Zac Efron, Michael Phelps, and Bieber Fever Alarms

If my dreams are any indication of reality, the zombie Apocalypse is imminent, Aliens (of the Sigourney Weaver type) truly exist, Michael Phelps is my arch nemesis, and Zac Efron and I are besties. The last one is a new invention and it came about two nights ago. In my dream, I was working on a new film with Zac Efron as the main star. It was a sci-fi picture, something with loads of technology and aliens (not of the Sigourney Weaver type). I had been hired to work on this special costume prop for Zac that had to mold to his body. This is where the dream really kicked in. I was called onto set to help remove the mold from his body, and while I was on set they decided to cast me as the bad guy opposite him in the picture. I know I wasn't the original hire, but they liked me, and I already knew how to dismantle the body mold (which took place in a very climatic scene.) I had to press against Zac's body and rip off layers of this costume downward leaving him bare-chested with his dimpling pecs and abs gleaming in the midday sun.

After we finished filming that scene, Zac and I left set to rehearse. We went to a local rehearsal hall, where a nice girl gave me a copy of the script. The script she gave me, however, was Little Shop of Horrors. As day progressed into evening, I learned that I would be playing Audrey II in a revival of the play starring opposite Zac Efron as Seymour. For those unfamiliar with Little Shop, Audrey II is a giant man-eating plant from outer space. The actor that portrays Audrey II is hidden inside a giant puppet that general takes several puppeteers to control. I had to plead for the part however, in front of the entire company, and promise the director - Lavinia Hart (I worked with Lavinia in Detroit, when I designed the Michigan Premier of Sarah Ruhl's Eurydice) that I would make her even more proud of Little Shop than I made her with Eurydice.

Where does this new Zac Efron fixation come from? I blame my newly found TV addiction, and the previews for his new movie: Charlie St. Cloud. When he takes that stance to throw that baseball (the movie is not about baseball, but his character plays catch with his dead brother), he is very sexy. Normally I don't think of Zac as an adult, because of High School Musical, but truthfully he is 22. That is still young for me though, and besides the one moment of pressing against each other in the scene - the dream wasn't suggestive. So apparently in my subconscious, Zac and I are besties...

A similar thing happened during the 2008 Summer Olympics - except instead of Zac Efron, Michael Phelps dominated my dreams. I would be swimming - or doing anything - in a competition like the Olympics. Out of the blue Michael Phelps would come out of no-where and beat me. I would still win Gold, because of my stellar performance, but Michael Phelps would take Platinum. (The Olympic committee had to make a new medal scale, because he was so awesome.) It should be noted that Michael Phelps was the only one who could be issued Platinum. Gold was still the highest for any event not involving Michael Phelps.

I have never really been athletic. I did play soccer for a while, but my heart was never really in it. I guess it was not really the lack of athletic skill, but the lack of interest that kept me from really playing sports. I'm just not into pain, and you have to at least be marginally okay with pain to play most sports. The Olympics, however, really brought out my love of swimming. I found myself always wanting to swim, and truthfully I would have been a fairly decent competitive swimmer if I had ever wanted to be. I have the body of a swimmer (not Michael Phelps - his body is that of a beast), but I have powerful legs, a lean body, and can move through water very quickly. Learning to swim was a challenge because I was afraid of water, but once I learned, I was practically a fish. My father decided to inform me that if I had chosen differently, it was possible that I could have been there competing alongside Michael Phelps; I probably wouldn't have been as good as Michael, but I could have been Olympic worthy.

I'm not sure I would ever have been Olympic worthy; I think I would have been good. My father based his opinions on watching me swim in my brothers' mother-in-law's pool every summer, my body build, and the occasional trip to the beach or lake. Those are hardly the standards Olympic greatness is built upon, but never-the-less his speculations provided some interesting source material for dream-time.


In non-dream related news, my alarm system went off in Birmingham this morning. I am still in SC - over 5 hours away from my apartment - and I have no control, so when I received the phone call from ADT, I really began to worry. The police were called, but were informed by the property management (in a separate phone call not) to come. Maintenance had set off the alarm delivering a new kitchen drawer. The thought had crossed my mind that it was maintenance, but they know there is an alarm in my apartment. They have it in their work orders to call me and arrange a time to come in, so they don't set off the alarm, but apparently they don't read. I'm also not the only person in the complex with an alarm system, so you think they'd be accustomed to this by now. Apparently not...


The Westboro Baptist Chuch has come down with Bieber Fever! Apparently Justin Bieber is the latest person arousing the wrath of the Kansas based hate group. The group picketed his recent concert in Kansas City, because Bieber (this is a real quote):

"has a platform given to him by God to speak to this world; he has a duty to teach obedience by his actions and words. He refuses to do that because he knows his concert halls would be empty! So, he teaches you to sin and rebel against God's commandments."

Who knew that a 16 year old Canadian could be leading everyone to Hell? I mean really his music isn't that annoying.

Westboro would do anything to get attention. If the group is good at one thing, it is keeping its name in the media spotlight. Bieber has chosen thus far not to acknowledge the group, which is probably for the best. Anger enough 13 year old girls and Westboro's going to be shanked after gym class.

Old Wildcat Hollow

I've been in Lexington recently. It's a city on the west end of Columbia in South Carolina, and where I grew up. My mother still lives in the house I grew up in, and I'll be visiting her for the next two weeks before the job in Birmingham starts. I don't know anyone in Birmingham yet, and there wasn't enough time to get a summer job, so I thought it best to crash with my family and spend some time with old friends. I'm running low on cash, so renting that room from my friend is no longer a viable option. It was sad to move out of her place, but I can't afford double rent, and I refuse to mooch off of friends. Family I can mooch off of forever. While it is a family's duty to allow for the occasional week or two mooching of relatives, nothing will kill a friendship faster than mooching more than a 3 day period.

While it's been great to be at home, I am really ready for work to start; I feel a lack of purpose at the moment. It's funny. There truly is no place like home. It's a place you can't wait to leave, but a place you always long to return to. Nothing feels better than coming home, but once home - then what? What comes next?

Columbia was (and still is) a wonderland for me. The city has a great vibe, the parks are beautiful, and I love the zoo and museums. L-town (short for Lexington) on the other hand, I have a love/hate relationship with. Growing up here had plenty of ups, but a lot of downs. I always felt isolated, because I wasn't like the other kids on my street. They were farmers and hunters. I was the son of a stay-at-home-mom and a dad that taught leadership, training, and management classes for a chemical company. I was a city kid that lived on a dirt road surrounded by country boys.

The isolation continued at school, because I wasn't the child of a lawyer or a doctor. In the South, nepotism reigns supreme, and a family name will take you far. I didn't carry a prestiged family name; I wasn't so-and-so's great-grandchild. My family was lower middle-class in a city that privileged wealth and status. Neither of my parents held prestigious jobs, so there was no way to overcome the lack of namesake. We also went to church in Irmo (another city on the west-end of Columbia, north of L-town). Irmo and Lexington were fierce rivals, and I was the only Lexingtonian in my Sunday School class. Yet another barrier towards my full integration, I could never get excited when churchmates cheered for their schools, and no one wanted to invite a rival to their school's events.

My isolation became complete, however, with my own actions. I used to cry a lot. I mean a lot. I was a huge crybaby. I was the kid you wanted to punch to make him stop fucking crying. Other kids thought something was wrong with me, and many adults didn't know how to approach the situation. FYI, if you ever encounter a seemingly normal child who randomly bursts into tears, he/she has emotional problems indicative of troubles elsewhere in their lives. It is abnormal for a child to burst into tears about a minor embarrassment, so there is probably something going on under the surface.

I rarely cried at home, however, because at home I had to be the adult. I had to take care of my mother when she went psychotic, which was more frequent than not. To this day, I have a hard time dealing with emotions because of emotional scars as a child. Somewhere deep inside there was a crying child - a lonely child wanting to be normal - a child wanting to belong, but somewhere along the way I told that child to "shut the Hell up, and keep on trucking." I no longer cry in public, but I also have years of distance on many of my emotional scars, and am able to balance (although precariously at times) all of my issues. I have gotten the child to stop crying, to be happy with who he is, and to express his emotions in other ways.

