It's A Lot of Pressure

Whither Ronald Jenkees?

2011-12-09T21:46:00.001-08:00

Believe it or not, there was a day when the name of Ronald Jenkees simply did not draw much recognition. The mind boggles at the thought, for how did I...how did ANY of us...properly function as we maneuvered down that foggy one way street called Life? Was it any wonder we were going so slow?

And then suddenly, as if on cue...as if double-four time was just a bad memory...as if we could eat Froot Loops straight out of the box all the days of our lives...there he was, shining in our midst like the glare of a white-hot sun. Oh, in those days you had to just catch a glimpse and then look away. He burned too brightly then, his Rocket Ship of Love blazing a blinding trail across the heavens that shamed every shooting star that ever streaked across the sky.

Youtube was the womb that bore him. Yes, and some say Bill Simmons was the attending physician who brought him forth. But, unlike all the Great Ones who have shined briefly during their time upon the Earth, Ronald Jenkees arrived footloose, functional and fully formed.

Straight out of the chute he was scaring up a game of Balderdash. He was hunting birdsnakes, trapping spiders, and disposing of unwanted cigarette paraphernalia like he'd always been here. When he revealed the ideal laundry configuration, demonstrated the most technically correct double snap kick ever executed on film AND showed off his new car stereo whilst preaching against riding dirty...ALL IN ONE GLORIOUS SIX MONTH TIME PERIOD...well, we were ready to march off the cliff like a bunch of lemmings if he'd given the word.

But he'd hardly touched the throttle, my friends. We know that now. That's when the music came. That's when we understood why he was revealed to the world. We'd never heard or seen anything like him before. No one had. Every single video he was wearing another kind of hat. He said "youtubes" and "internets" and insisted the only reason he even played music was because it was fun!

Imagine that. We'd never seen an un-tortured musical genius before. Pretty soon he was being interviewed on the net...in video...then he was being interviewed live on television. People like Katy Perry plugged him on her website, Papa Roach entreated him to come to the studio whilst they recorded. You see, it wasn't just us. It was everyone. Even the haters couldn't look away, couldn't help but be moved by his sheer transcendence of space, time, and living tissue.

Every musical release bogged down the Internet like a brownout rolling through southern California. His website nearly locked up every single day with his fans begging him for new material, for just a crumb from the Table of Love at which Ronald composed his musical offerings.

Two CDs came and went. Accolades, tears, euphoria, head bobbing and everything else that came with the music came and went. And then nothing.

Oh, a post here and there, snatches of brilliance offered as an opiate to his public, the teeming masses that surfed by his site every day hoping for a glimpse of his majesty. The doubts started to surface. Concerns for the well-being of the king were expressed.Whither Ronald? Have we seen the end of his singular talents?

Tsk tsk, how sad. How soon they forget. For just as Ronald once was not, and then he was, someday soon these lean and sparse days of drought shall be not, and in their place there will be something the likes of which this planet has never seen. The wonder, the beauty, the utter transforming power of CD3.

Can you hear it? The faithful know it's there, crouching low into the future just off to the side. It's not time yet, but it will be. And in that day Ronald will wipe away every tear, frustration and doubt that anyone ever had about his ability to come through.

Wait for it, you fans of Ronald Jenkees. Bate your breath and wait. Those faint footsteps belong to the Maestro, and when his shadow crosses the threshold you will not be disappointed.

Addendum: At the moment I believe that I am Ronald Jenkees #6 fan worldwide. He's a monster musical talent with some kind of intangible gift for humorous videos that have to be seen to be appreciated. Everyone says that, of course, but until you've seen Ronald Jenkees preach against the ills of riding dirty or looked on in horror as Ronald attempts to survive a backward roller coaster ride while filming himself, you just haven't lived.

Riding Dirty: The Dangers of Illegal Contraband (2:02 vid)

Spectacles: Hold On Loosely, But Don't Let Go (35 sec vid)

Ronald Jenkees and The Meaning of Life (2:35 vid)

The Trials of December

2011-12-07T20:42:00.001-08:00

In a desperate bid to escape the excruciating minutiae of city life, if only for a weekend, it occurred to me to try my hand once again at living in the wild. In camping trips over the past 20 years, however, like many others I have noticed an almost imperceptible hardening of the ground, a phenomenon which lately seems to have accelerated at an alarming rate. Ever vigilant to escape suffering, I cast my eyes about for an alternative. What I found left me feeling like a man who had suddenly discovered the convenience of the cigarette lighter after spending his whole life rubbing two sticks together.Along highway 26, a scant 31 miles west of Portland, you will find L.L. Stubb Stewart State Park. Nestled among 1650 acres of forested hills, the park features miles of foot, bike and horse trails and every flavor of camping imaginable, including some truly fabulous cabins, one of which I had reserved for myself months in advance.

My wife and I arrived hours after the check-in at the Welcome Center to find the place empty. Fighting off panic, we decided to drive to the cabin site anyway in hopes of finding it unlocked, as my instructions were to pick up the key at the aforementioned Welcome Center. Perhaps they had unlocked it for us? My hopes turned to bitter bile once I found the cabin, our cabin, locked tight. A combination lock held the key safe and sound right next to the doorknob. I peered longingly into the warmth of my cabin fortress, its comfort just on the other side of a door knob whose tumblers would yield only to the one uniquely shaped metal object I did not possess. This object, known in the vernacular as a "key", was also protected a row of numbered buttons, the proper sequence of which was utterly unknown to either of us.I feverishly groped about in my mind for a course of action and hit upon the plan which, little did I know, would take me within sight of the Twilight Zone.

Driving in we had noticed two RVs parked together, each with a tasteful faux-wooden sign driven hard into the frozen dirt, proclaiming the occupants to be Camp Hosts. I realized then that if I wanted access to our cabin, these people were likely my only hope. Walking up I saw lights shining brightly in both trailers. I chose the one on the left, marched confidently to the door and knocked. Moments later a great cloud of acrid blue smoke appeared at the door.

I watched slack jawed as the cloud came to life and headed straight for me, engulfing me in seconds like an angry cumulonimbus. The cloud shut out all sound and light, not to mention oxygen. And then, behold, a voice cried out from somewhere within the cloud! "Come in, come in!” it cried. "Welcome!" Eyes watering, I pushed forth toward this siren call of certain doom, prepared to meet my end...

...and entered the lair of the Camp Host! To my surprise I had been expected! I was beckoned into the living room, such as it was, dazzled by the bright lights in the place. After performing the requisite greeting rituals peculiar to our society, I asked about my cabin. Oh, this man was a marvel, make no mistake. In a flash the key I had so dearly coveted was in my hand, a short treatise on living with a ten gallon hot water tank had been given and good wishes kindly proffered. It was then that I knew who this chain smoker was. I had come face to face with none other than The Concierge of the Wood, albeit one who had eschewed the suit and tie for sweats and a cigarette. Not forgetting his manners, he offered me some black coffee, a bowl of sauerkraut and a white plastic fork to eat it with. I politely declined the sauerkraut. And the fork.

