before forgotten, I fought hard to correct my angle and urge the canoe across the waters to the next island.
As we reached the island we ducked back into a slough that split the island in two and just like that we left the chaos of high winds and crashing waves and entered the peaceful lull of still waters. Unfortunately the backside of the island offered little protection as we left the slough, so we modified our plans and headed back upriver to the head of the island. There we found good protection and one of the best campsites of the trip. We settled in, forced to be content with not much more than a two mile day. Looking out on the horizon we could still see Cathalamet on the hillside just upriver.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
A Walk Down the Plain Path
I have known for years that I did not want to define my life through work. I watched my dad do this and all he got out of it was misery. I have watched many others do the same and I refuse to walk down this road. We are in a position to define our lives as we please. Not many people in the world can do this, have this opportunity, but here, in this country we do. We have upward, downward, and lateral mobility. More options and opportunities than ever before. No longer are we limited to what our father and his father did before him. We can determine our own future, our own lives.
In days of less mobility I believe people were more resigned to the fate that was handed them and instead of focusing on what they wanted to do with their life they focused on what they had in their lives. The family and friends that surrounded them, the pleasant little surprises each day brings. The little surprises that are mostly missed today by people who have forgotten the present. Instead they are focused on the elusive future bearing promises of promotions, a bigger house, and a new car. We are no longer slaves to work but are instead enslaved to the pursuit of the future and all the riches we’re sure it will hold.
I have yet to meet the man or woman that has ever become happy with the realization of these riches. The house, the car, the promotions attained only lead to more restlessness and bigger dreams, a more spectacular future desired that will surely bring happiness. And to those that don’t attain the riches dreamed of? Bitterness.
I have watched too many of my friends and family walk blindly down this road and I refuse to drink the Kool-Aid. I will walk down the plain path. It may not be glitzy and bestudded with jewels but there’s a clear running stream down this path and I shall drink my fill and nap by the babbling waters when I grow tired. And when I come to the end of the path I will be naked and exposed bearing nothing but fond memories of times passed.
In days of less mobility I believe people were more resigned to the fate that was handed them and instead of focusing on what they wanted to do with their life they focused on what they had in their lives. The family and friends that surrounded them, the pleasant little surprises each day brings. The little surprises that are mostly missed today by people who have forgotten the present. Instead they are focused on the elusive future bearing promises of promotions, a bigger house, and a new car. We are no longer slaves to work but are instead enslaved to the pursuit of the future and all the riches we’re sure it will hold.
I have yet to meet the man or woman that has ever become happy with the realization of these riches. The house, the car, the promotions attained only lead to more restlessness and bigger dreams, a more spectacular future desired that will surely bring happiness. And to those that don’t attain the riches dreamed of? Bitterness.
I have watched too many of my friends and family walk blindly down this road and I refuse to drink the Kool-Aid. I will walk down the plain path. It may not be glitzy and bestudded with jewels but there’s a clear running stream down this path and I shall drink my fill and nap by the babbling waters when I grow tired. And when I come to the end of the path I will be naked and exposed bearing nothing but fond memories of times passed.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
An Unknown Future
“I had learned not to worry; to make my choice and allow things to happen. For the most part they turned out to be good and when they weren’t – like the night from hell in a hostel – then they were character building. There weren’t any wrong or right paths to choose, just different ones, and where they led was governed by the attitude adopted towards them.” From Round Ireland with a Fridge, by Tony Hawks.
Better than I ever could have said it, this is a succinct summary of my outlook on life and my philosophy of taking what comes. I do my best to live day by day, forming little in the way of clear cut definite plans and instead simply choosing from the options which arise, as they come up. Even the best laid plans are made to be broken. Often they are a crutch, limiting one’s options and forcing one down a narrow path chosen in ignorance of future possibilities.
I don’t do well with crutches.
This doesn’t mean that I don’t have doubts. That I don’t often wonder what it is that I’m doing with this life. But I have never been satisfied with great, overarching life plans comprised of steps and regular achievements that ought to be charted on a graph. I believe that life should be spent in the present. As Vonnegut said, “We were put on this earth to fart around and don’t let anyone tell you differently.” We weren’t meant to fulfill world shattering dreams. We were meant to live day by day, looking not to the future but settling in and focusing on life in the present.
I know of one sure way to achieve this...somewhere... on a river, floating ever onward into the unknown future.
Better than I ever could have said it, this is a succinct summary of my outlook on life and my philosophy of taking what comes. I do my best to live day by day, forming little in the way of clear cut definite plans and instead simply choosing from the options which arise, as they come up. Even the best laid plans are made to be broken. Often they are a crutch, limiting one’s options and forcing one down a narrow path chosen in ignorance of future possibilities.
I don’t do well with crutches.
This doesn’t mean that I don’t have doubts. That I don’t often wonder what it is that I’m doing with this life. But I have never been satisfied with great, overarching life plans comprised of steps and regular achievements that ought to be charted on a graph. I believe that life should be spent in the present. As Vonnegut said, “We were put on this earth to fart around and don’t let anyone tell you differently.” We weren’t meant to fulfill world shattering dreams. We were meant to live day by day, looking not to the future but settling in and focusing on life in the present.
I know of one sure way to achieve this...somewhere... on a river, floating ever onward into the unknown future.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Security Guard - Knightwatch Security
When I arrived in Juneau, Ak I found a place to live and a job within 3 days. The job was with Knightwatch Security. I was the guard at the hospital 3 nights a week working 10 hour shifts. The primary responsibilities were pretty routine. Essentially just make hourly rounds, ensure the doors stayed locked, and there was no one inside that shouldn't be. My job also covered ensuring the safety of the doctors and nurses and the patients. This generally came into play when drunks or mental health patients were brought it. In Juneau there are 12 hour and 72 hour holds. 12 hour holds are for people who are too drunk to take care of themselves so they get brought into the ER to make sure they're gonna survive the night and when deemed safe to do so are passed on to the Juneau Recovery Hospital down the hill.