I used to beg my parents to move, however. Other kids wanted to stay put, but I wanted to leave. I wanted a different house, on another side of town, where I could be someone else. I recognized that my crying had placed too much damage on my reputation at school, and by changing schools, I could start over. Whenever my parents suggested moving, I would suggest houses I had seen for sale, and ask when we could go house hunting.

My obsession eventually came to a place, however, where house hunting became more important than changing schools. I had decided in my childhood brain that maybe a more expensive house would improve my rankings at school. Other kids sometimes weren't allowed to play with me, because our house wasn't nice. Certain parents didn't want their kids playing with children - like me - who were beneath them.

One time when I was a child, I had a play-date with another kid at my house. I was so excited I could hardly stand it. I barely remember this, but my father relayed the full story when I got older. My father and I were waiting in the driveway when the car (I believe it was a mini-van) pulled up. The driver slowed down to survey the house, while the kid in the backseat pointed happily with a huge smile on his face. Then, without warning, the driver hit the gas. Gravel spun out from under the tires; the kid in the backseat - no longer smiling - started yelling for the driver to stop. The kid continued crying as the van raced out of sight down the dirt road. I turned to my dad - in tears - wanting to know why. Unfortunately, I don't remember what my father told me that day. All I remembered for years was not getting to play with my friend.

I would like to say that that was the only time a kid wasn't allowed to play with me because of where I lived, but it happened more than once. That moment, however, was the most telling - and one very straightforward way of making a point. Before moments like that, I never knew my house was inferior. It was house. It was just a house. After being denied friendships because of it, however, I knew something had to be wrong with it - or wrong with me. It never crossed my mind that there was something wrong with the other people.

My desire to search for houses, therefore, got worse as I got older. In high school and college, when my parents brought up moving I would bring them real-estate pamphlets.

"I don't like that house," my father would retort.
"There are others for sale!" I would say as I shoved another pamphlet at him.
"We can't afford to move."
"This one's cheaper!"
"I don't want to look at these right now."
"Then why did you bring up moving?"

Despite my best efforts, and most of the ink in our printer, they never moved, and now I'm kind of glad for that. A sense of permanence is nice, and so what if the house isn't the greatest? It does its job. It's also good to come home, even if it sometimes leaves me wondering what's next.

So many memories fill this house, and since I grew up in L-town, every street is a memory. So naturally when I was taking off the trash today - the trash dump brought up memories of my father. We would load up the old black truck (later it would be the blue truck), and wander off down Wise Ferry and over to the Ball Park Road waste collection facility. (To this day, there is still no waste collection on our street; so if you don't like living surrounded by garbage bags, you have to load the truck and haul bags of trash several miles to the dump.) Afterwards, my dad would generally go to a local gas station and buy us each a Coke and a candy bar. I can rarely remember an outing when we didn't go to a gas station and get snacks. The world was ours in those moments, but this post isn't about my father, so I'll save that for another time.

After dropping off the trash, I took a left toward town. I had a few errands to run, and I thought I'd drive down past the old football stadium.

A few years ago, my high school built a new football stadium on the high school's campus. The old stadium was/is about 2 miles away from the campus on Ball Park Rd. Most of my autumn Friday nights were spent at this old stadium - Wildcat Hollow. I'd carpool with my friends - find a seat near the band (most of my friends were Band Geeks; I was practically a band mascot), and wait until the 3rd quarter. The marching band was given the 3rd quarter off for conversation and refreshments, and we'd walk around the Hollow gossiping about any and everything - well everything except football. No one really cared about the football game (except for the players, and the game against Irmo - we all hated Irmo.)

The last time I drove by the stadium, the grass was overgrown, and it looked to be in a state of disrepair. Today, however, the grass had been freshly mowed, and it looked almost like it had a decade ago - when it was THE Friday night location for high schoolers and townspeople alike. Yet, it was empty. Not a car in the parking lots, not a single person in the stands. (I learned after some investigative googling that a semi-pro team is now using Old Wildcat Hollow for their games - hence the field being manicured).

Driving by the stadium, all of the memories came flooding back to me. The ghosts of those Friday nights reminded me of my endless quest for belonging - my desire to be popular, my want of a different house. There they all stood in an abandoned football stadium. It's funny what time does. Now no one cares that I used to cry, and the people that matter don't give a damn about my social standing. If they do, they aren't people I choose to associate with. Why then was it so important a decade ago? Old Wildcat Hollow may be empty, but nothing has really changed - except for me.

All those misspent years of wanting to be popular... If I had just opened my eyes I would have realized I was popular. I was popular and liked by the people that mattered - by my friends, by the band geeks, by those who had gotten to know me. By those that didn't care that I cried. I didn't need a fancy house, or a fancy name for them to be my friends. Why did I feel isolated? Why did I feel inferior?

In a way, the quest to be popular is like Old Wildcat Hollow. It's empty. It's a quest that can never make you truly happy. But on the same token, an old abandoned football stadium can also remind you of what it's like to be popular - an echo of friendships and Friday nights. In each way, Old Wildcat Hollow is like a monument to my past - a part that not only symbolizes my feelings of difference - my isolation, but also a part that reminds me of my friendships, my integration, and my connection to the whole. If my parents had moved to another city, I would never have experienced the friendships I had. If I had gotten a better house, I still would have been the boy who cried. Who knows? I might have missed out on Friday nights at the Hollow, and may have missed out on a valuable lesson. Looking at that empty stadium, I never thought I'd be as thankful as I am for what I have.

Now, if only I could get a fucking boyfriend...

Technology Fail

Nothing irks me more than technology. One promise of technology is that it makes lives easier, but is that really true? We quickly become dependant on technology and then we can't remember what life was like before cell phones, i-pads, laptops, etc. Life existed before the advent of the computer age, and if all computers stopped working tonight - life would still go on, and somehow we would survive.

Now I'm not advocating that we all get rid of technology and embrace our inner-Amish; on the contrary, I love technology and want to thoroughly embrace it. I, however, demand that everything works the way it is supposed to - when I need it to work. This demand, however, seems to be the problem.

For instance, I finally gave up on loading one of the video diaries from the road trip because it was taking at least a day to load the video. When the video was over 75% loaded, the computer would go into hibernation, severe the connection, and I would have to start all over again. Frankly, the thought of sitting at the computer trying to load the video again made me want to projectile vomit. I decided living my life was more important than uploading a video to YouTube. However, I quickly discovered my life is boring and devoid of meaning at the moment. Thanks technology fail.

This post, however, was inspired by Twitter. As you may have noticed, I'm attempting to incorporate Twitter into the blog. Hopefully this will be another way for you all to comment on the posts, and make it easier to share the blog with your friends. I made two Twitter profiles, one for me personally and one for the blog. Yet, Twitter has yet to let me upload my profile photos. I have triple-checked to make sure the photos are within the size parameters and double checked my Internet connection. Everything on my end is in working order, but for two days now - Twitter will not load my fricking pictures! Why can't something work the way it is supposed to? Shouldn't it just load my photos? And if it's not going to work, why can't someone fix the problem quickly? This is America damn it, aren't things supposed to work?

Also, I swear the technology is out to fuck with me.

During the road trip, we would often try to find hotels before we departed, so we would have a location to input into the GPS. Well, Cara and I needed a hotel in St. Louis, and we were in Sullivan, IL. As you may remember, we had stopped there to visit a friend. It isn't that far of a drive - a little more than 2 hours, but we wanted to have a hotel booked before we got on the road. We were using the free wifi at the theatre our friend works at on both my I-pad and my laptop. Patrons were starting to arrive, so we had to go outside on the sidewalk to use the Internet, (maybe 25 feet from where we were originally sitting) but both the I-pad and the computer kept dropping the signal. A signal that tons of people use every day - kept dropping us - as we attempted to find and book a hotel. What made it worse was that our friend was supposed to attend the premier of the play inside, so we were on a deadline and down to the wire.