As we talked his wife sat watching Jeopardy, rasping out questions between sweet puffs of an unfiltered Camel cigarette. She seemed to have become one with the lazy-boy and, judging by mountains of Kleenex and cigarette butts on either side of her, she had been there in the haze for quite some time. The Concierge of the Wood explained that they spent a couple months in a given park, then pulled up stakes and set sail for the next state park. It was the life they had always dreamed of, he declared, his eyes burning with the passion of wanderlust. My eyes were burning, too, just not from wanderlust.

I had heard of these people, the gypsies of the forest wild, but never would have thought myself charmed enough to ever run across one of their caravans. As I took in the scene through the thick haze of tobacco smoke, it occurred to me that it was entirely possible that I would wake the next morning to find no trace of this humble abode. Why had I been chosen? Why me and not somebody else? Why here, of all places? And who would believe me? There was so much I wanted to ask them, so much I wanted to know, but I couldn't hold my breath any longer and bid them a sweet adieu.

Soon we were ensconced in our little 35-dollar-a-night cabin. The rustic wood interior and furniture made me feel like Lewis and Clark, only I had an electric heater at my disposal. Outside was a covered porch, a picnic table and a grilled fire pit which I appreciated more than the lexicon will permit me to express. The cabin came furnished with a table and chairs, a bed, a futon and a coffee table set at just the right height for kicking back. Later than night, basking in the pleasures of a good book and fresh potato chips, I thought to myself, “This pleases me.” My wife was moved enough herself to go on the record as being "absolutely thrilled". The relaxation was to be short lived, however, for in the building across the street there lurked a danger which nearly derailed our whole operation.

This building housed the communal bathrooms and two nice private hot showers, but also ceramic tile floors which were so cold that one bare-footed moment of contact was enough to force surrender to the black despair of the abominable snowman, only without the snow. These tiles almost did me in.

My brush with eternity happened this way: I had stepped from the safety of my sneakers onto the floor, planning to take the 5 step trip to the shower head in momentary discomfort but with the promise of the quick relief that only scalding hot water can give in such a situation. By the second step the aforementioned tiles had leeched 90% of my body heat, and halfway through the third it began sapping my will to live! Horrified, I somehow lurched/staggered into step four realizing this could be my waterloo (pardon the pun). Could I manage the final step and hit the nozzle before an irreversible descent into oblivion left me frozen stiff on the floor? I pitched forward toward the lever that would save me and thankfully struck it hard enough to turn the water on.

All was not well, however, because the first few seconds sprayed me with chilly water just slightly above the freezing point. Seeing as how this was about 50 degrees warmer than the floor, though, it did revive me enough so that I was able to switch the hot water on, which plucked me forever from the floor's icy grasp. I spent a happy hour under that shower and now calculate that this building must also house a hot water tank of at least a thousand gallons.

Finishing my business there without further incident, I was heading back to my cabin when I spied a group of teenagers on the porch of a dark cabin across the way, their body language betraying the same crushing disappointment that I knew all too well from my own ill-fated arrival. I walked over and inquired of their situation. Sure enough, they had just arrived, the combination lock required knowledge which sadly they did not possess, and now they were at the point of losing all hope. I briefly wondered what 8 teenagers were planning on doing in a 3 person cabin, but in the end decided that what I didn't know was probably far more interesting. I pointed them in the direction of the gypsy Camp Host, a gleam of hope for which they thanked me profusely, sending two of their party on this errand of mercy.

I never saw that group again nor did I ever again lay eyes on the RV trailer in which I had met the Concierge of the Wood and his wife. Had I imagined the whole thing? Did I send those teenaged ambassadors on a fool's errand? Did they ever return to their happy group? Were any of them lost to the icy clutches of the tiles of death? I never knew. Sometimes, though, when I'm driving through the woods late at night, I swear I can smell the fragrant bouquet of unfiltered Camels and sauerkraut. You can laugh, but I know that somewhere out there in the trees the fabled Concierge of the Wood has left the light on just for me...and a certain distinguished blue cloud of smoke crouches in silence, waiting.

The First Post of Spring

2011-12-07T20:00:00.001-08:00

As I sat here the past few weeks at my formerly untidy desk whilst earning my living wage, I was given to ponder many things. Foremost on my mind was the battle raging within my corpus, for lo these many weeks my flesh had been serving as an unwilling bodily host to a nasty viral invader. Though I was heavily medicated, my frantic bid to mask the symptoms of internal warfare was not entirely successful. And so my days waxed long and hard. It did give me to think, however, and therein was formed the seed which flourished into the post you now see before you.

Let us make no mistake about it, my friends. We don't like to talk about it, but I think sometimes it needs to be said: in the cut throat world of the virus, every fight is a fight to the death. But as I thought about these viruses and their distant cousins, the dreaded bacteria and the icky fungus, I realized that they all have just one goal in mind: the death of the host organism. The fact that it is my body doesn't necessarily make it personal on their part, though. Any host will do, yet it occurred to me that these dastardly fellows have taken quite a myopic approach to their work. To wit: the virus that succeeds in its mission will soon die, for that virus needs a living host. On the other hand, the virus that fails also dies, done in by the rampaging fury of an indignant immune system.

What then can we say? That, in the end, every virus that successfully invades a human body will die! As the human, the trick is, as I see it, to remain alive…at least long enough to dance on a viral grave. As I understand it, this is where the immune system can be so vital. That's not the end of the story, though.

I'm undefeated. No virus has tangled with me and lived to tell the tale. You're undefeated, too, if you are reading this. Well and good. But what about the poor virus? Or that bacterial strain from the mean streets clinging to a doorknob as we speak? What does this dance look like from their end?

Do the other not-so-brave viruses stand back and watch the carnage, wringing their viral hands and worrying about close friends and family sent off to war in the tissues? After another viral comrade has succumbed to the inevitable, do they console one another with trite observations like, "You know, that's a shame about poor Bob, but at least he died doing what he loved...trying to kill the host," or perhaps, "I kept telling Margaret. Mutate a few times before taking on one of the healthy ones! Oh but she was a thrill seeker, always going after hosts that ate organic and got plenty of rest!"

Maybe I'll never know what really goes on in the clandestine world of microscopic invaders, and I guess I'm OK with that. I'll tell you one thing though. Night time cold capsules are the bomb. And I'll tell you something else. I find it comforting in a morbid sort of way that, even in the event that someday I finally lose, I'll get the last laugh. If I go down at least I'll know that I'm taking the virus with me.