Generally, this meant sitting and bullshitting with a drunk for a few hours. Right there, sitting in uncomfortable chairs, kicked back bullshitting with old drunks and cranks I learned how to be a drinking man. For quite some time actually I didn't drink as a result of this job. Scared me away from the stuff. One night I got stopped during my rounds by the lab tech who asked me if I'd heard what the BAC of our last 12 hour hold was. Over 4.0 he told. The guy is technically dead he told me. Medically speaking one can't survive a BAC that high. I sat with this man for a couple hours. Talked to him. Listened to his stories. Told him a few of mine. He didn't sway. His words did not slur. Near to sober he seemed. Near to dead he was, instead.
Sometimes, the drunks would want to fight. Most times within a couple minutes I'd have the violent men crying in their hands, feeling terrible for what they had done. Then we'd talk about fishing for a few hours. We'd shake hands and an EMT would take them down to JRH. Once in a long while I'd have to restrain them. The women were the worst. A drunk woman that wanted to fight was gonna fight. And they fought mean. A man just tries to punch you. A woman punches, kicks, spits, bites, claws, and head butts all at the same time. It's like trying to restrain the Tasmanian Devil.
One night I had to watch a 72 hour hold who had tried to commit suicide. The guy was probably 6 foot 3 and 250 or 260. He was surly. Paced a lot within his room and would begin to become angry but I always managed to talk him back down. We danced this tenuous dance for hours. His anger slowly climbing before I was able to bring it back into check. Time and time again. Eventually he was moved up to the mental health ward and I went back to reading Dostoevsky. The next night I came in to learn he had taken another patient hostage up in the ward. SWAT was called and it took the entire 12 man swat team plus several uniform officers to physically bring the guy down.
Sometimes the cops would bring someone in and then both the officer and I would stay with the patient. Most of the cops were cool but there was one older guy in his 60's that was a dick. He was the guy that gives cops a bad name. Used to just sit in a chair and push the guys. Just push them verbally, a little here a little there. Put them down. Call them losers. Give them shit. Push them. Push them until they couldn't take it anymore and they'd rise up and this old cop would get to restrain them with a little victory smile spreading across his face. I hated that guy. Hated him for what he stood for and for what he was. Hated him for what he did to the world. For a man like that when he has the ability to give to the world, he takes from it instead.
Generally, this meant sitting and bullshitting with a drunk for a few hours. Right there, sitting in uncomfortable chairs, kicked back bullshitting with old drunks and cranks I learned how to be a drinking man. For quite some time actually I didn't drink as a result of this job. Scared me away from the stuff. One night I got stopped during my rounds by the lab tech who asked me if I'd heard what the BAC of our last 12 hour hold was. Over 4.0 he told. The guy is technically dead he told me. Medically speaking one can't survive a BAC that high. I sat with this man for a couple hours. Talked to him. Listened to his stories. Told him a few of mine. He didn't sway. His words did not slur. Near to sober he seemed. Near to dead he was, instead.
Sometimes, the drunks would want to fight. Most times within a couple minutes I'd have the violent men crying in their hands, feeling terrible for what they had done. Then we'd talk about fishing for a few hours. We'd shake hands and an EMT would take them down to JRH. Once in a long while I'd have to restrain them. The women were the worst. A drunk woman that wanted to fight was gonna fight. And they fought mean. A man just tries to punch you. A woman punches, kicks, spits, bites, claws, and head butts all at the same time. It's like trying to restrain the Tasmanian Devil.
One night I had to watch a 72 hour hold who had tried to commit suicide. The guy was probably 6 foot 3 and 250 or 260. He was surly. Paced a lot within his room and would begin to become angry but I always managed to talk him back down. We danced this tenuous dance for hours. His anger slowly climbing before I was able to bring it back into check. Time and time again. Eventually he was moved up to the mental health ward and I went back to reading Dostoevsky. The next night I came in to learn he had taken another patient hostage up in the ward. SWAT was called and it took the entire 12 man swat team plus several uniform officers to physically bring the guy down.
Sometimes the cops would bring someone in and then both the officer and I would stay with the patient. Most of the cops were cool but there was one older guy in his 60's that was a dick. He was the guy that gives cops a bad name. Used to just sit in a chair and push the guys. Just push them verbally, a little here a little there. Put them down. Call them losers. Give them shit. Push them. Push them until they couldn't take it anymore and they'd rise up and this old cop would get to restrain them with a little victory smile spreading across his face. I hated that guy. Hated him for what he stood for and for what he was. Hated him for what he did to the world. For a man like that when he has the ability to give to the world, he takes from it instead.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Harnessed and Burdened
It's been quite a curiousity for me to regain my driver's license this time around after being without it for a year and a half. I lost it previously for a few months after my first seizure and then once again following an unfortunate run in with the law. Those brief flirtations with being bicycle bound were over quick enough to not really notice much of an impact on my life style and during this past 1.5 years I seemed to have just accepted it and moved on. I've always been relatively good at accepting misfortune and inconvenience and moving past it. No reason to dwell on personal misfortune. I've always believed life to be much more enjoyable if misfortune can be laughed at and energy focused on the humorous and enjoyable side of life. The worse the struggle becomes the more opportunity for laughter. In this case, I had the impression from my neurologist that he would be unwilling to allow me to drive again but in this I was wrong. As a result, I had accepted my fate as a biker in stride and moved on with life.