There I was sitting outside, in the summer sun, on concrete, in a hurry, with two Internet capable devices, and neither of them working properly. Happy people were arriving, excited to see The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee, while sweat was dripping from my brow as I hopelessly tried not to swear. I bottled my rage inward, and attempted to focus my efforts on using what little Internet connection I could hang onto. All I wanted to do, however, was shout profanity, punch pregnant woman, and tell old people to shut the Hell up. I was uncomfortable and irritated, happiness was not allowed.

We eventually did book a hotel, and I confided in Cara that I almost lost my shit while I was sitting there. She knew. Apparently I'm not that good at hiding how I feel. (Anyone surprised?) I hope I didn't scare the patrons, but someone needs to let that theatre know that it needs to beef up its Internet connection. Even though it sounds like a question, wifi should be a statement. And that statement should include stability, ease of use, and inner-peace. I think if the world had better Internet connections - everyone would be a lot less cranky - at least I would be.

I swear I'm the only one who has this problem. All I have to do is appear to be busy, and something will cease to work. This could be the plotter in my old office, my personaly printer, a scanner, free wifi, etc. Hell, even camera batteries will die immediately after I put them into my camera. And it's always when I need to use the technology as well. If I didn't need to use the scanner, it would magically scan something on its own, but when it's something I need quickly, it fucks with me.

This has happened since I was a child. My first printer died once while I was attempting to print a research paper. It printed my paper - in hexadecimal notation, and then printed instructions on how to fix the problem... in Spanish. Seeing as how no one in my household spoke Spanish - that was a fun day. Also, trying to explain to your teacher that you typed your paper in English, but your printer decided hexadecimal notation was a better format - is a tough sell. Luckily, after hours of deliberation, we unplugged the printer, plugged it back in, and magically my paper printed in English.

Another peeve of mine is the remote control on my mother's TV. I'd heard of super-sensitive remotes before, but I'd never before seen or heard of a dumb remote before. I can press buttons on it for hours, and it won't change the channel. Finally, I have to drag my lazy ass off of the couch (or sit up and lean ridiculously far off the couch) to get the sensor to read properly. It basically makes the concept of a remote a moot point. Remotes were designed to keep you from exercising while channel surfing, but with this remote I end up getting several crunches out of the deal. Often, I want to take the remote and hurl it into the LCD screen. I've had fantasies of the screen shattering as the remote punched past the glass and into the wall. "That would teach it to not work," I think. "If I broke it more, that would make it work correctly."

I guess it's something I will just need to learn to deal with. Let's face it - technology is fun, but we can't count on it for everything. We can barely count on it when we need it to work. We need to be able to easily access our inner-Amish and come up with a plan B. Hopefully tomorrow will be a better day for me technology wise. I have to believe that Twitter will be fixed, and I won't get my daily workout while channel surfing. Otherwise, I may have to blog about it...

Jeepers, Creepers, and Tarot Readings

In an older post I mentioned that I had an upcoming date, but then I neglected to follow up on that. As many of you have probably already guessed, the date never happened. In my recent adventures in on-line dating, I have discovered two predominant types of men: Jeepers and Creepers.

We'll start with the guy I was supposed to have a date with; we'll call him Brian (not his real name). Brian seemed really promising. He's handsome, has a stable job (he's a nurse), owns a house, etc. Then I found out he is a father. Now, I'm not against dating dads - it's just not something I think I'm ready for, or something I had even considered. I'd always seen myself meeting someone, falling in love, and then deciding to become a parent - with my partner. I'm not sure how I would do with an insta-kid. I wasn't ready to rule Brian out, however; he still had the potential to be a great guy. If the father thing were the only problem, the date would have still happened.

My second worry about the date was that Brian wanted to have dinner at Subway. Of all the places we could have gone - he chose Subway. If I wanted to date Jared the Subway guy - or Michael Phelps (I'll have that five dollar footlong please), I would go after Jared or Michael Phelps. I had never considered Subway as an acceptable date location, especially since I live in a city with amazing restaurants. With delicious and affordable Italian, Indian, Asian, Seafood, and Southern options to choose from - Brian decides that we should meet at Subway. And not even a nice one in a trendy part of town, but one in a dumpy suburban neighborhood near the Interstate. I would have suggested other options, but I asked him, and he was insistent. We were going to Subway.

Strikes 3 through 6 came after we began texting each other 2 days before the scheduled date. We started texting around 5 o'clock in the afternoon. I told him early on in the conversation that my friend and I were going out to dinner. This information popped up again at least 3 or 4 more times during the course of our conversation. Some people, however, don't seem to understand hints - or declarative statements - very well. Around 7 I told him I needed to go so I could go out with my friend, yet he wouldn't stop texting me. He kept texting me up until the point I was getting in the car to drive.

As I opened the car door, I skimmed over the text. He had been talking about STDs, and talking about people he had dated before. I didn't read it in depth, because - as he knew - I was busy. I finally sent him a text which read: "We'll finish this conversation later. Getting in the car, and can't text while driving."

I wasn't shocked when I received another text as I was backing out of the garage, but I was assuming it would be an "okay," or "cool," not a "Oh Lord, I guess that means you got something..." That's right, apparently since I wanted to get off the phone for a car ride and dinner, I must have an STD. Not cool.

My friend and I had a lovely dinner. That was the night we had dinner with Nikki Haley - or at least at the table next to Nikki Haley. The food was delicious, and I put annoying Brian out of my mind for an hour and a half.

Once dinner was over, my friend and I went to Food Lion (a grocery store) to pick up a few things. As we entered the store, I texted Brian back: "If I say I can't text because I'm driving, it means I'm driving - not that I have an STD." He messaged back: "LOL" and tried to play it off as a joke. But in what UNIVERSE is that an acceptable joke? Strike 3.

We continued texting after I arrived back home with my friend. Brian was quick to move from the subject of STDs (I'm clean, btw) to the subject of sex. After a few minutes of talking about sex, I asked if we could change the subject. Now, I'm not a prude, but when you first meet a person - shouldn't you be getting to know other things first? There were a billion other topics we could have discussed: our hobbies, favorite movies, favorite bands, nuclear proliferation... I just think that sex should not be the first priority. But instead of understanding where I was coming from, Brian tried to make me feel bad for not wanting to discuss sex. He made it seem like I had a problem for not wanting to discuss sex over text with a person I barely knew. Strike 4.

At about 10:30 he texted asking when he was going to get to talk to me over the phone. I asked when he would like to talk to me, and he said: "in half and hour." So I replied, "okay, I'll call you at 11." It was then that I seriously began to contemplate breaking off the date. He already had 4 strikes, but as it's already been stated in a previous post - I haven't been on a date in two years. I felt that I owed myself to go - besides maybe he would be different over the phone. We had only texted up until this point, I would talk to him, and then decide.

Over the phone, he came across as a huge Queen. I don't date Queens. They drive me a bit up the wall. I'm a guy who likes guys; if I wanted to date a girl - a bitchy one at that - I would find a bitchy girl. You can generally tell a guy is a Queen when he opens his mouth. It's in the voice; you can hear the swish of the hips in the phrasing, and this guy opened his mouth and a purse fell out. It was actually a painful half hour. Strike 5.

After we finished our conversation and said goodnight, I went back downstairs to chat with my friend before going to bed. We hadn't gotten a sentence into our conversation when Brian texted me. "How did you like my voice?" This is when I should have said: "I found it so annoying it was actually difficult to talk with you," but I was nice, "It was hard to hear, our connection was bad." Forgive me God for lying. I had a hard time understanding him - yes - but it was because of his affectations, not the connection.

Who the Hell texts someone to ask about their voice? Who texts someone back after they've said goodbye for the night with something so asinine? Strike 6.