The Cabbage That Dare Not Speak Its Name

2011-12-07T19:39:00.001-08:00

I haven't told you, have I Cedric, of our floral arrangements? Sit down, my friend, and I'll tell you all about it.Well, here at Eccentric Towers they've livened up the lobby with the kind of art no one really gets, but then again the stakes are too high for anyone to be the first to point out the Emperor is wearing no clothes. If you admit you don't get it, you're through here. No one lasts at Eccentric Towers if they can't walk the cultured walk. But it's not just the art work.

There are strange light fixtures here, Cedric, designed to illuminate these works just so amidst the fashionable obtuse-angled furniture, and a plethora of geometric decor from foot to false ceiling that got its inspiration from a schoolboy's trigonometric nightmare. There are cubes and rectangles everywhere you look in this lobby, true, but also shapes you can't even guess the name of. I guess this approach, too, falls under the category of art. But I get it, Cedric. Don't think I don't get it. But it's even more than the art work and the furniture.

Even on the carpet, upon which the one and only Mr. C prances by thrice daily on his way to fresh air and a potty break, you'll find all manner of geometry. We also have 10 foot tall fishtail ferns, Cedric. Real ones. Other plants thrive here, too, like the bamboo weave in the corner over there and the two cagey-looking nameless plants with the big leaves guarding the entrance.Wait, you wanted to hear interesting tidbits about the goings-on at Eccentric Towers, didn't you? I'm getting to that, my friend, but please allow me to set the table for you first. What was I saying?

Oh yes, well, it seems the art work, the furnishings, the plant life and the collective nods to Euclid weren't enough. No, they had to have a a new floral arrangement in once a week to liven up the place. I won't speak of the time she dropped off a bizarre creation that looked like Cheetos placed on the ends of a dozen or so sharp pointy sticks. Never seen the like. Nor will I spend much time describing the Thanksgiving "bouquet", which consisted almost entirely of squashes and melons. No, Cedric, you wanted to hear about the people that make their home here, and so you will.

The Flower Lady arrived one week with a rather large arrangement whose theme I judged to be A Salute to Purple. It had purple flowers of many shades and few sizes, a work I felt was one of her best so far. Its crowning glory was an enormous purple flowering cabbage, prominently displayed at front and center, its purple friends gathered all around gazing on its purpleness. I'm telling you, Cedric, with proper marketing this cabbage might have changed the world. Alas and alas, for it wasn't the lot of this cabbage to be cast in bronze, feted amongst his brothers and one day given a place amongst the orchids. No, his end would rival the worst of the Greek tragedies, and this is how it happened.

One day the Pied Piper came galloping through the lobby and, as is his wont, he stopped to entertain the human behind the desk. This gave him a chance to try out his new material, take the pulse of the building, and admire the Plant Lady's latest offering. The human behind the desk, otherwise known as the Concierge, enjoyed these visits as much as the Piper did, and so the human was pleased. The attentions of the Pied Piper were not on the human just now but upon the floral presentation and, judging by his quivering lower lip and barely restrained passions, some kind of offense...real or imagined...had just been taken.

"Something wrong?" asked the human.

"What is this cabbage doing here?" the Pied Piper demanded.

"That's how it came this time," was the reply.

Thankfully, Cedric, it was over quickly. Enraged, the Pied Piper reached into that floral arrangement, grabbed the cabbage with both hands and ripped that sucker out of there by the roots! In the next instant he had unceremoniously discarded the head of purple cabbage into the large potted plant by the door, one of the two with no name.The person at the desk was understandably curious!

What was the point of that little drama, sir?

"You have to ask?" replied the Piper, still livid.

"I do." said the human.

"Purple cabbage has no place in floral arrangements!" he cried. "It just...shouldn't be there!"

Pointing out the obvious had always galled the Piper. "People with jobs!" he shrieked, gesturing to the heavens.

And with that he was gone, leaving the shell-shocked fellow at the front desk to contemplate the enormity of what he'd just witnessed. Was that really wrong? Were there unwritten rules of floral engagement which, when violated, justified the use of shock and awe pruning? Or was there more to this than met the eye?No. Really, there was less. This is life at Eccentric Towers! And, yes, Cedric, this incident actually transpired here in the lobby. Quite recently, as a matter of fact.

And I have still more tales, my friend. We've only just begun! Do you want to hear about the mad Hacker? Mix together one enraged senior citizen, an innocent pot of tulips, a pair of dangerously sharp shears, some paint, a large sheet of construction paper and masking tape and what comes to mind?If you've got a minute I'll tell you all about it...

Interviews and the Third World

2011-12-07T17:40:00.002-08:00

Sunday, August 2, 2009
Interviews and the Third World
I think I'm in the minority when I say that interviews just don't scare me. As a matter of fact I'll go as far as to say that my lack of nerves may have cost me a couple of jobs I didn't really want to land anyway. I always go in thinking I'm on the short list, whether I am or not I don't know, but for some reason I go in with the mindset that I'm the hottest candidate they'll be seeing that day. On second thought, maybe I actually am nervous. So much that I temporarily lose my mind when I cross the threshold.

Last week I landed a job for which the interviewer/business owner told me over a hundred applicants applied. He told me he needed to hire me for the labor intensive job on the site first to see what kind of worker I'd be, but he was actually hiring me for another position in the future which entailed sitting in a temperature controlled office, sitting at the computer, making phone calls, dealing with the public and making upwards of 100K.

I bought it. I accepted the job. The labor intensive one. Lucky for me, on my first day the fine people at the main office forgot to call to tell me I'd passed the drug screen and to go to work on Monday morning as they said they would. And so, when I did finally get a call, it was from the boss who was eager to learn why I was hours late on the first day of work. That's right, I arrived at the job 90 minutes late on my first day. This wasn't my fault at all, and they said as much; however, since they kept talking about it I couldn't help but think in their hard-labor minds I should have foreseen HR's oversight and contacted them to demand a start time.

Oh, but the fun was just beginning. Little did I know an intestinal ailment was about to befall me with vengeance, perhaps as a prelude to the Montezuma's Revenge I'll be experiencing next month. And I really didn't think about the record heat wave coming through rainy and cool Portland, topping out at 106 in the shade for my second and third days on the job. Shade? Ha.

Well, I made it through the first day. It was a slow day for them, but for me in my pathetic physical condition, bending over to clean something six inches off the ground, applying most of my strength and effort in various strange physical positions for 8 or 9 hours, all in excess of 110F heat in the sheet metal warehouse (ah, shade!), began to wear me down. After spending 20 minutes straight bent over I barely had the strength to straighten back up so that I could sprint to the john to alleviate my other problem. I found that I was drinking a quart or more of water every hour but still was unable to quench my raging thirst. And that was the first day. I drove home exhausted, wondering where it all went so horribly wrong, and hoping the cushy job for which I was supposedly hired was just around the corner. But no, it wasn't to be.