It wasn't until the doc had granted me with the ability to drive that I learned how much I had missed it. The ability to walk out the door, climb into my truck, the Annie G, and drive off to points unknown is the pinnacle of freedom. The complete lack of ties to anything. The ability to simply set forth on my own, having no need to beg another to provide the wheels and the license. For 1.5 years I was imprisoned within the range of my bicycle. The first time I climbed back behind the wheel of Annie G, patted her dashboard, and pulled out into traffic to head out of town for a hike and a night at the cabin brought an elation which I do not have the words to express. It was as if for 1.5 years I had been bound by yoke, harnessed, and burdened and in a moment that yoke was lifted and I was set free.
It has been said before, and I will say it again...Freedom, my friends, is bliss.
It wasn't until the doc had granted me with the ability to drive that I learned how much I had missed it. The ability to walk out the door, climb into my truck, the Annie G, and drive off to points unknown is the pinnacle of freedom. The complete lack of ties to anything. The ability to simply set forth on my own, having no need to beg another to provide the wheels and the license. For 1.5 years I was imprisoned within the range of my bicycle. The first time I climbed back behind the wheel of Annie G, patted her dashboard, and pulled out into traffic to head out of town for a hike and a night at the cabin brought an elation which I do not have the words to express. It was as if for 1.5 years I had been bound by yoke, harnessed, and burdened and in a moment that yoke was lifted and I was set free.
It has been said before, and I will say it again...Freedom, my friends, is bliss.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Hiking shoes
Option #2 also hand me downs from the same guy that gave me the boots. Wore these on the 15 mile Granite Tors hike and sure enough also gave me blisters, not quite as many as the boots but definite, painful blisters. A pattern emerges. Second option is retired. I"m beginning to run out of options.
Option #3 has been with me for years but had never seen a trail until the Angel Rocks to Chena Hot Springs hike last week. After 8.7 miles of trail the soles of each shoe detached from the toe but not a single blister. Could have a winner but first shoe goo, lots of shoe goo. One draw back to these was too soft of a sole so definitely started to notice a little foot soreness by the end but nothing near so bad as the experience with either of the previous options.
;Option #4 are Teva's and there are some noteable drawbacks. Everything from rose bushes getting caught between soles of feet and soles of sandal and ripping out before you can notice anything but sudden pain; to your feet getting wet and then sliding around on the sandal's sole. Luckily feet are tough. And there's very little material to cause blisters. My feet made it through this 13 mile hike on the Chena Dome trail in the best condition yet this spring. Unfortunately my left knee was causing me quite a bit of pain and I'm not sure what to blame that on.
So after four hikes and four different pairs of shoes it looks like Teva's win until more appropriate footwear is attainable. I did guide day hikes at UAF Outdoor Adventuers in Teva's but I was carrying very little weight on my back. Recently I've been working on getting into better shape and thus carrying a weekend pack on each hike. Causes a little more wear and tear on the old feet.
I think that if it weren't for adversity life would be pretty boring. If everything was smooth, nothing would be noteable and life itself would be monotonous. Instead shit goes wrong every single day and we get to laugh at our own misfortune and enjoy the memory of slogging through the occasional swamp of misery life provides.
Personally I can't wait to experience what kind of destruction my next hike provides for my feet. Maybe they'll be unscathed and if so, the sheer bliss of painlessness will be a euphoria unequaled.
Friday, April 16, 2010
The Frightening Smile
The following was written when I was in 8th grade. Found it while going through some old papers.
When the day was dark and the night was light a grueling fight was put up at night. A murder was committed in the light night sky but the murderer got off with a frightening smile. It was all that could be done, bringing him to trial. But it wasn't enough, for the frightening smile. He put the jury to horror and the people to their homes. They locked their doors and turned off the lights all because of the killer with the frightening smile. he walked out of the courtroom after being let off and stared down the reporters with that frightening smile. They stepped back and shook their heads letting him pass. No questions were asked. It was the frightening smile. He walked to his home across the city of Bath scattering the people with his smirk and his laugh. He smirked and he laughed all the way to his home as none did challenge him, they just ran from his path. He reached his home as the day was ending. He found his home and he found a man. The man stood at his door and looked him the eye. The smirk did nothing and the laugh failed with a cry. The man was angry and the man had pride. The killer ran with all the people's fear inside. He ran with their fear and he ran with no heart. He ran and he ran but there was little he could do for the man behind him ran with determination and pride. He was caught. He was stabbed and he died with fear for the smile that had aided him was the fuel for his demise.
When the day was dark and the night was light a grueling fight was put up at night. A murder was committed in the light night sky but the murderer got off with a frightening smile. It was all that could be done, bringing him to trial. But it wasn't enough, for the frightening smile. He put the jury to horror and the people to their homes. They locked their doors and turned off the lights all because of the killer with the frightening smile. he walked out of the courtroom after being let off and stared down the reporters with that frightening smile. They stepped back and shook their heads letting him pass. No questions were asked. It was the frightening smile. He walked to his home across the city of Bath scattering the people with his smirk and his laugh. He smirked and he laughed all the way to his home as none did challenge him, they just ran from his path. He reached his home as the day was ending. He found his home and he found a man. The man stood at his door and looked him the eye. The smirk did nothing and the laugh failed with a cry. The man was angry and the man had pride. The killer ran with all the people's fear inside. He ran with their fear and he ran with no heart. He ran and he ran but there was little he could do for the man behind him ran with determination and pride. He was caught. He was stabbed and he died with fear for the smile that had aided him was the fuel for his demise.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Job #3 Wendy's Old Fashioned Porn
Let me start this one out by saying I have earned very few jobs on my own merit. I believe it to be nigh impossible. You Must Know Some One. The best evidence of this I know is that even to get a job at Wendy's I had to know Wilson, who's mom was in management there. Thus I got a job. So did a few more of our friends. It didn't take long for nearly our entire group of friends to be employed here and it was a misfit operation.