That is when I decided to cancel the date. Luckily, it was easy because I got the job in Alabama. It was wonderful to have an excuse fall into my lap. I didn't want to have to be mean, and I was sure that is where it was heading. The whole: "I don't think this is going to workout," speech would have become an argument. I was ready for the argument, but it's nice to have an easy way out.

Well, I began to look on-line for guys in Birmingham. I figured new city, new love right? I used the same dating service that introduced me to Brian. (Here-in lies part of my problem - you get what you pay for - and it's a free service.) This time I met Aaron (not his real name). Aaron seemed really great at first as well. We talked over e-mail, and that is where I first noticed he liked to joke around. It wasn't until we started texting, however, that I learned he liked to joke around all the time - about everything. We texted the bulk of the day yesterday, and all he did was joke. He turned EVERY conversation point into a joke; he even referenced OJ Simpson. Last time I checked, this is not 1994 - it's 2010. OJ Simpson has not been relevant for over a decade. When I replied: "He killed them. Everybody knows he killed them." Aaron replied: "Yeah, but way to get out of it! ROFLMAO!" Murder, apparently, is hilarious.

Finally hours into texting - with him still joking - I grew some balls. "So you like to joke around." I said. He asked if that was a problem, and I said "not necessarily, but I don't think our personalities would mesh. I'm more serious." I know that makes me sound like a stick in the mud; I like to joke around, but I also need someone who can stimulate me intellectually. Aaron's jokes were neither relevant nor intellectually stimulating; even worse, they were rarely and/or barely funny.

After a brief talk about how he could be serious on occasion, we ended the conversation and he left the ball in my court. I'm to call him or text him if I want to talk again. I don't. I refuse to subject myself to that again.

What does a gay guy have to do to meet a decent guy? Obviously I am doing something wrong to be attracting Jeepers and Creepers. I guess I could change over to a dating site that costs money, but as I mentioned in a previous post, I am very cheap. No matter what I do, I can't seem to meet or keep a guy who is halfway normal, and whose crazy doesn't make me want to do physical harm to others. I don't expect a perfect guy. In fact, I expect a flawed one. Everyone is flawed; I just need to find flaws that work with mine.

I have had several Tarot readings over the years, and in terms of relationships they always tell me that the right one is coming soon. Apparently my soul-mate and I play games, and in each life we revel in finding each other again. We enjoy the chase - the hunt - but my soul is old, and it's tiring of this game. I'm not sure how much I believe in Tarot, but many things that came out in the readings have come to pass. I can only hope that the parts about relationships will come true as well; hopefully in this life my soul-mate and I will find each other.

Here I am open for suggestions. I can't wait and hope that the cards are telling the truth, or that they even know anything at all. So, are there any ideas on how I can meet a guy with similar interests, who won't annoy the ever loving Hell out of me, and who won't accuse me of having an STD because I won't text him? I don't ask for much really; I think about lowering my standards sometimes, but I can't lower them much further. All I want is a guy who is down to Earth, employed, has a sense of humor, knows when to be serious, speaks English, lives near Birmingham, doesn't have an STD, and is between the ages of 24-36. Oh, and being gay would be a plus. Anyway, if you know anyone who fits these criteria, could potentially fit these criteria, or have any ideas about how to find someone who fits these criteria - let me know.

The Skyliner, the Renegade, and my Father

Today I got a bike! It's a brand new Schwinn Skyliner. Isn't she a beauty? I pimped her out with a bell, an attached security cable, and a brand new attachable pump. Soon I'll add the rear basket and headlight and I'll be ready to bike to work, to the store, to anywhere!

I was a bit worried, because she had a few cosmetic dings - but I got her from a discount store, so I can't really complain. Also a little paint fixed the cosmetic flaws, and she rides like a dream. I went on a test ride in the store and was immediately impressed. (She rode better than the Huffy I also looked at.) I then took her on an inaugural ride at home, and have been itching to take her on yet another ride. It's dark here now, and since I don't yet have the headlight I can't exactly take her out.

It felt good to carry the spirit of the roadtrip over into my daily life. I can't wait to start incorporating the bike into my everyday routine. I really hope I can use the bike to commute to work. I think it will be okay. It's only 2 miles; I just need to find a safe route for bikes.

I was also happy, because while I had planned on purchasing a bike, I received this one as a birthday gift! My mother decided to buy it, and I am very very grateful. It wasn't expensive (for a bike) since I was at a discount store. As I was debating whether or not to make a purchase - she stepped in and bought it for me. Maybe she assumed that I would stand there and debate it forever, and end up not buying it, if she didn't step in. I tend to do that - over think something that I am really keen on at the last minute.

My parents also bought my first bike for me on my 6th birthday. It was red, and I believe it was called "The Renegade" - if I remember correctly - by Huffy. (Things are a bit rose tinted and Monet painted due to the year difference, but I'm pretty certain.) I was so excited, and eager to learn how to ride a bike, but was very happy I had training wheels.

So you can imagine how scared and horrified I was when my father bent the training wheels up toward the sky, helped me onto the seat and said: "go!" He didn't believe in training wheels, said I didn't need them, and took me straight out on the dirt road. It was ride or fall, and I rode. When I did fall, he helped me up - dusted me off - and told me to get back on. By the end of the afternoon, I was riding like I had been riding for years.

My father taught me many things, but the lesson on riding a bike is one of the most important and vivid legacies I feel he left me. I will forever be thankful for that. It took me years to learn how to swim, because I was allowed too many crutches: floats, shallow ends, etc. I could always find a way to avoid actually swimming. Now I am a wonderful swimmer, and I enjoy it, but then I was terrified of water. If I had relied on the crutch of training wheels, who knows when I would have actually ridden a bike without them? I was afraid of the bike without them, but I rode it anyway. Life doesn't come with training wheels, and neither should bicycles. In some situations it is better to dive right in and force yourself to swim.

I think we often baby ourselves and children nowadays. We make things too simple. For example, a teacher friend of mine told me that he isn't allowed (by the school administration) to give his students below a 60 on ANY assignment - even if they don't do it or never turn it in. Plus, all of the assignments can be resubmitted for higher scores. Complete failure is not an option. Failure is something you now have to work for to accomplish. Passing is taken for granted.

Whatever happened to failure as a motivator? I may have never done some homework assignments if I had known that I wouldn't fail a course. The idea of failure - of falling off the bike - motivates a person to ride. Without the option of failure, there is no incentive for improvement - no incentive to ride. In that one afternoon, Dad taught me about more than riding a bike; he taught me about life.

Not a day goes by that I don't think of my dad. I miss him so much, but I am thankful that I had 26 years with him. I wish he could see my new bike. Maybe he would have gotten one too. I received my last bike sometime in my teenage years. My father bought one too, and we rode together several times. It wasn't as often as I would have liked; I wish we had ridden together more. Life intervened, however, and it wasn't meant to be. It was something we both neglected to make time for. (Funny the things you think about after someone passes.) Still, I wish we could go on another bike ride together now. I do have my memories though, and everytime I ride my bike I will be thankful of that summer day over 20 years ago - the dusty ochre and terra-cotta road rising before me, the red Renegade beneath me, and my tan-faced father behind me - encouraging me. So in a way, my father lives on. He lives on in my memories, in lessons he passed on to me, and in all the bike rides yet to come.

California Dreamin' with Zombies

I am now back in SC. After my appointment with the security system people, I did some laundry, bought some curtains for the bedroom, and got plenty of sleep. Apparently, if dreams are any indication of reality - the zombies will be attacking soon.

Cara and I were in Alabama when it happened. I was attending a pool party at the home of some random church-goer, when an obese man infected with the virus - leapt into the water and began attacking people. Now Alabama is not very safe from zombie attack. It's hot and humid, so naturally the virus spread like wildfire - jumping from church-goer to church-goer as people scattered looking for weapons and supplies. A few of my friends and I - along with a man immune to the virus - managed to commandeer a vehicle and chart our way out of Alabama. We set our sights on Los Angeles - since the government set up safe-zones in major cities - and I wanted to go to LA.