Day Two was more of the same but worse. It was hotter sooner. I spent much of the day in vehicles which were parked in the sun on a 106F day, sweltering with the windows up in 150F vehicles whose A/C didn't work. When I was able to get out I then had to immediately apply my flagging energies to this and that in yoga-like positions. I quickly began to imagine every step I took as my very own Trail of Tears, only the tears I was shedding was the sweat coming off me like Niagra Falls. Toward the afternoon, when the temperature peaked, I started to get dizzy, lurching about like a drunk. I couldn't remember basic things, like what had I just done to this rig, which car is the Hummer, etc. Every minute I thought I might collapse, and with that came the terrifying thought that one of these times I'm going to need to make a dash for the bathroom and I'm not going to have the legs to get my intestines there. At one point I was surprised to feel goosebumps rise on my tortured flesh and found that I was no longer sweating. Somewhere in my mind I understood that this wasn't good, but luckily it was almost quitting time. I somehow was able to drive home, spending an hour under an ice-cold shower, then lie on the couch covered in ice packs.

Eventually the sun rose for Day Three. I could tell I hadn't really recovered. I was dizzy and thirsty when I awoke at 6 a.m. I broke my fast, guzzled a quart of water on the way to work, and arrived determined to blow their socks off with my enthusiasm for detailing cars in a make-shift kiln. The day started easily enough; it didn't break 90 until noon. I thought I was home free. 90? Ha! That's moist Duncan Hines! I was gonna be a hero.

Then the work started coming fast and furious, the mercury kept going up, and I spent my time lurching about from 110F in the lot to the 150F in the vehicles, all the while exerting all the strength and energy I could muster to move as fast as I could possibly go. I stumbled upon the dreaded Trail of Tears again about 2:30 and started my own rendition of a Death March about an hour later. From then until 6 p.m. it was like living death, weakened by the battle raging in my intestinal fortitude but more so afflicted by my physical conditioning, or lack of it, combined with the local thermometer freak show.

By the end of the day I vaguely wondered if I'd need an ambulance to get home, but I decided to risk driving. I kept the windows down in hopes the hot breeze blowing in would keep me alert, for my little car has no A/C. After an interminably long 5 minute drive I found the parking lot and parked the car. I lost my balance going up the stairs to the front door but skillfully recovered by grabbing hold of the railing on the way down. All I could think of was getting inside to air that was below 110F. And that I did.

I briefly considered jumping in the cold shower with my clothes on but decided against it. Instead I just grabbed the A/C unit in a bear hug and clung to it. Three hours later my heartbeat was still over 100 beats per minute. I was still thirsty and I was still hot. Ice packs weren't doing it now and even though I stood under the shower until I thought we'd run out of cold water, my core temp wasn't coming down very fast.

And then it hit me: heatstroke! I had all the symptoms except the hurling, as it turns out. How close did I come to succumbing to the heat? I don't know, but I flirted with disaster, as Molly Hatchet put it once. Needless to say, I called in "sick" the next day, as I was basically a bag of human flesh spread out on the mattress, trying to congeal in time for dinner. The day after that I discovered that my services were no longer needed at the establishment, and for a second I wished I'd gone to the Urgent Care clinic to procure a bit of Workman's Comp for my trouble. It was the perfect storm, really: record heat, hard labor, pathetic physical condition, and a little trouble with the G/I tract for kickers. I've done harder work in worse conditions (haven't we all?), but for some reason this time I wasn't up to the task.

But that's what I get for being a great interview, and I bet the Big Boss down there is wondering how he could have gone so wrong. I'm sure he'll find a Neanderthal soon that'll be able to swing it and, with any luck, his cro-magnon forehead won't be inundated with sweat due to a record-breaking heat wave. And he'll probably be half my age to boot.

But that was last week. Let's get to the ever-present NOW.

It's early August now. Obviously classes are over for the summer. I'm nervously awaiting my dramatic departure for the third world for some intense Spanish classes at the end of the month. If you are like me and only speak one language you probably have it on your Bucket List to learn a second one. Well, I've been picking away at Spanish for 25 years like a finicky kid in a high chair, carefully sorting through the peas and carrots to get to the niblets of corn so highly prized by the toddler set. Basically I've just picked up a word or two here and there and excitedly tried them out on native speakers when I got the chance and, like a toddler, expected them to be equally excited by my progress. They usually weren't.

I've kept it up lo these many years, taking a Spanish class here and there and acing every one. Therein lies the rub, as they say in the Greek. Every single Spanish class I've ever taken prepares you to succeed at one endeavor: passing a Spanish exam. And I'm good at that. About the only exams that get the best of me are the more advanced mathematics, and by advanced I mean anything beyond Calculus 2. Other than that I find that my brain loves exams. So basically all the study I've done so far is get me to the point that I can prepare for and then pass a Spanish exam.

The prevailing wisdom among those who know, however, prescribes a totally different attack, that of immersion. And this I will attempt the third week of August going through the end of September. I will enter the world where English is the strange language, where the water you can't drink it, and the tortillas they are genuine corn. And the language classes, they are cheap. For 4 hours a day, one on one, you can learn this language and get three hots and a cot, all for the low, low price of 150 dollars per week. This little cottage industry keeps many an area in Central America going and, from what I've gleaned among the wise, they are good at it.

Some rules: don't bring the bling. Sure, it's a 25 dollar watch to you, but that's a month's wages to most in that area. If you must keep track of the time, keep it in your pocket. A laptop? Don't bring it. An iPod? Be careful. That's a dream gadget. Digital camera? Well, purchase some disposable cameras instead. Drink bottled water at all times. Don't go hiking alone. Don't go out after dark. Don't rent a car. Bring only what you are willing to be relieved of in a holdup.

Of course, there are the other rules, too. Make several copies of your itinerary and your passport and keep them in different places. Don't flash cash. Be polite. Make some effort to learn the social rules the humans live by in the area. The things I've picked up are basically to use a minimal amount of eye contact, inquire as to family health, and don't use first names unless you are invited to do so. It's also considered panache if you bring small gifts for your Spanish instructor and for the family with which you will be staying. Taxi drivers don't expect tips but you'd better get the price worked out before you get into the cab. Servers only expect tips from foreigners, not locals.

Of course I've gotten most of this from a small book with pretty pictures that I purchased from a Borders bookstore, but I've also frequented the sites which are themselves frequented by those who've gone this way before. Probably half of what I've read is nonsense and the other half is more true than I think. And then there's stuff no one's told me which will undoubtedly provide locals with a hearty laugh at my expense.