This was a fairly enjoyable job, what with good friends always around, the understanding that work could never really get worse than this (at least in this country). Minimum wage and every day you left work wearing clothes and skin that shone with grease. I shared a house with Neal who also worked at Wendy's and every day when we got off work we would toss our clothes down the stairs into the cellar. If we could have afforded a containment unit we would have had one. No amount of washing can take that sour smell of used grease out of cotton and polyester. I believe we burned the clothes and the shoes our last day of employment. If they were looking, astronauts probably saw the flames lick the sky from space.
There were all kinds of shenanigans to be had while working at Wendy's and each of us seemed to take special delight in one particular activity. Whether it was throwing pickle slices onto the ceiling to see how long they would stick up there above the front counter or hiding meat in the fridge to see how long it would take management to discover where the smell of rotting flesh came from we all had something to bring a smile to our faces. Half the management was utterly clueless and often raised our ire. I got scolded one day during the lunch rush for putting the onions on a burger before the tomato. I looked at Debbie like she was an idiot and asked if she was serious. She informed me that she was very serious and that I was making the sandwich wrong. I bit my tongue until the rush was over then found her at the manager's desk and informed her that that was the most fucking ridiculous thing I had ever heard. "Do you really think the customers give a shit if their onions or their tomato is on top?" "Yes, I believe some do and there is a right way to make a Wendy's burger." I let her know I felt she was an utter moron and went back to the line.
At Safeway presently we have just started offering the Shanghai Dinner for Two which comes with noodles or rice plus two sides and 4 eggrolls. Most Safeway's don't have a self serve buffet and this is obviously designed for those stores where the deli workers are already dishing up what the customers ask for. We however have a self serve buffet so when a customer wants the Shanghai Dinner for Two they come up to the deli counter and ask a deli clerk who then has to come around the counter and dish up the customers food for them at the self serve buffet. I told my former boss and present District Merchandiser that the concept was completely ridiculous and asked if she'd thought about what she was telling me. She looked stunned and said we simply had to do what corporate told us to do.
Which brings me back to Wendy's and my favorite story of unruly employees which involves Wilson and the head manager Kevin. Kevin asked Wilson to take out the trash one day after lunch rush so Wilson grabs a broom and starts sweeping up the kitchen. Kevin notices this and asked Wilson "What are you doing? I asked you to take out the trash?" To which the eloquent Wilson responded "Are you fucking Stupid? Think I'm gonna take out the trash without sweeping first?" He then went back to sweeping and Kevin stammered a few bits of nonsense before awkwardly turning around and walking to the back room.
There are so many beautiful Wendy's stories to tell it's hard not to tell them all. Like when a customer found a dog biscuit in his Chili and asked one of the staff "What is this?" "Well, sir, that appears to be a dog biscuit." Or when a few unnamed staff members stole a few of the training videos and dubbed over short clips of hard core porn at opportune moments. Such as Dave Thomas saying things like "And this is how you stuff a pita...." Cut to porn. Or "and while you're learning the four corner press I'll be..." Cut to porn. After the editing process they then returned the videos to the training room for some innocent young new hire to discover.
My favorite day of working at Wendy's though had to be the night of some formal event at the University. Three or four couples came in for dinner before attending. Men in tuxes and beautiful women in elegant black dresses. I was working the front register and shortly after they left they returned. One of the lovely young ladies approached me to ask if she could dig through the garbage can for she had apparently dumped her keys in when she threw her trash away. I refused to allow this lady to go through an evenings worth of trash looking for her keys knowing they surely fell all the way to the bottom. Luckily she remembered which can she had thrown them into so I pulled out both cans and began transferring the trash from the one into the other. Before long I was down to about three or four inches of sludge (ketchup, frosty, soda, grease, fries, and hamburger bits at the bottom. I dove my hand in and swirled it around through said sludge until I came upon her keys. I pulled them up and held them at eye level where they dripped goo into the can. "Let me wash these off for you." After returning her washed keys she thanked me and her boyfriend slid a five dollar bill over to me. I pushed it back to him saying "I'm sorry I can't accept that. Just doing my job." He looked at me like I was a lunatic and pushed it back "No, take it. Really." So, with hesitation and apparent regret I took his bill and thanked him for his generosity.
This was a fairly enjoyable job, what with good friends always around, the understanding that work could never really get worse than this (at least in this country). Minimum wage and every day you left work wearing clothes and skin that shone with grease. I shared a house with Neal who also worked at Wendy's and every day when we got off work we would toss our clothes down the stairs into the cellar. If we could have afforded a containment unit we would have had one. No amount of washing can take that sour smell of used grease out of cotton and polyester. I believe we burned the clothes and the shoes our last day of employment. If they were looking, astronauts probably saw the flames lick the sky from space.
There were all kinds of shenanigans to be had while working at Wendy's and each of us seemed to take special delight in one particular activity. Whether it was throwing pickle slices onto the ceiling to see how long they would stick up there above the front counter or hiding meat in the fridge to see how long it would take management to discover where the smell of rotting flesh came from we all had something to bring a smile to our faces. Half the management was utterly clueless and often raised our ire. I got scolded one day during the lunch rush for putting the onions on a burger before the tomato. I looked at Debbie like she was an idiot and asked if she was serious. She informed me that she was very serious and that I was making the sandwich wrong. I bit my tongue until the rush was over then found her at the manager's desk and informed her that that was the most fucking ridiculous thing I had ever heard. "Do you really think the customers give a shit if their onions or their tomato is on top?" "Yes, I believe some do and there is a right way to make a Wendy's burger." I let her know I felt she was an utter moron and went back to the line.