The virus was not species specific, and quickly made the transition to all species by rapidly adapting. Pretty soon, even animals were not safe - and I had to kill many pets that had become infected. Even Cara's cat Trixie and my Joey had become zombies. They looked entirely different in the dream, however...

Once in LA - which was mostly under water due to a massive flood - we learned that the government had developed a vaccine! It was too late for our immune friend, however, who in fact was not immune, but had a delayed response to the virus. He had to be put down. When it was discovered that many of the "immune" actually had delayed responses, Los Angeles was no longer a safe-zone. The fish began to eat the bodies, and then they too became infected. I tried to kill a group of fish in an aquarium after they became infected, but as the glass of the aquarium broke - a school of rabid neons flew through the air toward my face. I had to escape with my apartment broker - who was helping me look for apartments near Hollywood - on her airboat (you know - the kind you see in the bayou or in the Everglades).

And that's where the dream ends - me living in California... with the zombies.

The dream hit two fundamental things - my new found desire to live in California, and my fear of the Krippen virus (the name I Am Legend gives to the zombie producing virus). What could be better? I don't know, maybe tonight I could dream about biking away from the Alien Queen? Or I could show up at my new job and discover it's now run by heinous former co-workers? Thanks subconscious - you keep my dream-life interesting.


In other news:

Joey bit the sh*t out of me today. He was angry when i first came home, but now he refuses to leave me alone. I had to lock him in his cage just to work on the blog. Poor little guy missed me; I missed him too.

A friend of mine and I have decided to take a trip to Charleston for my birthday! That should be a lot of fun, and a great way to continue the spirit of my road-trip. I have decided to do mini-roadtrips the rest of the summer to extend my experience further. I'm considering the weekend in Charleston one of these mini-roadtrips.

I am still loading the video diaries from the road trip, but I'm not sure they will ever load, so I may need to post St. Louis sans the video diaries. I am not too happy about that, but if they won't fricking load to youtube, then I don't know where they'll load. If any of you have ideas about loading the videos, let me know... I'm willing to try anything at this point. One of the videos has been loading since 4:30 this afternoon and has yet to post (it's only 48% done too).

My insurance company has finally paid my physician! It took a lot of squeaking, but I guess that's what had to be done. I hate shaking my rattle more than once, but damn. The whole situation has made me think of the insurance industry as one gigantic scam. I'm not sure if we wouldn't all be better without it, but I guess it is a necessary evil.

In a follow-up to the earlier post about Shirley Phelps-Roper at LAX, I found myself wondering which is worse - people like Westboro church-goers or the Marin foundation? I discovered the Marin foundation today after someone posted a comment about them on a friend's Facebook. The post was praising Marin while condemning Westboro, but after some research, I'm not sure how I feel. At least the Westboro crowd is very upfront about what they believe. The Marin people believe in apologizing and building bridges with Love, but with the ultimate goal of gay to straight conversion. They neglect to mention that in their initial dialogues, and like to lure gay people into their organization and even go so far as to convince gay groups into giving them money to promote their ministries. I think the only thing that makes Westboro worse is their picketing of soldiers' funerals. Soldiers have nothing to do with gay rights in this country, they are just doing their jobs. As far as misusing the name of Love, however, I think that's right up there with the politics of Hate.

LAX to DTW to Franklin, TN

As everyone knows, the vampire's only natural enemy is the shark. Vampires are most vulnerable right at sunset, when the light is too dim to harm them, and when the sharks patrolling the waters are almost impossible to see.

The secret to slaying zombies is knowing the ancient Asian martial arts, and as everyone knows the greatest zombie slayer of all time, Dolly Parton, still walks among us. She - above all - is most skilled with a blade. What most don't know is that Dollywood is really zombie hunter's secret lair, and it is the most Zombie secure place in the world. When the virus hits, the lucky ones will be at Dollywood. For those not so lucky, Dolly will brave the night alone to bring them home.

This has nothing to do with the road trip, except that a good friend of mine and I discussed these particular scenarios at dinner after I arrived back in Detroit from LA. It was hard to leave California; I really wanted to stay. The trip with Cara was incredibly fun, and life affirming. I feel that I can go back to Alabama and South Carolina with a renewed vigor that I can put into my art. The trip really made me want to paint and sculpt again - something I rarely had time for in Mississippi. I have made it a goal to paint more for myself once I get home.

I have also made it a goal to get a bike and ride more often. Biking those 12 miles down the beach made me feel so alive, so present, so at peace. In Alabama, my apartment is close to both the library and the art museum. My goal is to bike to both of these places, and to see if I can find a safe bicycle route to work. I worry that while work is within biking distance, the roads may be too dangerous to bike, so I'll be searching for a safe route. A place I am really looking forward to biking to is a trendy district nearby. I can't wait to bike to a coffee house and get my iced hazelnut lattes.

I was surprised when leaving LAX that I wasn't stopped for a random security screening. I seem to be stopped quite a bit for those - maybe I have one of those faces - not sure... I have gotten really good at determining when I am going to be stopped for a screening. Most people who are stopped have a code printed at the bottom of their boarding passes. If I see the code, I know I'm getting stopped. There wasn't a code this time, and no one stopped me.

Security check points annoy me, however, because the TSA officials always expect you to know what to do, but the procedures constantly change and are never posted. Then when you mess up - like put your laptop and your I-pad in the same bucket - they act like you have committed some crime. I found myself apologizing for this, but why the Hell should I apologize? It's not like I did something wrong. I just didn't know protocol. I put my electronics in the same bucket; I must be a heathen.

My flights were fine, but something did bother me. I paid for the tickets over a month ago, but Southwest has open seating, so I wasn't assigned a seat. I did, however, have to pick a seat when I booked the flight. Then, I was third to last, and fifth to last to pick a seat. I booked the flight over a month ago! Shouldn't I have been able to pick a seat before some Joe Schmo who ordered a ticket the night before? I know some people pay more for the privilege of picking first, but I know that I am not the only person (or one of a few passengers) who did not pay that extra price.

While at LAX I saw another celebrity, Shirley Phelps-Roper. She is the spokeswoman for the Westboro Baptist Church in Topeka, Kansas. They are the people who protest the funerals of soldiers with signs that say "America is Doomed" and "God Hates Fags." I was going to post the church website, but I don't want to link my blog to that. It would give them too much free publicity. You are welcome to google it yourself, but be warned - it contains some copious amounts of crazy, and it will make you angry. Her and an entourage with a few of her children were searching for a restroom, and found one near my terminal. I wanted to confront her, but the terminal in LAX was not the appropriate place. Their picket signs were not around, but I'm sure they were there to protest something - like the entirety of Hollywood.

I just don't know how some people can walk around with so much fear and hatred inside of them. I don't think gays, Americans, or soldiers are the ones going to Hell; I think Shirley and the ones with the picket signs are the ones already there. When you're life is devoted to hate, how can you ever experience joy? I think joy must be far from Shirley. I would feel sorry for her, but she has brought this upon herself. Or to borrow a page out of the Westboro book, maybe it's one of God's divine judgments? I can't say that though, because God has given us freewill, and she chooses to hold on to hate.

After I got to Detroit, I discovered that one of my tires was flat. It has a small leak, and is something I'm going to have to get fixed. My friend (the same one I discussed sharks and vampires with) had a small electric air pump in her car, and we got the tire inflated again. I picked up some fix-a-flat, so I can patch it once the air leaks about halfway out. It is sustaining pressure, however, so that's a good thing.

After the dinner with two of my friends at Texas Roadhouse, I found a hotel for the night. They promised free Internet, but again it didn't work. What is with hotels not having Internet access? This isn't 1996; this is 2010 - Internet is a necessity. Nothing makes me angrier than when electronic devices are not working properly. It really irritates me - ask Cara. If the Internet connection was poor during the trip, my whole demeanor changed.

Tonight I am in Franklin, TN. It is about as large as you'd imagine. I was going to try to make it all the way to Alabama tonight; I have an appointment with the security people tomorrow afternoon, but I was too tired. I'll still make it in time for the appointment if I leave early in the morning. This trip has been so much fun, but it has been exhausting. I don't think I will truly get any real rest until I'm back in SC for the remainder of the summer.