That's OK, though. If they laugh at me I'll just steal their soul with my disposable camera. But if I really wanted to get mean I could sponsor them to live and work in the USA. I happen to know of a body shop that's hiring for a cushy 100k job...
Posted by Me at 12:34 PM

It Works Like That

2011-12-07T17:40:00.001-08:00

I did a bad thing. I deleted my former blog, www.excruciatinginertia.blogspot.com. It's not what you think, though. I always figured that it would be hanging around in the ether and I could reach down into the primordial soup to reclaim it at my considerable leisure. Alas, this is not the case, and the tech people at google seem to have way too much going on to do a few mouse clicks for me or for the millions of others bleating for their attentions for one thing or another.

So I re-rolled my character and here I am again. I still look good, I smell good and I'm still broke. And that's the way I like it. I like to run lean, live close to the bone. It's when the skin is a little too close to the bone, so much that my ribs start showing, that I feel like it isn't worth it anymore. I'll gorge on carbs and choke down some cow muscle, medium rare. I know how that game is played. All that to say this: it's time to eat again. And as every fan of Ronald Jenkees knows, there ain't no reason to be riding dirty. But enough of that kind of talk.

I don't really have a whole lot to say about anything right now. I'm being battered from pillar to post by the hideous math classes I'm taking on top of an accelerated-3-times-faster-because-it's-the-summer-version 2nd year Spanish class. My reflexes are shot, my friends. My legs are gone. My eyesight is weak and I can't take it to the body anymore. My boxing gloves are nothing more than ornamental appendages, for I've thrown my best shots at these classes and they just keep coming. I'm punched out and looking for a warm place to fall. Then suddenly I hear it; the bell rings. Once again I've made it to the weekend, and next thing I know they are carrying me to my stool and breaking out the smelling salts.

It's the early rounds yet and my opponent hasn't broken a sweat. I can see down the hallway that he's mangled better men than me, left them as no more than quivering lumps of living tissue curled up in the dark recesses of the tutoring center. When it comes to Sunday nights and I'm tucking myself into bed I almost can't bear the thought of answering the bell again. What moves am I going to put on him that he hasn't seen before? On the other hand, every move this guy puts on me is the first time I've ever seen it. React, adapt, go forth and conquer, the professor says. He's got a PhD in Mathematics, the equivalent of entering the ring with an uzi. Calc 3 won't even get in the ring with a guy like that. But let him lay eyes on a guy like me and the next thing you'll see is a mathematical proof of the Pavlovian response. I'm the dogfood in this little comedy and Sir Isaac Newton has rung the bell. I have no chance, really. It's like taking square roots from a baby.

I'm a club fighter in this realm, stepping in with the champ every day. He's teeing off on me, playing target practice with my head. Oh, I've found ways to survive, to buy time. I've gone low once or twice. I'm not too proud to clinch. I've thrown an elbow, just to keep it real, but the champ keeps coming. Still, I won't give up. I won't. We've all seen this kind of story before. I just need a reason to go on, I guess. Fortunately, there's inspiration everywhere if you look. Profiles in pop-culture Courage; Never Say Die! Down with the sherry and on with the chase. When I'm feeling down I can always look to the ones with the Right Stuff, the warriors with true grit. The kind of folks who inhabit Robert Service's poems.

We all saw the moxie in Hillary going toe to toe with Obama; it didn't matter what the polls said, she was staying in that race until she crossed the finish line, even if the wheels had come off 40 miles back! If that don't move ya, then look to the moving picture, Grasshopper. For though he was in over his head on a whole lot of levels, Balboa kept coming against Creed, even when he could only see out of his left ear. And when it was all said and done, the Champ didn't want no rematch.

It kind of reminds me of that Schnauzer across the street, taking yet another run at the postman. That dog doesn't know the meaning of the word "quit". Every time he starts his shift you know that dog is thinking maybe today is gonna be the day. And no matter how many times he ends up nursing a crushed windpipe you know he's going to go for it again tomorrow. All out. That dog has a job to do and he means to do it. Nothing is going to keep him down. Not repeated failure. Not asphyxiation. And certainly not some rusty chain that somehow ends up being just a bit shy of the proper length every single cotton-picking day. Not to worry; the postman will be along tomorrow. The schauzer will bide his time. And at just the right moment, he'll make his move...

I don't know yet if I can go on with the fight or not. Some fighters, like the late Arturo Gatti, never quit. Those kind are always stopped by the referee, never by the opponent. But this isn't boxing, this is Mathematics. Maybe my case is more like Muhammad Ali, who still thought he could get it done no matter how late in the day it was. Maybe I'm like him in a way. In the end, he reached down inside himself and came up empty. He couldn't even fake it. Math is like that. You know the answer or you don't. I barely beat the count after the last mid-term. Maybe this is where I should get out. After all, tuition is going up another 7 percent next year. When the chips are down, they figure they can always soak the student. Heck, most students are rolling in dough, right? That's why they are in school, because they need a place to spend money. Who better to take it from? I might just take up golf instead. It looks like an old Master is taking them all to school on the links across the pond. Is it too late to take up golf?

Concert for the Aged: reprint

2011-12-07T17:32:00.000-08:00

this is a concert review I put on my blog shortly after the concert. I've seen it reproduced in various places and people seem to enjoy it, so I thought I'd re-post it.

Last night at Newmark Theater I had the pleasure of watching a man sing and play guitar for more than two hours. The man's name was Lindsey Buckingham, and this was only the tour's third show in support of Gift of Screws, the new CD he has coming out next week. This little piece chronicles not only the show itself but the entire evening and the cast of characters of our fair city who populated it. Fear not, you who strive to Keep Portland Weird. It still is.

The evening started well enough. We decided to pilot an earth killer into town an hour early as a pre-emptive strike against the dreaded No Available Parking eventuality. As we feared, every street we first encountered was lined with vehicles from corner to corner as far as the eye could see. The feeling of relief exuded by those who had scored parking spots ahead of us hung palpably in the air, almost as a mist, clouding our vision. I had just begun to despair when it happened. We spied the opening we had been looking for! I hit the gas so hard that we nearly went back in time! I managed somehow to maintain control of the vehicle, hitting my mark and executing an electrifying parallel parking maneuver in one fluid motion. My wife and I sat back smiling, congratulating ourselves on a job well done.

And then I saw it, the ghastly sign portending a temporary apocalypse. 15 Minute Limit it squealed in big bold letters not 12 inches from my side mirror. No wonder the space was empty whilst all about us the curbs were literally crammed with parked vehicles! And then my moral quotient took a nosedive. "I wonder if it's OK to park here," I reasoned to myself, "if you don't see that sign?" And shamefully I set to carry out my sinister plan.