At Safeway presently we have just started offering the Shanghai Dinner for Two which comes with noodles or rice plus two sides and 4 eggrolls. Most Safeway's don't have a self serve buffet and this is obviously designed for those stores where the deli workers are already dishing up what the customers ask for. We however have a self serve buffet so when a customer wants the Shanghai Dinner for Two they come up to the deli counter and ask a deli clerk who then has to come around the counter and dish up the customers food for them at the self serve buffet. I told my former boss and present District Merchandiser that the concept was completely ridiculous and asked if she'd thought about what she was telling me. She looked stunned and said we simply had to do what corporate told us to do.
Which brings me back to Wendy's and my favorite story of unruly employees which involves Wilson and the head manager Kevin. Kevin asked Wilson to take out the trash one day after lunch rush so Wilson grabs a broom and starts sweeping up the kitchen. Kevin notices this and asked Wilson "What are you doing? I asked you to take out the trash?" To which the eloquent Wilson responded "Are you fucking Stupid? Think I'm gonna take out the trash without sweeping first?" He then went back to sweeping and Kevin stammered a few bits of nonsense before awkwardly turning around and walking to the back room.
There are so many beautiful Wendy's stories to tell it's hard not to tell them all. Like when a customer found a dog biscuit in his Chili and asked one of the staff "What is this?" "Well, sir, that appears to be a dog biscuit." Or when a few unnamed staff members stole a few of the training videos and dubbed over short clips of hard core porn at opportune moments. Such as Dave Thomas saying things like "And this is how you stuff a pita...." Cut to porn. Or "and while you're learning the four corner press I'll be..." Cut to porn. After the editing process they then returned the videos to the training room for some innocent young new hire to discover.
My favorite day of working at Wendy's though had to be the night of some formal event at the University. Three or four couples came in for dinner before attending. Men in tuxes and beautiful women in elegant black dresses. I was working the front register and shortly after they left they returned. One of the lovely young ladies approached me to ask if she could dig through the garbage can for she had apparently dumped her keys in when she threw her trash away. I refused to allow this lady to go through an evenings worth of trash looking for her keys knowing they surely fell all the way to the bottom. Luckily she remembered which can she had thrown them into so I pulled out both cans and began transferring the trash from the one into the other. Before long I was down to about three or four inches of sludge (ketchup, frosty, soda, grease, fries, and hamburger bits at the bottom. I dove my hand in and swirled it around through said sludge until I came upon her keys. I pulled them up and held them at eye level where they dripped goo into the can. "Let me wash these off for you." After returning her washed keys she thanked me and her boyfriend slid a five dollar bill over to me. I pushed it back to him saying "I'm sorry I can't accept that. Just doing my job." He looked at me like I was a lunatic and pushed it back "No, take it. Really." So, with hesitation and apparent regret I took his bill and thanked him for his generosity.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Job #2 Bakery Clerk circa '94-'96
This was my longest term of employment. I spent 3 solid years employed at the Hy-Vee bakery in Macomb, Illinois as a Wrapper during high school. Good times. My sister got me the job, as she worked there too. I, in turn, got my buddy Wilson a job there. The job entailed wrapping/bagging all the baked goods that the bakers Pat and Juan had baked during the day and then cleaning the place up. I'd come in after school and work a 4-8 shift and work one 7-3 shift on the weekend. Usually Sundays. The evenings were all right. Work by myself and just get shit done but Sundays now that was a fun time. I'd work with Juan Guzman and sometimes both Wilson and I would be working. We got to help bake and then as the bread cooled we would wrap. Spent a good part of the day bullshitting with Juan at the big, wooden baking table rolling out, kneading, and forming bread, bagels, and donuts. And we'd have the occasional dough ball fight.
One Sunday morning the doughnut fryer was still there and the four of us were sporadically placed throughout the bakery in defensive positions winging little dough balls at each other. Generally our doughy missiles were quite well aimed, as we were well practiced, but occasionally there was an errant throw. That morning one dough ball flew through the bakery, into the deli, and straight into the hot case where it rested next to the mashed potatoes. While another flew out into aisle 1, narrowly missed an old lady, and tagged a bag of Wonder Bread. It's a good thing Juan was the Bakery Manager at the time or we might have gotten into trouble.
There was all kinds of bullshit with the job though. When I first started working there we wore polo shirts as uniforms but it wasn't long before they started making us wear black dress pants, a white dress shirt and a tie. At a fucking bakery? Still can't believe it. The ties were a complete pain in the ass. And black pants were immediately white with flower, dress shirts covered in dough. It was ridiculous. We always joked that somebody's tie was gonna get caught in the giant mixer and they'd be sucked into the bowl and become the finishing touch on the french bread.
The assistant store manager was an utter moron by the name Jim Heschke, I believe. Got his job by marrying the district manager's daughter. We were on strict orders by Juan to just smile and nod at anything Jim said or asked us to do but never to actually do it. This was because he had me put bread crumbs in the oven over night with the intent to dry them out for stuffing. It was a ton of bread that we had shreaded to make crumbs for dressing and Jim told me to put it all in the oven overnight, so that the heat from the pilot lights could dry it and we'd have stuffing in the morning. So I did it, knowing what would happen, because the assistant store manager told me to, right? Next morning Juan came in to find all the stuffing we had made the day before charred to blackened bits in the oven. That was one pissed off Mexican.