Hopefully the magnitude of this trip will fully hit me after some aesthetic distance. I know this trip has changed me, but I can't fully appreciate how much just yet. I hope that it will all come to me at once; and with some clarity, I'll discover how and how much I have changed. I do know, however, that it has been a change for the better. I want this trip to continue, for me to continue evolving, so I'm going to attempt to carry the spirit of this trip into the rest of my summer. I may not have Internet access over the next day or so, but I will be back in touch soon.

You Can Check Out Anytime You Like...

Since Cara's car was still in the shop today, Cara and I toured around Seal Beach, Venice Beach, Santa Monica, and Hollywood with the help of Cara's brother. It was a lot of fun, but very exhausting; during the car rides in between the cities I kept falling asleep. This was partially due to being woken up early by what can best be described as an olfactory alarm clock.

Cara's brother's dog Breaker has been sick for the past few days. He normally tells people when he needs to go outside, and since I was asleep on the sofa in the living room - he attempted to tell me. I, of course, was asleep, and clueless as to the impending doom Breaker was holding back. He began to grunt and shuffle a little - normal for Breaker - which woke me slightly from my sleep. When I turned to find the source of the noise, there he was staring at me. He stared at me all throughout dinner yesterday, so I took it as normal and rolled back over. I remember thinking: "I wonder if he has to go outside?" as I drifted back off to sleep amidst the shuffling and the staring.

I was asleep again when the smell hit, and Cara's sister in-law interrupted the silence. "No, Breaker! Oh, I am going to kill you Breaker!" She is originally from Peru and speaks with a rich Peruvian accent. "Breaker!"

Breaker had shit a puddle on the carpet. It was thick diarrea - resting like a dead jellyfish atop the fibers. The stench permeated the room, and Cara and I were awake (if you have never tried, it is very hard to sleep with a bad smell lingering in the room). If someone could market that smell, it would make one Hell of an alarm clock. I'm not sure how many people would buy it (certainly not anosmiacs), but it would be very effective.

Once the smell was gone, and the poop scrubbed from the carpet, Cara's brother took us out to see the city. What struck me was that each beach we visited really had a style and atmosphere all it's own. Seal Beach seemed older with a small town type charm. It was here that we went to the mythical shell store. For weeks Cara has been talking about this store and how "amazing" it is, and it has been stated before Cara doesn't like to compliment things. The shell store was fun, but I'm not sure it was worth the hype. Sorry
Cara...

Venice has an open street market all up and down the beach front. We wound our way past small kitsch stores and kiosks, various types of taco and pizza stands, rappers selling sample CDs, medical marijuana "doctors," henna tattoo artists, and a man asking if anyone would like a body piercing or a tattoo (real ones this time). My question is: who in their right mind would get a tattoo at a beachside shack in Venice, CA? That's just asking for hepatitis. The man said that he had an 81 year old woman from Florida get a tattoo that read: "Venice" the day before, and I'm thinking at her age she should really be more worried about blood borne pathogens.

While wondering around the open market, I came across a vendor of Dia de los Muertos skulls. When I teach puppet design classes, I have my students build Day of the Dead rod puppets, so of course I had to buy one. I don't think it is necessarily authentic since it was sold to me by a young white woman who doesn't speak Spanish, but the craftsmanship is excellent, and it was obviously well researched. I feel that young woman is probably like me - not Spanish - but with a liking of Spanish culture and with a healthy fascination and respect for Dia de los Muertos. Then again, what makes something authentic? Does it have to be made by a person from the culture? Does it lack authenticism because it is removed from cultural connotation? But what if it is made with care and respect by an outside observer? Is it then authentic as well? Or does being an outside observer make it more authentic, because the skull is free to stand from cultural criticism, and is the outsider's way of understanding the "other"? Whatever the scenario, I am happy with my purchase.

Buying the skull also made me extremely proud of my students. Most of my students managed to capture the essence of the holiday and the skulls, and some of their skulls were of a better quality than the one I purchased. One in particular stands out in my mind. The skull of her puppet could sell for far more than what I paid for mine. Mentally comparing her skull to the ones on sale was one moment that really made me proud as a teacher.

Another thing happened at Venice... an obviously high young man carrying a wooden stick (the kind from a broken piece of wood not a branch) decided to harass Cara. "Girl, I Love you," he almost whispered as he got in her face. "Not for your beauty, but for your booty." Cara just walked past him, and he moved on to the girl walking behind us: "Girl, I love you. Not for your..." It was the same line again. I guess in his mind you simply try the same approach until you succeed. Isn't that what Einstein referred to as insanity?

Hollywood was by far my favorite of the day. It, of course, is not a beach, but the vibe of the city was by far the most thrilling. I found myself drawn to the crowds, the commotion, and the beauty of the locale. It didn't seem real to be standing in front of Grauman's Chinese Theatre, the Kodak, and all of these places that I have seen in television and movies.

One thing about Hollywood though... I am not easily star-struck. (I did take a few pictures of stars on the walk of fame. I admire the talent of Kevin Spacey, and Dolly Parton is one of my all time favorites. I also love puppets, so Kermit the Frog was a must.) Today people lined up for hours along Hollywood Boulevard to see Leonardo DiCaprio exit his limo at Grauman's for the premier of his new movie Inception. We were lucky, after we finished touring around town, we managed to see him exit his limo and begin the walk down the red carpet. Fans, including Cara, were going crazy. I have never seen Cara revert to a school girl with a crush before; it was adorable. I was happy to get to see him, but it wasn't the highlight of my day like it had obviously been for some of these people. (I doubt it was the highlight of Cara's day, but you'd have to ask her...)

I started to wonder if something was wrong with me. Is it odd that I didn't get more excited? Should seeing celebrities be the highlight of my day? Should I sign up for the "celebrity homes" tours that take place about every 15 minutes from just about every intersection on Hollywood Blvd? Why do I not get that star-struck? Am I jealous? I don't think so, I like my life (for the most part). Am I envious? In a way, I would love to have money like that, but who wouldn't? (Money doesn't buy happiness, but it solves a lot of other problems.) I think maybe it is because I work in theatre. I see actors (not famous ones) all the time, and I think of them as people. So, when I see actors I don't know - I just see people I don't know. I might know characters they played, but I don't really know them.

After spending the afternoon in Hollywood, I really began to question my move to Birmingham. Even with all my redneck tendencies, I am a city boy at heart. I like the pulse, the feel of the people, the rhythm of city life; truthfully it's hard to explain. Yes, Birmingham is a city, but it is not Hollywood. California (especially the LA area) has gotten into my system. It's like that old song by the Eagles, Hotel California:

"'Relax,' said the night man,
'We are programmed to receive.
You can checkout any time you like,
But you can never leave!'"

I have come to California for the purposes of helping Cara move and taking a vacation, but California has left me with something greater than that. I may go back to SC, AL, MI, wherever, but this experience will stick with me. This experience will never leave; a part of me will always remain in California. I'm not sure if the part that remains will allow me to move on and embrace my new life in Alabama, or if it will always be searching for something better something greater.

Would my life truly be better in Hollywood? Probably not - the cost of living is very high. Would I enjoy it? Yes. Is this a place I will consider coming back to permanently? Yes. What I have seen of greater Los Angeles makes it one of the most unique cities I have ever experienced. I quite enjoy it here, and I could see myself having a life here. (I think I could even see me living here over New Mexico.) Does that mean that Alabama will not be a rewarding experience and that I have made a mistake? No. Right now Alabama is the right place for me, and I just need to remind myself of that. I need to remind myself not to become a prisoner of my own device. I must embrace Alabama, and let this experience empower me - not overpower me. I may eventually move to California; but if not, I can always visit. It is very easy to fall in love with this place.

Photos from Seal Beach:


Photos from Venice:
Photos from Santa Monica:
Photos from Hollywood:

Grab a Sweatshirt - We're Going to the Beach!

