Guerrilla Rant

Lord loves a workin' man

2011-04-25T16:09:00.000-07:00

For some time I was a parent’s poster child. I rolled right out of college into a very good job with an employer who paid for graduate school, and then gave me even more money for graduating. I had health insurance and was saving for retirement.

I tried talking shop at extended family gatherings. No one understood what I did, and I got tired of talking about nitrogen deposition and the oxidation of organic matter. Eventually I started just agreeing with people. “Yeah, sort of like a Park Ranger” I’d mutter before finding a reason to walk away.

It was weird. For the years I had been with the Forest Service, only a handful of people really understood what I did. To this day, I don’t even know if even my parents, as proud and supportive as they were, fully understood. The locals knew only that I wielded a government-backed bottomless VISA, propping up their businesses to a degree, and that I worked somewhere “Over der at da Tech.” and that I drove a big green truck “Yah is nice but geez you shoulda really put a plow on 'er!”

Friends assumed I ran around all day functioning highly in my dream job. I definitely didn’t hate it. Some days were awesome. I’d find myself at Lake of the Clouds at peak fall color, or skiing into an old growth Hemlock and sugar maple forest, or mixing a highball after hiking all day and camping on the company’s dime. But then there were the other days, the monotony of compiling data in front of a computer, staff meetings, and mountains of sample to process in a cold windowless lab: the kind of tasks that make a job, well, work.

In hindsight, my bad days were the same as everyone else’s. Only my good days were much, much better. The government though, it has a weird way of shackling people. Collateral duties began chaining me to the phone and computer. Purchasing, supervising a safety program, reading and writing manuscripts. Even my glorious days in the field were so compressed that I barely had time to see the forest for the trees in my way. And at about this time, during the waning years of the Bush administration, budgets were crashing, and we barely had enough money to twiddle our thumbs. Add to that the fact that no one was really listening to anything scientists had to say on climate change, land use issues, or invasive species, and morale was very poor.

Most of you know the history of our decision to relocate to Nantucket and of my harrowing survival on wife support. Except for the amusing bits, I am not rehashing it all right now. My point is that unless work is your hobby, every job becomes just that. A job. As awesome as my job was at times, I couldn’t ditch it to go fishing. All we were ever taught about doing something you love is horseshit. No one loves sitting at a computer torturing numbers or fighting to stay awake during meetings.

My advice to kids now is simple. Do something easy. Easy money, since money can buy you a lot of things. Easy hours so you have time to do what you want. Easy on your body because The Man will take it from you if he can. Easy to explain, so you don’t have to look at blank stares and answer inane follow up questions on the inner workings of Jellystone Park.

I have one of those jobs now. When I tell people I am a Wastewater Treatment Plant Operator, no one asks for more. They change topics. Everyone has to shovel a little bit of shit in their own day to day. This I know. For me, it’s only a bit more literal.

My first two years out here were awesome. I spent the first month or two biking around, going to the beach, and catching bluefish. But we knew zero people, and as fall was setting on and the population dwindling, a job held some prospects for sanity.

Here I was pragmatic. I wanted zero responsibility. I wanted flexible hours and no one in my face. I was lucky when Sam hired me. I made enough money to support my tackle habit and pay for one nice vacation a year. We called off work when bass were in the harbor or the surf was up. He knew everyone, so I did by association. It was fun. I spent a good part of my first winter furlough riding a longboard up and down the coast of El Salvador. Life was good.

A year later my back hurt intermittently. My forearms, when they tan, are a maze of scars, and I had averaged 5 trips a year to the doctor’s office for serious poison ivy rashes. And scheduling conflicts and respect for my marriage kept me away from another Central American jaunt with the boys. Sitting around, drinking and watching TV sure sounded cool earlier in the winter, but was really, really unfulfilling. Wife support and my workout schedule were the only things keeping me from the depths of alcoholism.

I knew I couldn’t run this race anymore. As awesome as working for Sam was (and he was working even harder, right at my side), it wasn’t going to lead anywhere positive for me. It would have been great at 21, but at 32 I feared I would soon be flirting with pathetic.

I applied to grow vegetables at Bartlett Farm. I applied to drive a truck for Fed Ex. I told the Historical Society that I would love to answer their phones and make coffee, and I assured the Cottage Hospital that I did indeed have no problem distributing their mail. I even lied to the people at TSA; “No, I don’t think that screening passengers is a humiliating and soul-crushing job.”