They made him Bakery Manager and then worked him to death, treated him like shit, and pushed him around. For the longest time they wouldn't hire him a second baker so he had to bake 7 days a week plus do all the management duties. Then they finally hired him a baker but pulled that guy off into another department the week before Thanksgiving. That was the final straw for Juan, he walked out, called us and let me and Wilson know. So we went in together, grabbed a free doughnut and found the store manager in the back room. As we ate our free doughnuts we told the guy we quit, weren't coming in for our next shift and that he needed to learn how to treat his employees with respect. The fryer quit too. I've never felt so good to be quitting a job. That time I felt perfectly justified to fuck them during the busiest week of the year.
One Sunday morning the doughnut fryer was still there and the four of us were sporadically placed throughout the bakery in defensive positions winging little dough balls at each other. Generally our doughy missiles were quite well aimed, as we were well practiced, but occasionally there was an errant throw. That morning one dough ball flew through the bakery, into the deli, and straight into the hot case where it rested next to the mashed potatoes. While another flew out into aisle 1, narrowly missed an old lady, and tagged a bag of Wonder Bread. It's a good thing Juan was the Bakery Manager at the time or we might have gotten into trouble.
There was all kinds of bullshit with the job though. When I first started working there we wore polo shirts as uniforms but it wasn't long before they started making us wear black dress pants, a white dress shirt and a tie. At a fucking bakery? Still can't believe it. The ties were a complete pain in the ass. And black pants were immediately white with flower, dress shirts covered in dough. It was ridiculous. We always joked that somebody's tie was gonna get caught in the giant mixer and they'd be sucked into the bowl and become the finishing touch on the french bread.
The assistant store manager was an utter moron by the name Jim Heschke, I believe. Got his job by marrying the district manager's daughter. We were on strict orders by Juan to just smile and nod at anything Jim said or asked us to do but never to actually do it. This was because he had me put bread crumbs in the oven over night with the intent to dry them out for stuffing. It was a ton of bread that we had shreaded to make crumbs for dressing and Jim told me to put it all in the oven overnight, so that the heat from the pilot lights could dry it and we'd have stuffing in the morning. So I did it, knowing what would happen, because the assistant store manager told me to, right? Next morning Juan came in to find all the stuffing we had made the day before charred to blackened bits in the oven. That was one pissed off Mexican.
They made him Bakery Manager and then worked him to death, treated him like shit, and pushed him around. For the longest time they wouldn't hire him a second baker so he had to bake 7 days a week plus do all the management duties. Then they finally hired him a baker but pulled that guy off into another department the week before Thanksgiving. That was the final straw for Juan, he walked out, called us and let me and Wilson know. So we went in together, grabbed a free doughnut and found the store manager in the back room. As we ate our free doughnuts we told the guy we quit, weren't coming in for our next shift and that he needed to learn how to treat his employees with respect. The fryer quit too. I've never felt so good to be quitting a job. That time I felt perfectly justified to fuck them during the busiest week of the year.
Friday, February 26, 2010
My First Job- Corn Detassler circa 1992
So, I was telling an old friend about my current miserable employment at Safeway cooking food in the Deli and she suggested I write about the different jobs I've worked over the years. I've found myself in many different professions and never settled into one for very long. I kind of liked the idea so I figured I'd start it off in this here blog. My first job was detassling corn for Pioneer Seed Company. This is a job for migrant workers or 14 year olds which is what I was. Either way you're supposed to get proper paperwork from the government to attain employment but not all of us did. For those who don't know the tassle is the business end of the corn. When the corn is mature pollin from the tassle gets released into the air and blown across the field and thus corn pollinates corn. That's the simple version. Well Pioneer didn't want corn cross pollinating they wanted to do the pollinating themselves, the selfish pricks. So, our job was to pull the tassle off every stalk of corn. If you've ever been to the midwest you would know this is a very big job.
Some fields we'd walk in groups. Each person taking a row and walking and yanking, yanking and walking. Others would be done in tractors with large arms reaching out over the rows with baskets hanging in between the rows. In the basket you would lean out into your row and essentially swim through the row yanking tassles arm over arm. Sweepers would follow behind yanking the tassles that the basket men would inevitably miss.
It was hard hot work under the Illinois sun and paid minimum wage, which at the time was $4.25 I believe. Miserable but I met one of my best and lifelong friends in one of those fields. The friend I would eventually move to Alaska with 6 years later in 1998. One day we were walking a field and bitching about our plight in life. Oh, the miseries of being a 14 year old working for 3 weeks in the summer. The Horror, the Horror....Anyway, there we were bitching about the job and coming up with new names for our boss such as "Dumbfuck Dom" for example. We were on a roll insulting Dom and detassling when what would you know Dom storms through several rows of corn like a blustering bull red faced and fuming, "This may be the worst fucking job in the world but it's the only fucking job you have!" and then he stormed off. We did feel kind of bad, for who knows how long he had been walking along with us just a couple rows to the side but almost 20 years later Neal and I are still laughing about the look on his face as he burst through that corn.
Every day we would all meet in the Hardees parking lot. I remember my dad driving me in to town every day at about 6 am to go to work. He'd drop me off in the lot. I'd sit off to the side on a parking block and watch the workers gather. At 6 am we'd all pile into an old school bus and drive out north of town to hit the fields. Most people would take the bus but there were a few that would drive themselves. There was one group of poor white trash that drove their beater every day out to the fields but they didn't last long. They hit the mother load or at least thought they did. They came across a whole crop of marijuana ditch weed growing alongside the field we were working. They couldn't believe their luck or that they were the only ones that knew what this stuff was. They quit work and somewhere found a bunch of big black trash bags and just went after it, ripping the ditch weed right out of the ground and shoving plant after plant into hefty bags, laughing and joking the whole time. Once they'd harvested the whole crop they jumped into their beater and headed off. Never saw them again. Problem with ditch weed is that it's a weed. It is marijuana but it's wild grown, not cultivated and thus doesn't have the THC content in it that the crop has. Grows all over Illinois, often in ditches, hence the name. Won't get you high, though I've heard you can get quite the headache. I remember it happened at lunch so the rest of us were all sitting in the grass watching the show. I'm not sure how but they seemed to be the only ones around that didn't know they were complete idiots. Some things in life just aren't fair.