Yesterday was a day of many firsts for me. It was my first time in California, my first time in the Mojave, my first time seeing the Pacific Ocean, etc. Today, however, was the first day I truly got to experience California. I got a glimpse at what my life might be like if I lived here, and I liked the picture.

The day started off with Cara and I unpacking the U-haul, and putting the bulk of her belongings into storage. Everything stored without a hitch, but it was interesting to see what happened to the items we packed while traveling across country. All of the contents had shifted and some things had come unpacked from their bags or boxes. There were a few casualties - a large picture frame for instance, but mostly everything was fine.

The drafting table base, however, was not so lucky. The same drafting table that we struggled to get out of Cara's apartment and into the U-haul was severely bent. Granted it can be fixed, but the idea that the thing that gave us the most trouble was the thing that was the most damaged was a bit disheartening.

After unpacking the U-haul, and turning it back over to the extremely attractive man at the U-haul store (he was blond, with a tan, big blue eyes, and the perfect amount of stubble - needless to say, I enjoyed the scenery), we took Cara's car to a local mechanic. As it turns out, there are many things wrong with the car, and the mechanic informed us we wouldn't be able to retrieve it until tomorrow afternoon. Being car-less in Huntington Beach would have been a problem if Cara's brother and sister in-law hadn't loaned us their bicycles for the day.

While her brother and sister in-law live in Huntington Beach, they are 6 miles from downtown shopping and entertainment. Cara and I biked the 6 miles to the pier and downtown on a bike trail that runs between the Pacific Coast Highway and the ocean. If you have never biked down the Pacific coast, I highly recommend it. The scenery is breathtaking, the humidity is low, and the atmosphere is very relaxed and uber-casual. I haven't ridden a bike in years, so I jumped at the idea of riding again. While six miles seemed a touch far, I was up for the challenge, and it was one of the most rewarding experiences of not only this trip but my life as well.

It was the first time during this entire trip that I didn't look or feel like a tourist. My camera was in Cara's bag, I was dressed in rolled up jeans and a t-shirt, and by having a bike without the other typical beach accouterments - I successfully blended in with the local population. This virtual invisibility gave me the opportunity to observe the locals - those who had mistaken me for a neighbor.

There was a lady walking her very small paraplegic dog. It's back legs were useless, but it had wheels attached to it's harness, so it could still walk. It was basically a canine wheelchair, but this dog was anything but handicapped. This tiny firecracker charged toward a much larger dog that must have been at least six times its size, its back wheels spinning with fury. Its owner - an older heavy-set woman - had to pull him back - his little wheels spinning reverse against his will.

There were two gay men disciplining their four legged children while attempting to pack a mini-van. Apparently one of the dogs was being very bad; he was being singled out. Both of them, however, got an earful. I wondered then how much dogs comprehend yelling. Is yelling ultimately futile? Do canines understand the intent behind the loud?

There was a lifeguard in his red shorts - his tanned body glistening in the sun. Cara and I had stopped to dip our feet in the Pacific when a buoy came loose and drifted up on shore. I was taking a picture of Cara with it when this lifeguard came up to retrieve the buoy. He probably knew we were tourists, because of the camera, but how often does a buoy come ashore?

Before we left Cara's brother reminded us to take a sweatshirt, because it gets windy and cold by the beach. I'm thinking, it's July - we're in California - the sun is shining - who needs a sweatshirt? I did. I needed a sweatshirt like crazy. I have always wondered why you see photos of Californians in shorts and sweatshirts, and I learned quite quickly. The wind of the ocean makes it incredibly chilly, and the lack of humidity keeps it that way. In South Carolina, taking a sweatshirt to the beach in July (or any summer month) is unheard of, it would be like taking pork chops to a bar-mitzvah. (Well maybe that's too strong; it wouldn't insult a religious heritage - it would just be stupid.)

After we arrived I bought a red lifeguard sweatshirt that reads "Huntington Beach" on the front, and officially returned to the status of tourist. I had, however, already slipped under the radar - I could see both sides. I had opened a window into the non-tourist California, and I wasn't about to close it.

Cara and I enjoyed our time downtown, but before we left to ride another six miles back to the apartment, we saw two young gay men holding hands. I pointed it out to Cara, and we both had the same reaction: "AW." Another group of people did not have the same reaction, however. A group of college-aged townies were walking past, and the young men of the group seemed very put off.

These were the kind of young men that exude testosterone; their masculinity seeming almost an an affectation - an act of what they expect they should be. Too afraid of not being seen as macho, the young men were quick to loudly bash the young gay couple. "That's just wrong," one said. "Two guys shouldn't be walking down the street holding hands," another chimed. The girls of the group stood up for the gay couple. "What's wrong with it?" one asked. "They're just being who they are," another said.

I was happy to see the young women stand up for the young couple, but I had to fight the urge to say something myself. If two young men choose to express their affection for one another by holding hands in public - who are these other young men to say otherwise? No one jeers when straight couples hold hands, and in terms of PDA - holding hands shows affection without being disturbing. It is a safe way to display how much you care, without being over the top. They weren't making out (any couple making out in public is just gross), but unlike the straight couple under the pier, these guys were just holding hands.

It is 2010; when will people learn that gay people are not to be feared, ridiculed, or treated as second-class citizens? What is so disturbing about the idea of two people loving each other? If two people care about each other, what does gender really matter? I had held high hopes for the current generation of college students. I had hoped they were more open-minded, and that homophobia was becoming a thing of the past. Watching these guys, however - so disturbed by the sight of two men together - reminded me that while it may be 2010, we still have a long way to go.

After riding back to Cara's brother's place, Cara and I headed to Trader Joe's to buy some pre-dinner snacks. Trader Joe's is a chain grocery store, and while they have had them in places I have lived - I had never been inside of one. Cara decided that this trip was the perfect time to lose my Trader Joe's virginity, and off we went. Truthfully, it now ranks high on my list of grocery stores. It's well lit, clean, and has a variety of great tasting generic brand products. (They even make Trader Joe's Indian dishes; the butter chicken is quite good. I also bought a package of carrot cake cookies that hopefully will live up to my expectations. They came highly recommended by the cashier.)

After today, I can definitely see the allure of California. It is beautiful, with hundreds of miles of coastline, and everything is accessible. I could easily see myself living here. Riding along the coast with the wind at your back and the beauty of the world ahead of you is truly a spiritual experience. Truthfully the whole bike-ride today made me question my decision to take the job in Alabama. Did I make the right decision? Can I really see myself living in Birmingham? Why did I choose to look for jobs in the deep South instead of out West? Will I be able to have an experience this beautifully spiritual there? I guess time will tell if I made the right decision. If I have, then all is for the best; If I haven't, then it's only for a year.

Crossing the Colorado

Today was a day of many firsts for me. Truly this trip has been one of many firsts, but today we crossed the Colorado river and entered California. I have wanted to go to California for quite some time, and today that dream finally became a reality. I was like a small child on his birthday when we crossed the river from Arizona. I was a little disappointed that I didn't get a clear shot of the Welcome to California sign, but a truck was obstructing my view.


We entered the Mojave desert, and saw the huge Metropolis of Needles, CA. As we crossed the desert, we noticed the real lack of civilization. (Needles was the last real city for quite some time.) There were signs here and there, but everything seemed to be designed to push people from one end of the desert to the other. It is odd to be in a location completely bereft of people (except for those traveling along the road as well); it is almost spiritual.

It also makes rest areas very interesting. People pushing, shoving, fighting over the two or three stalls that somehow pass for a rest area bathroom. It's quite a sight. They are also like little oases against the harsh environs of the Mojave. Palm trees sprout up around little hacienda styled shanties with attached gas stations. To complete the picture, crows dance and caw at each other whilst watching the humans run inside to wait in line for a poor excuse for a hot dog from Dairy Queen. Desert rest areas are an experience in themselves.