They all said no thank you.

One problem was that I had never applied for a job before. My eventual MS advisor offered me a job sight unseen two months before graduation. It could have been mine for life. Sam had me come out and work for a day, if you can call that an application process. So my interview skills were probably a little coarse.

Another was that I had been institutionalized. Based on my unique set of scientific and institutional skills, any number of government agencies would have been happy to hire me away. If you can keep a specialized job for life, great. But if you lose it, you are so fucked.

The fact is that during a recession the skilled hands of a climate change scientist with expertise in stable isotope ratio mass spectrometry and government accounting software are not needed in the island economy.

Eventually, the chief operator at the Nantucket wastewater treatment plant called me back. I had an interview, a second, and then an offer. Huzzah.

It is actually quite a shame that more people don’t ask me about the work of a wastewater treatment plant operator. For starters, we get paid well. Not outrageously - the work involves more skill than I anticipated, but well enough. I would like to think that management acquiesces to the union demands immediately, lest we drag our dirty boots to their office to speak face to face.

Even after a few months on the job, I still enjoy it. I was trained as a scientist, and I view water treatment through this lens. Wastewater treatment involves little more then applying the nitrogen cycle while manipulating microbiology (both specialties of mine). I can’t rebuild a centrifugal pump seal, but I can identify treatment problems simply by monitoring nitrate and ammonia concentrations from tank to tank.

I fish and surf and boat and do all sorts of awesome outdoor things on this small eroding sandbar we call Nantucket. I care about it. During the last years of my Forest Service career, my scientific efforts were filed away and ignored where it really mattered. Here though, I am creating clean water. I consider myself an environmentalist and believe that our 8-man crew are stewards and do more good for the island’s ecosystem than any other group. And I find that especially rewarding.

Several people wondered why I suddenly was boasting on facebook about my CDL. All glory aside, I am now a working man, union and blue collar. I punch a time clock, which is a change for me both mechanically and idealistically. Having a commercial drivers license is a requirement for the job, as is a uniform. But given the economy and my last three years, it is also a guard against unemployment.

Yesterday I drove the 14 wheel dump truck to the landfill. I was hauling just under 16 tons of polymerized septic sludge. There it is digested with the organic waste stream and turned into compost, which is then piled high in the recycling parking area. Cheap summer folks shovel the free fill into buckets to spread on their gardens, unaware that it was formerly poo. I giggle and drive by.

When people do ask me about my job, the question is always “How do you deal with the smell?” Odds are, if you are a doctor, nurse, or raised children, you have gotten more shit on your hands than I ever will. Our facility is 2 years old, fully automated, and cost 42 million dollars (part of that is an extensive odor control system). Most of my day is spent behind something resembling Homer Simpson’s safety console, or in the lab running analysis. There are of course, a couple dirty jobs worthy of Mike Rowe that we have to do once in awhile, but these rotate and are really as much amusing as terrible.

Besides, this is Nantucket after all. Our shit doesn’t stink.

In Silent Country

2011-01-06T16:18:00.000-08:00

We came to this part of the country, to the fir and cedar swamps thickened with Canadian hemlock, after the deer. They would lie in small groups, sheltered from the thieving wind. Under the branches of hemlock and cedar and fir, less snow reached the ground here, and a deer could run without wallowing through the deep drifts. They could outrun a wolf, or paw through the snow at last year’s grass. Even with the migration, they lived a cold and Spartan life. In an average year, a quarter could die of starvation, skeletons with full bellies, bellies full of barks and twigs.

The deer came to this part of the country in the winter with the deep snows and driving wind. They came from a few miles away, from the surrounding woods, and they came from dozens and dozens of miles further north. Only now, Buddy said, they came later and later in the year. Buddy believed in global warming, said that it was changing everything here, the deer, the lakes, and the winter snow. Falls were warmer and longer, and the heavy snows, when they came later, would fall quickly with even more snow.

Buddy had shot the deer, shot and hung it before I even arrived. The doe was a good size, 2 ½ years or more. His old man wouldn’t have liked us shooting does, he said that would mean fewer good bucks later on. “Go shoot your wife” he had told me once, “Go and see how many sons you have then.” It had been his father’s camp, and in his day everyone shot bucks. Every year when Buddy was young and the family arrived for Thanksgiving supper, two or three deer had been shot and were hanging from the pole, all of them good bucks.