Two summers I worked this job for a grand total of 6 weeks.
Some fields we'd walk in groups. Each person taking a row and walking and yanking, yanking and walking. Others would be done in tractors with large arms reaching out over the rows with baskets hanging in between the rows. In the basket you would lean out into your row and essentially swim through the row yanking tassles arm over arm. Sweepers would follow behind yanking the tassles that the basket men would inevitably miss.
It was hard hot work under the Illinois sun and paid minimum wage, which at the time was $4.25 I believe. Miserable but I met one of my best and lifelong friends in one of those fields. The friend I would eventually move to Alaska with 6 years later in 1998. One day we were walking a field and bitching about our plight in life. Oh, the miseries of being a 14 year old working for 3 weeks in the summer. The Horror, the Horror....Anyway, there we were bitching about the job and coming up with new names for our boss such as "Dumbfuck Dom" for example. We were on a roll insulting Dom and detassling when what would you know Dom storms through several rows of corn like a blustering bull red faced and fuming, "This may be the worst fucking job in the world but it's the only fucking job you have!" and then he stormed off. We did feel kind of bad, for who knows how long he had been walking along with us just a couple rows to the side but almost 20 years later Neal and I are still laughing about the look on his face as he burst through that corn.
Every day we would all meet in the Hardees parking lot. I remember my dad driving me in to town every day at about 6 am to go to work. He'd drop me off in the lot. I'd sit off to the side on a parking block and watch the workers gather. At 6 am we'd all pile into an old school bus and drive out north of town to hit the fields. Most people would take the bus but there were a few that would drive themselves. There was one group of poor white trash that drove their beater every day out to the fields but they didn't last long. They hit the mother load or at least thought they did. They came across a whole crop of marijuana ditch weed growing alongside the field we were working. They couldn't believe their luck or that they were the only ones that knew what this stuff was. They quit work and somewhere found a bunch of big black trash bags and just went after it, ripping the ditch weed right out of the ground and shoving plant after plant into hefty bags, laughing and joking the whole time. Once they'd harvested the whole crop they jumped into their beater and headed off. Never saw them again. Problem with ditch weed is that it's a weed. It is marijuana but it's wild grown, not cultivated and thus doesn't have the THC content in it that the crop has. Grows all over Illinois, often in ditches, hence the name. Won't get you high, though I've heard you can get quite the headache. I remember it happened at lunch so the rest of us were all sitting in the grass watching the show. I'm not sure how but they seemed to be the only ones around that didn't know they were complete idiots. Some things in life just aren't fair.
Two summers I worked this job for a grand total of 6 weeks.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
I nearly cried tonight as Annie G and I nosed our way out of town, coffee in hand, and nothing ahead of us but open road and hot springs. I let myself believe that when I got there I wouldn't have to turn around and come right back. I allowed myself to forget work in the morning. The road allowed me to forget everything else. All that existed was the possibility of the road, the promise of something new, and the freedom to pursue it. I had a few provisions in the seat next to me, two spare tires in the bed that may or may not hold air, a fresh pair of socks, and my Australia '00 mix tape.
I had been forced into the passenger seat for so long, deprived of that certain freedom that is only provided by a truck and road, that I had become numb to the absence of possibility. Only able to go where a bike could take me and having to beg friends to take me to the cabin had restricted my mind, my imagination, and deadened by dreams. Tonight, all I was missing was a cigar. Suddenly the world was there again...No clouds cleared, no curtains lifted...One second there was nothing but grayness, and the next there was a world of possibility spreading out before me, unrolling like carpet, revealing dreams I had forgotten.
For the last several weeks it's been hard to pull my bike into the Safeway parking lot, and walk through those doors. A couple days ago I very nearly rode right on by. What was nearly impossible, just became infinitely more difficult. Tomorrow at 6:45 am I could drive to Safeway, work a 7 hour shift, and hate most every minute of it. Or, I could drive to Seward.
I had been forced into the passenger seat for so long, deprived of that certain freedom that is only provided by a truck and road, that I had become numb to the absence of possibility. Only able to go where a bike could take me and having to beg friends to take me to the cabin had restricted my mind, my imagination, and deadened by dreams. Tonight, all I was missing was a cigar. Suddenly the world was there again...No clouds cleared, no curtains lifted...One second there was nothing but grayness, and the next there was a world of possibility spreading out before me, unrolling like carpet, revealing dreams I had forgotten.
For the last several weeks it's been hard to pull my bike into the Safeway parking lot, and walk through those doors. A couple days ago I very nearly rode right on by. What was nearly impossible, just became infinitely more difficult. Tomorrow at 6:45 am I could drive to Safeway, work a 7 hour shift, and hate most every minute of it. Or, I could drive to Seward.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Underage Dance Party
So there we were... Standing on the stage of the UAF Carol Brown Ballroom looking out on a sea of sweating, grinding, pulsing bodies wondering "What the fuck?" Alex and I stared slackjawed on this bizarre jungle themed extravaganza of students desperately reaching out, clinging to, and grinding on any body within their grasp through the thick sweat and pounding, pressing beats. The ballroom had maxed capacity at 350 and DJ Double X had the college kids lined up at the door desperately waiting to get in on the action, to get in to the clothed orgy of raw dance party excused public all but sex. There were grinding threesomes, foursomes, dry humping on the stage, writhing bodies with blurred lines where the concept of groups or couples had become indecipherable. The dance floor was a mass of bodies, a sucking vortex of grind, where at the center the crowd was simply grinding on itself. Embarrassed to be watching we couldn't help but stare, feeling our age and only slightly uncomfortable with our voyeurism, I found myself waiting to see which individual would get naked first or if as single sentient being the crowd itself would suddenly shed it's clothes.