Before we could traverse the desert, we had to stop for an agricultural inspection. Apparently, they were afraid that we were sneaking some form of non-Californian contraband into the state. Cara had to open the U-haul, which of course had shifted during the drive, and then she could not get it closed. I was called out to assist, but I couldn't get the door to close either. The lady that was inspecting our vehicle saw that a line of traffic was forming behind us, and asked us to move off to the side of the road. So, we moved the car and the U-haul off to the side and adjusted the contents in the heat of the day - in the Mojave Desert.

My question is: Could they have a worse place for an inspection site? Maybe their next place will be Death Valley or some tar pits somewhere. And... do you know what they were confiscating? I had the pleasure of seeing their confiscation table - there was a zip-loc bag with three apples, an orange, and some other kind of fruit. How dare someone try to have a healthy snack on the Interstate en route to California? - obviously a heathen. What makes California produce so much better than the rest of the world? And what makes them think that somehow apples are going to cause some sort of problem? Last time I checked - there was not a black market price on Red Delicious, Granny Smith, or Gala. Macintosh maybe...

About an hour into the Mojave, well after our inspection, the car began making a horrible noise. This noise was so loud that I had to stop reading aloud, because I couldn't compete. I had been reading aloud from David Sedaris's When You Are Engulfed in Flames (Amazing, FYI). The car was louder than me, and that's hard to do. We began to worry that the car was going to die, and that we'd be stuck in the middle of the Mojave. We'd have to call for help, and wait for hours - with a cat and a house plant - for someone to come and pick us up, and tow the car (which is already towing a U-haul) like some cartoon land-train to LA. Every hill became even more of a challenge for the car and for Cara - the car strained to pull the U-haul, and Cara prayed the car would keep going. For over three hours we listened to the car drone on and on, in silence - the CD player tried to compete, but even it was truly a lost cause. I put in Bjork hoping her wailing would blend with the car and create a new musical sound, but no such luck. Thankfully, we made it to Huntington Beach safely. The car and Cara pulled through.

Once here, we had dinner with Cara's brother, his wife, and two of their friends. We ate at a place called Fred's, a kitsch-tastic Mexican Cantina with airbrushed cherubs on the ceiling and celebrities on the walls. It was delicious. At the next table, however, was a middle-aged woman with a group of teenage and pre-teenage girls. From what I gathered from the little bit of their conversation I overheard - the woman was not the ideal chaperone. It was more like leaving your kids with Janice Dickinson than a legitimate babysitter, and again I wondered what is happening with the world to make situations like this okay?

Anyway, enjoy these photos of the Mojave and near San Bernardino.

Pissing on the Continental Divide

Today Cara and I drove from Albuquerque, NM to Flagstaff, AZ. I must say that I am falling in love with the desert. The landscape is truly enchanting. I think one day it might be nice to actually move to New Mexico – either Albuquerque or Santa Fe. I had broadened that to both Arizona and New Mexico, but after seeing more of Arizona today, I came to miss the landscape of New Mexico. On the whole New Mexico felt more dynamic with more mountains and plateaus. Maybe one day I'll be a New Mexican.

The people of Albuquerque were incredibly friendly. We spent some time this morning downtown and had wonderful conversations with a woman who runs a local art gallery and our waitress. Art Gallery is originally from Boston and moved to Albuquerque 5 years ago with her husband. They were tired of the winters in Boston and the rigidity of the people. Art Gallery was very nice and recommended several places for us to visit while in town. (We definitely would have taken her advice if we had been staying any longer.)

One thing that struck us odd about Art Gallery was that she said Albuquerque wasn’t pretty; it wasn’t pretty like Boston. While Albuquerque isn’t the most gorgeous city on the planet, it has quite the charm. I found Albuquerque rather colorful, and the desert really inspiring. It seemed unfair to compare it to Boston; they are quite different. It’s like comparing an apple to an orange. (I think I could actually do some great work in Albuquerque with such exciting inspiration. Hands down, the desert has been my favorite landscape thus far.) Besides, any city that welcomes visitors with light up cactus sculptures and architectural lighting under the overpasses is okay in my book.
Our waitress was another transplant. She is from Huntington Park, CA. She got all excited when she found out our next big stop would be in Huntington Beach – just outside LA. I think she may have been the happiest waitress I’ve ever seen – bubbly and engaging – I would go back to Lindy’s just to visit her.
I know many of you were expecting me to be blogging from Las Vegas, but today Cara and I made the difficult decision to bypass Vegas in order to get to California faster. We decided that it would be better to spend more quality time in Los Angeles than to rush through both cities. I think Vegas is really a city that I need to spend time in to appreciate. It is glorious, tacky, and it revels in both. These qualities are not things that can be fully observed in a few short hours.

The road today proved rather interesting. The desert rained a bit. It was exhilarating to watch the rain move in sheets across the flats, the clouds cuddling with the mountains until they finally blanketed us with water. We made a video diary of it, which I may post eventually, but probably not tonight. (I’m still having trouble getting our first video diaries to load. *insert growling noise here*)

We stopped at a rest area atop the Continental Divide. This is the divide that separates the flow of water into eastward and westward flowing. We truly were in the West once we crossed the Divide – not even the rivers flow east anymore. It was curious to ponder which way our urine flowed. Since we were at the top – it could have flowed either direction – (this is assuming that the rest area did not have plumbing, which obviously it did, but play along.)

After using the rest area, we came upon an accident scene several miles down the road. It was unclear what had happened, but there was a van in a ditch in the median- its back hatch wide open, and a man laying face down – lifeless – in the road. It was one of those moments that remind you of your mortality, the fact that one day you too will die. Cara and I turned our heads as we passed; we couldn’t gawk at the scene; we had to look away. In the median a man held a child – facing the opposite direction. He was sitting with his back turned from the body rocking. A woman with black hair looked from the right side of the road. She too was restraining a child, but this child was not looking away. A single policeman had laid a tarp over the body, but the tarp was too small and left the man’s head and feet exposed. A thousand questions raced through my mind. Who was this guy? Was he the father of one of these children? An uncle? An older brother? Did anyone watch him die? Hopefully it had been quick. Hopefully - even in the violence of the accident - he went in peace.

Cara and I continued driving, talked about the scene for a few minutes, and had gotten fairly far away when we stopped for gas and dinner at another travel stop. We were finishing our dinner in the car (it was parked and the doors were open for the nice breeze to come through) when another group of tourists pulled into the parking lot next to us. There were many adolescents in the vans, but also adults. An adult woman began a conversation with the younger ones about the body we had seen, and how it had been a fairly bad trip. The adolescents began asking: “was that really a body!?!” and exclaiming things like “I told you that was a body!” “I think we ran over his shoe!” “Somebody had run over his shoe!” With this came the laughter. There was a cacophony of laughs from the group, and they continued discussing the body giggling away.

I understand that difficult situations can sometimes lead people to laugh. Laughter is a strong healing emotion, but this felt completely wrong. A man’s life had just ended, and not an old man who had lived a rich and full life and died in his sleep, but a younger man (I would guess no more than 35) who one moment was alive and the next was thrown from a vehicle front-side first into the pavement. This was someone’s child – someone’s friend – possible someone’s father, brother, and/or uncle. Why does someone laugh at the loss of a life – the extinguishing of a flame?

I wanted the adults to say something, especially the woman who had brought it up, but no one said a thing. Everyone kept going in their merry way – not giving a damn that they were making light of another family’s tragedy. I found myself wondering if the man had not been Hispanic would it have made a difference? The observers on both sides of the street were Hispanic, and I could only assume that the man with dark hair on the pavement was also Hispanic. The adolescents and other tourists were all white. Did the idea of “otherness” come into play here? Was he the “other” and therefore didn’t matter? If he had not been the “other” would it have made a difference? Or does none of this matter and does it simply speak to the depravity of humanity? Are we so low that we cannot empathize with our fellow man?

I want people to be respectful of others – to empathize with the hurt. If we all could do this the world would be a better place. But with people, I guess it’s like pissing on the continental divide – they could roll either direction. The question is: which way will you roll?

Photos from the New Mexico landscape.