I scanned the vicinity with haunted eyes, wondering if we could somehow get away without being held accountable for our sleight of car routine. As luck would have it there were two ladies not 15 feet away on a nicotine jones errand of mercy watching while my conscience wrestled me to the floor. Alas, we'd been seen! And then it hit me: could I possibly invite these ladies to take a bit of the culpability off my hands, at least enough so that I could pretend I had reasonable grounds to think I was OK here? After all, if we all thought it was OK, well, then maybe it really was! Guilt has always proved a harsh taskmaster, my friends, but tonight her training paid off in spades.

I turned to my soon-to-be accomplices, assuming the naivete of a lost child. I'm telling you, weaker women would have wept. "What does that sign mean?" I asked, my voice conveying a hint of incredulity. Surely whatever meaning expressed in those words couldn't possibly include me, could it?

I could see they both knew how the game was played. Seizing the opportunity to assume membership in the coveted People That Know Things club, the purveyors of Big Tobacco smiled. The lady on the right croaked, "It doesn't mean anything now, it's after 7 o'clock".

I checked the sign. Sure enough, the small print declared enforcement from 6 a.m. to 7 p.m. I glanced at my cell phone. Sweet Georgia Brown, it was 7:05. We thanked those ladies profusely (for the clock striking 7, I guess) and bid them sweet adieu. I've no doubt we added to the pheromone cocktail that spelled R-E-L-I-E-F that night. We walked away silently thanking Lindsey for refusing to work before 8 p.m.

A few minutes later found us in the lobby of the Performing Arts building. Folks were milling around looking a little dazed. After all, how do you act before a Lindsey Buckingham concert? Does anyone know? It's obvious if you were going to see, say, Metallica or Twisted Sister. Luckily for everyone there was a bar here, so that gave us all a place to begin. Looking around I could vouch that everyone in attendance had long since passed carding age and so bellied up without fear. My wife and I decided upon a few adult beverages and likewise put our livers to work. I still sensed a bit of tension in the group, though, hinting to the problem which would manifest during the concert itself despite the titanic rocking efforts of Mr. Buckingham.

It wasn't long before seating was announced, though unfortunately I was taking up space in the restroom at the time and was unable to answer the call immediately. I did manage to observe a bit of the minutia of human behavior there which has long fascinated me. I wondered if the Make No Eye Contact rule would still hold in the bathroom if everyone present knew that everyone else in the room was as excited as they were to see the same performer do his thing, and only moments away at that! But no, there would be no associative familiarity this night. Everyone I saw in that room went about pretending he neither saw nor heard anyone else. I pondered this while we found our seats. Thankfully, we didn't have to wait long.

Lindsey strode serenely onto the stage in near total darkness, the silence broken only by various hoots and hollers. But eventually I shut up when I realized I was the only one expressing any excitement that way. The crowd was hushed. Lindsey strapped on his guitar and we waited for takeoff. All at once the blinding lights came on and Lindsey tore into his first number with reckless abandon, an approach he favored the entire night! It was soon apparent to all that he has put a good deal of practice into his instruments of choice. Guitars, that is. All 16 of them. Or so it seemed to me, for he seemed to switch instruments after nearly every song!

Or was that before every song? Permit me a bit of timeline angst, my friends, for who can say, really? One thing's for sure, I'll wager that guitar tech of his could solve this mystery if his brain is anywhere near as nimble as his feet. I watched that fella scamper around the back of the stage all night like a spider hauling six-stringed insects in his clutches, staying low and keeping to the shadows while he went about his deadly work. I marveled at his dexterity, how he glided over cables and cords while keeping his vertical at a level that would make a limbo champion blush. What would such a man as that say to my query? I think such a man as he would point out that, because Lindsey didn't switch guitars before his very first song, the switch must therefore have come after it, and so on and so forth through the whole set list. And so we, being reasonable men, would in turn agree not question his profound wisdom during these proceedings.

The confusion over which came first, the switch or the song, pales in comparison to the herculean effort yours truly put forth in a dogged attempt to wring every last erg of unadulterated joy out of the evening. I carried that entire arena on my back for most of the night, and this was the problem I alluded to earlier. That's right, my friends, I was surrounded by a multitude of individuals who evidently thought they were there to see Yo-Yo Ma. The gentleman on my right seemed positively frightened by the intensity coming off the stage, not to mention from the man flailing about to his left. I was horrified to see that all around me people were merely viewing the proceedings instead of actually taking part in them, forcing me to single-handedly carry the whole responsibility of audience participation myself.

I just wasn't up to the task, my friends. I shouted myself hoarse by the fourth song. My hands were swollen and sore ham hocks by the halfway mark and I started to feel the effects of whiplash by the time Lindsey reached Go Your Own Way near the end of his set list. I was spent. I had failed.

And then it happened.

The arena of people seemed to realize as one that they weren't there to observe "art" with restraint and faint applause, sitting around clucking their tongues like a gaggle of barnyard hens. No, although that was what their training as Portland citizens had taught them to do in the presence of any artist, the familiar strains of that old classic song snapped them out of their malaise at once. We rose as one the moment we realized Lindsey was about to entreat each of us to go our own way, shouting along to the lyrics in a rock and roll frenzy. The noise was deafening, thankfully drowning out my budding laryngitis, but Lyndsey was able to carry us home in spite of my injury, strutting about the stage like a peacock in leather boots while we urged him on.

There were only about 5 more songs after this, but the resurrection was complete. This was his crowd now, and I got the idea that everyone was thinking, "What were we waiting for? This is fun!" at the same time. No one bothered to thank me for getting us that far but I guess that's OK. Lindsey Buckingham was the star last night and I, for one, won't soon forget the outrageous fortune of seeing him perform live.

And for the curious, the songs he played off his soon to be released new CD tells me that Buckingham fans are in for a real treat!

The Legend of Buttons Kearney

2010-07-30T21:17:00.000-07:00

Ladies and Gentlemen, I have a sad story for you today. It's about a man named Buttons, and it goes like this.

Hugh "Buttons" Kearney was a boxer. At the point where we join his story he had risen into the top 20 boxers in the whole world in his weight class. His mom was proud of him. His grandparents followed his career with interest and showed off pictures of him with equally interested neighbors. His siblings went around the hallways at Jefferson Prep almost as gods because their brother Buttons was an undefeated professional boxer. They were somebody because the people there thought that Buttons was somebody. And who could really blame them? Heck, for one shining moment there it looked like Buttons was about to conquer the world.