Occasionally, I found it necessary to shake my head, regroup my thoughts, and let my gaze wander to the outskirts of the dance floor to the lonely outcasts. Those who were not accepted by the mass or perhaps those who simply found the scene a bit forbidding. There was the muscle head in a wife beater with fake dreads attached to a head band who hadn't spoken a word to anyone all night. Instead he had been alternating between whipping out the same four step dance move and staring with his arms crossed. Crushing him for best terrible dancer was a gangly tall nearly undoubtably computer geek with awkwardly flailing extremities and sweat soaked shirt. Waiting to request a song earlier in the night were three girls giggling and pointing at this quintessential example of flamboyant awkwardness. As the night wore on the dancefloor had necessarily engulfed all the energy in the room and those who had managed to remain outside it's dominating influence stood gaping and defeated, staring in awe at the pulsing, pounding, pumping being.
I sit here trying to think of some insightful observation to make about life, some simple statement that could succinctly tie this into a lesson about humanity but still several days later all I want to do is raise my cane menacingly over my head and yell at those youngun's to watch where they're putting their hands.
Occasionally, I found it necessary to shake my head, regroup my thoughts, and let my gaze wander to the outskirts of the dance floor to the lonely outcasts. Those who were not accepted by the mass or perhaps those who simply found the scene a bit forbidding. There was the muscle head in a wife beater with fake dreads attached to a head band who hadn't spoken a word to anyone all night. Instead he had been alternating between whipping out the same four step dance move and staring with his arms crossed. Crushing him for best terrible dancer was a gangly tall nearly undoubtably computer geek with awkwardly flailing extremities and sweat soaked shirt. Waiting to request a song earlier in the night were three girls giggling and pointing at this quintessential example of flamboyant awkwardness. As the night wore on the dancefloor had necessarily engulfed all the energy in the room and those who had managed to remain outside it's dominating influence stood gaping and defeated, staring in awe at the pulsing, pounding, pumping being.
I sit here trying to think of some insightful observation to make about life, some simple statement that could succinctly tie this into a lesson about humanity but still several days later all I want to do is raise my cane menacingly over my head and yell at those youngun's to watch where they're putting their hands.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
By Special Request
Seems I've been lazy for the past 5 or 6 months with my posts and the tiny fan base is getting restless so here is a bit of a quick catch up on the life of a Hupp.
Hmmm, lets see where I left off. Somehow I managed to miss posting what I found out about the last seizure a year ago so let's wander on back into the not too distant past. After returning to Fairbanks I made a visit to my neurologist and the good doctor informed me of a few good bits of information. Backstory... the ER doc put me on Dilantin. Please enjoy the following:
1) Dilantin will, if anything, cause me to seize
2) Any ER in the country, by protocol, will put me on Dilantin if I come in to the ER for seizures
3) The side effect of my skin peeling on my hands was most likely the early beginnings of a fatal skin rash. When I asked how is a skin rash fatal the good doctor replied, "Well, you're skin just kind of peels off until you die."
4) I need his okay to drive again and without going on meds he may not let me drive again.
So that's the update on the good seizing of 2009. Shall we move on?
I am presently working at Safeway in Fairbanks, AK as a Chinese Buffet cook. I work with a guy named Michael who's a third short of a fifth if you know what I mean. He's a bit strange, makes odd comments referring to psychic abilities, sings loudly in what might mildly resemble Spanish but is actually not a language in this world. He also speaks in tongues during much of a shift because, he reports to management, there are demonic spirits (namely one Michael Hupp) in the department that need exorcising. Makes for an interesting though slightly creepy working environment. One day perhaps I'll be exorcised. And then I can get on with the lord's work and get some shit good and done.
Hmmm, lets see where I left off. Somehow I managed to miss posting what I found out about the last seizure a year ago so let's wander on back into the not too distant past. After returning to Fairbanks I made a visit to my neurologist and the good doctor informed me of a few good bits of information. Backstory... the ER doc put me on Dilantin. Please enjoy the following:
1) Dilantin will, if anything, cause me to seize
2) Any ER in the country, by protocol, will put me on Dilantin if I come in to the ER for seizures
3) The side effect of my skin peeling on my hands was most likely the early beginnings of a fatal skin rash. When I asked how is a skin rash fatal the good doctor replied, "Well, you're skin just kind of peels off until you die."
4) I need his okay to drive again and without going on meds he may not let me drive again.
So that's the update on the good seizing of 2009. Shall we move on?
I am presently working at Safeway in Fairbanks, AK as a Chinese Buffet cook. I work with a guy named Michael who's a third short of a fifth if you know what I mean. He's a bit strange, makes odd comments referring to psychic abilities, sings loudly in what might mildly resemble Spanish but is actually not a language in this world. He also speaks in tongues during much of a shift because, he reports to management, there are demonic spirits (namely one Michael Hupp) in the department that need exorcising. Makes for an interesting though slightly creepy working environment. One day perhaps I'll be exorcised. And then I can get on with the lord's work and get some shit good and done.
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