Down on the lower east side Buttons was already big-time. Sometimes, when Buttons went out to eat at his favorite local haunt, he could score something for free because the staff knew who Buttons was and what he did, and maybe if they did something for Buttons now, why, when Buttons made it big he might grace that restaurant with his presence, and then the owner could get his picture in the local paper standing next to Buttons with his arm around him like they were buds. Everyone would try to get into the frame, toasting his success with smiles all the way around. And they'd all want a copy of the picture so they could frame it, hang it up and show their friends when they came over. Buttons could put a little shine into anyone's life that way, he'd take a picture with anyone who asked. And believe me, they would ask. And just by himself Button's would bring the whole place up a few notches. It happened all the time in other cities, in other restaurants in other neighborhoods, so why not there? Why not this place? Buttons was their guy. Anyhow, when he did eat there, Buttons always picked up what was left of the tab (after his freebies were deducted, of course) because that's just how Buttons was. That was how he rolled when the check came.

Buttons fought knowing his family had pinned their hopes on him, waiting patiently while they went about their day to day lives in quiet desperation. They had all looked on with envy as Sugar Ray Leonard kept winning and eventually was pulling down 7 and 8 figures for his fights. At one time Sugar Ray was 17-0, just like Buttons was now. Word on the street was Leonard's extended family was living large, riding on the success of their much-loved pugilist. It happened for him, why couldn't it happen for Buttons? Why couldn't it happen for this family? They'd know what to do when it came to that; they wouldn't forget where they came from like some people they could mention. All that remained was for Buttons to come through on his part of the bargain and then they could all set sail for the Promised Land together.

Like I said, Buttons had successfully navigated through his professional fights, winning 17 and drawing once. That meant Hugh "Buttons" Kearney was undefeated. The people around him, his family and his friends and his slowly growing posse, were beginning to allow themselves to think about what it would mean for them if Buttons pulled it off. What if he DID hit it big? What if it was Buttons in there with Sugar Ray Leonard someday? That's who Buttons would have to face for the title in his weight class. Could you imagine? And what if it was Buttons they wanted to interview for Ring Magazine? Sports Illustrated? The New York Times! Wow. His posse could see themselves kicking it in the Green Room while Buttons held forth with Leno on the Tonight Show. They could drive Buttons around in his Hummer and wash his cars for him, be there for Buttons when he needed someone to make sure he wasn't disturbed.

And so it came to pass that Buttons had a fight scheduled on a Thursday night in the third week of April. It had been penciled in months before and a lot of people had bought tickets while they could still see Buttons do his thing for relatively cheap. A lot of them planned to save their ticket stubs to show their grand kids just in case Buttons went somewhere with all this.

"You see that man, Timmy? Your Grampy saw him fight when we was both young! And boy, was he something to see!" Timmy's eyes would get real big, and Buttons would kneel down next to the boy for a picture, and Grampy would get all tongue-tied, mumbling something like, "Man I lived and died with every punch, you were the best I ever saw," and then Buttons would reach out and hold him for a second or two. Nothing else would need to be said. Buttons was like that. He rolled like a man of the public simply because he was.

But anyway, like I said, Buttons had a fight coming up on Thursday night. The USA Network was going to be televising it. Yes sir, Buttons was going nationwide. A lot of people who didn't know Buttons personally were telling their friends they were going to be there, soaking in a bit of Button-ous glory by association alone. Buttons had that effect on people. They were going to watch Buttons go to work on this guy, then afterward they were all going out to eat someplace. You know, make a night of it. And word was that Buttons was going to a few after-parties, so if you wanted to meet him all you had to do was show up and Buttons would sign whatever you had, he'd take a picture with you, you could rap with him about the fight or whatever. That's just how Buttons was. That's how the man rolled at parties.

But something happened on the way to the ball. Buttons' original opponent pulled out. Well, you couldn't blame him for that. He was getting, what, 800 bucks to get beaten up on national TV by a man named "Buttons"? No thanks. But the date was set, the cameras were ready to roll, and so the USA Network went shopping for a late replacement. They found Jorge Maysonet, a guy who was 17-2 with 15 KO's. They ran it by Buttons' team and got the green light. Sure, with a record like that the guy probably hit hard, but with Buttons he was the kind of guy that made it so you didn't have much to hit. And this guy had been beaten twice. No one had ever beaten Buttons Kearney. Not ever. So they made the match and went ahead with the fight.

Now, you have to remember, this was in Buttons' hometown. Articles had been written about him, how the USA Network was in town to promote the fight and this was the start of something big for Buttons. People had been talking about this one for weeks: on the phone, in coffee shops, in the cafes and on street corners all over the lower east side. The atmosphere was palpable with anticipation, somewhat akin to the countdown moments before the shuttle launches into orbit. This was the calm before the storm, and Hurricane Buttons was scheduled for launch at 8 p.m.

On fight night some of the locals knew Buttons well enough to get into his dressing room beforehand to wish him luck. After all, the more face time you got with Buttons(or so the thinking went), the more likely it would go well for you when Buttons was the champ. He graciously thanked everyone for coming to see him, then walked over to the mirror to warm up. They all stood back and gave him his space because this was serious and Buttons had to get ready. Buttons was all about doing what came next, and now it was time to break a sweat, lather up a bit and get a groove on.

As he warmed up, Buttons could already see himself walking down the street after this bout. People would shout out, "Whussup, Buttons? Good show the other night! Man you really laid one on him!" and he'd say something like, "Thanks, man, I appreciate that." And he'd keep walking and feeling good about where he was in life, about the career that lay in front of him. The guys sitting on the steps would watch him walk away, wishing they were Buttons, while the girls just wished they were with Buttons. That's how it was in those days if you were Buttons when he rolled through the neighborhood.

Not twenty minutes later Buttons was in the ring, staying loose, prancing around his corner like a caged stallion. Once in a while he acknowledged someone in the crowd. These were his people here tonight. Everyone in town was either there or they knew someone that was, but Buttons kept his head and played it cool. That's how you had to roll if you were someone in the fight game. He had the Vaseline on his face, he was bobbing and weaving, throwing a few combinations here and there, now and again eyeballing his opponent...just like a seasoned pro. Which he was. That's why these people were all here; they wanted to be amazed by what he could do in there. The path to fame, riches and boxing immortality passed through this ring here tonight, and Hugh "Buttons" Kearney had his ticket to ride. He was there to win, to impress and to look unimpressed in the meantime.

His opponent, Jorge, stood in his corner waiting for the bell. He was trying to shake his legs out for some reason, it didn't really matter why. Right after this fight he was going to be just another name on Buttons' record, one of the guys he fought on the way up. That's how it happened in this game; there were winners and there were losers and this guy unfortunately was brought in to lose. But Buttons didn't feel bad about that, really, because this was how the boxing game rolled. Nothing personal, you play your part and go home, and Buttons would wish you luck with your career and you'd never see each other again. You couldn't get caught up in how the other guy felt because this was a hurt business.

The bell rang. Buttons strolled out to ring center to meet his opponent, because that's what you did when the bell rang in this game. Jorge threw a jab but Buttons was ready, blocking it and taking a step back. Nothing special there. A seasoned guy like Buttons had seen that a million times before. Buttons closed in again, looking for an opening. Suddenly Jorge popped Buttons with the jab, stepped in behind it and smashed home a right cross, right on the Button. He rammed home another left a split second later for good measure, but by then it didn't matter anymore.

For Hugh "Buttons" Kearney, the pride of the lower east side, was already out cold. Buttons crashed hard to the canvas, stiff as a board. The opponent stood over him menacingly for just a moment, but Buttons didn't know anything about that. He never went in for any of that macho stuff anyway. Buttons didn't roll that way. Right now, though, he wasn't rolling at all. The lights were out all over the world.

Most of the arena just sat there in stunned disbelief. Half of them considered themselves to be a part of Buttons' family, friends and/or posse and what they'd just witnessed were the tail lights of the high life express as it was leaving town. Buttons wasn't getting up, and what it looked like was that they were all going to have to go get jobs and work for a living. Three punches and the fight's over? In 20 seconds? Buttons got knocked out? Really?

Well, it's sad but true, ladies and gentlemen. Dreams die hard in the fight business, and it's not just the boxer who is left to ponder what might have been. It's the family that isn't going to be living in a 26 room mansion in the gated community, the friends who aren't going to be getting new cars for their birthdays, the hangers-on who aren't going to be getting cushy jobs washing Button's fleet of vehicles and cooling their heels in the Green Room at the Tonight Show studios. What about them? What about the people who dared to dream that Buttons could take them there, that if they hitched their wagon to his star everything would turn out alright?

I do feel for Buttons, it's true. Getting knocked out in front of all your family and friends and supporters is an awful thing to endure, to say nothing of being counted out in under 20 seconds. I couldn't wish that on anybody. But it's those other people...the ones who had bet it all on Hugh "Buttons" Kearney...they are the ones who walked out of that arena like dead men. It's those folks who are the ones tugging on my heartstrings. These are the common folk that shared a dream, who had dared to look out into the horizon. And what did they see but Buttons standing there with a sack full of money, waving them on up to a life of ease! It must have seemed so close that they could almost taste it. Little did they know that, even in the moment that they had first laid eyes on Buttons, their dream was already far gone. Feel bad for poor Buttons, my friends, but weep buckets for all those hangers-on that never really had a chance.

It's to those people that I dedicate this little post: here's to you hardworking sycophants, to you who see your chance to leech on and then take it, to you who dare to fantasize, to you who are always looking for your next meal ticket...don't give up! Never lose sight of the dream. Hold on just a little bit longer. The odds are good that someone you met once is going to make it. So Buttons wasn't your guy. So what? Eventually somebody you've known, seen or have heard of is going to make it big. Wait for that man. When he makes his move, be on his coattails and do whatever you have to do to stay there.

And don't forget to tell Leno we said "hi".

Goodbye to Some of That

2010-07-30T21:10:00.000-07:00

As I type these words the end of an era is upon me. My departure is at hand from these Twisted Towers, that storied venue which everyone but me has called home. For me it has been "work" lo these 21 months but, as the wise sage has written, when you do what you love you won't ever work a day in your life again. And so it has been for me, though "love" may be a smidgen too strong a word for it. Once I did love it. Once I hated it. Maybe I really, really liked it most of the time. In the end, I believe it was just right.

I have always considered my vocational approach here that of a viewer, the channel tuned to a sort of reality television series. I just sat at my desk in nerve center (thank you, Richard, for the label) and basically watched as a variety of interesting individuals lived their lives. Most of them have been cunningly executed, some few a bit more obvious than I or most others would have liked, and some a complete mystery. Perhaps we were fortunate in that respect. I have been blessed to witness firsthand the antics of The Reverend, The Plant Hacker, The Pied Piper, The Godfather, The Pash, The Smeez, Dub G, The Naked Man, Mr. C, Mr. Mr. C, as well as half a dozen others who have not yet made it to these pages. To round things out, there were The Faceless, the folks who weren't in it for the fame. They generally took the elevator down to the parking garage, bypassing the lobby, pressing onward in that quiet desperation so familiar to those of us who have to work. They, too, inhabited these Twisted Towers and bore the brunt of responsibility for moving the plot forward when the story began to bog down.

As this, my final week, moves inexorably forward, I believe I shall soon begin suffering from the color blindness which befalls most of us when we look back. The rose colored glasses will come on, the frantic and desperate days will begin to resemble a graceful, orchestrated dance of effervescent joy, and those nights which seemed to drag on forever will transform into moments I'll wish I would have cherished. But poetry has never been my way. Even if I did write poetry, how would I know if it was any good? You can't really trust the critics. They are the ones who laud E.E. Cummings but dismiss Robert Service, and it's the latter who really gets me going. I mean, "Up so many umbrellas floating down"? Really? That's good poetry? At any rate, it should be the official poem of the Twisted Towers and, in that case, I don't have to write one.

Instead, I will be hitting the books like a sledgehammer. Thicker and thicker books with chicken scratch all over them, scratch which I eventually will be able to decipher as my education nears its bitter end. Oh, I'm no math whiz, but it's a BS in Mathematics I'm chasing. Surely you've heard of Math? The official intellectual crack for the left side of the brain? Or is that the right side...anyway, the books will be ever more frightful, the cost going from steep to astronomical, and I'll be just one in over 25,000 in a student body that's supporting the lifestyles of those who've found tenure. But it's not only the faculty I'm supporting, but my fellow students. Several hundred dollars a term is charged each student to fund all kinds of student groups, so they can have bowling night or cookies-and-punch get-together. I will pay close to 900 bucks a year to support their activities even if I never attend a single function. And so will everyone else. I find this to be a source of irritation.

Then there's tuition and books. It's hideous, the racket they have going at the bookstore. If I pay 200 for this book at the beginning of the term, they'll buy it back for 35 at the end? Really? And the 150 dollars plus for each credit? Makes me want to take it one class at a time, but there's no use in doing this slowly. The tooth must come out, just as my buttocks must come out of this chair and depart for the ivy covered walls of academia. It's sheepskin or bust, and I'm riding this Financial Aid train into the ground. In this economy I know the grass might be green on the other side of the fence merely because it's over the septic tank. At least I'll know I tried. Plus when I'm done I can wax philosophic about imaginary numbers and the Pythagorean theorem as it pertains to geometric solids, and in this town that's really all you need to be considered weird.

I'd like to leave this legendary residential edifice and the stalwart folks who inhabit it with a snatch from a Bill Joel song:

So many faces in and out of my life
Some will last
Some will just be now and then
Life is a series of hellos and goodbyes
I'm afraid it's time for goodbye again.

From here on out I'll be working without a net. The peril of posting in such an environment means you never know what path a blog will take. My four readers will, I hope, stick with me as we set sail for the unknown, the uncharted waters down this one way street called Life.