That was back when the land was good, back when the country was truly wild. The bridge hadn’t been built, and the highway ran one narrow lane in either direction. Mines were open and ore spilled from the train cars, mixing red with the snow. Tall pines eight feet wide spreading across forests with hard maple were felled in groves by teams of lumbermen. I didn’t know those days. When my days had started, the bridge was always open. One iron mine still ran, but the flow of copper had stopped. Logging trucks still rumbled, but now they were stacked with the small boles of pulpwood. The drive was still long though, and we shot does like the one Buddy had hanging from the pole.

Buddy, then me, were first at the camp. The buildings turned in an arc of a circle, all facing the pole. I parked next to Buddy’s jeep. Walter would come next, and park next to me. Finally Skip would arrive, later that night. The trucks too would all face the pole, closing the circle with the buildings and the clearing and the woods, blocking the camp from the drifted and snow slicked road. As snow fell the cars became another outbuilding, all part of this silent and still and cutover land.

The talk that night would be of girls and friends and families. Of work and weather and fortunes lost and gained. But for now there was only me and Buddy and a good-sized doe, hanging stiff and still from the buckpole.

Walter would talk of the bucks further south, south beyond the heavy snows. Clay loam fields supported farms, acres of sugar beets, oats, and alfalfa hay. There were more deer, many more deer and nice bucks among them. Being further south they would dress out lighter; in response to the northern snows our deer were heavier, he said. Nature selected longer legs and thicker layers of fat. But in the south, deer could eat oats and hay. The better diet was more nutritious, and the antlers of the young bucks would grow tall and broad. Without having to eat bark and lichen and buds like they did up north, they would mature quickly on a good diet. And there would be more deer, he said, enough deer so that we could all shoot does and maybe even take a good buck too.

If a farm was what we wanted, Skip would say, we could all buy a camp together. Together, further south, where the land was better and the deer were many, and where we could all shoot as many does as we wanted. Skip was a realtor there and knew that country. I guess we all came from the south now, in some way. Everyone except Buddy; he had married a local girl after school, and now cut timber for his father-in-law. The rest of us all drove up. We would discuss coming all the way to camp. The past few years had been difficult. If the camp were closer in the south country, still good country, we could get to it easier. That meant more weekends hunting, brushing trail, scouting. Deer would come further south, to our farm Walter said, during the December hunt. They would escape the cold wind and heavy snow and graze in thick herds over the stubble of our cut over fields.

Through all of this conversation, Buddy remained silent and tended the stove, the woodstove that burned all day night to drive off the still and stubborn cold.

Walter would shoot his doe that first morning. He had an eye for the land. One wet and warm fall, we had tracked a deer for three miles through these big woods. Over Thanksgiving break it had rained and driven off the snow. The wet leaves cushioned our boots and Walter had followed the big track, through its impressions in the carpet of leaves, through the swamp and open maples. The deer circled a big loop, crossing our tracks, winding us and running off. He always had an eye for these things, Walter did. When I heard the shot from my left, I followed the sound. The smell of sulfur grew strong in the slackness of the morning, and I followed his tracks like a hunter of men. At a clump of hair and specks of bright red blood, my prints merged with those of Walter and the deer.

Thirty-five steps I had counted, the lead ball traveled thirty-five snowshoed steps. The impact was broadside, and the doe had run but another forty yards before she fell. She lay still now, having been felled by a clean and straight shot through the tangle of fir and cedar. Walter bent over his doe checking the teeth and the hooves for wear, feeling the layers of fat. “It’s a healthy deer,” he would say to me, “a good healthy doe.” I would nod and shake his hand for making a good clean kill.

I held the hind legs while Walter cut. A clean kill would mean a cleaner field dressing. The best cuts would spoil with a poor shot or inexperienced hand. He worked elbows deep, and then packed the cavity with snow, replacing the liver. When the doe was hung from the buckpole, he would retrieve the liver, cut the windpipe, and remove the heart and lungs from the chest cavity. The grim work would finish, and he would stew the heart and liver and tenderloins for dinner.

Skip would be back at camp when we returned, Walter dragging his doe and me carrying his rifle.

The rib cage was hung from the pines. Once, when it was too cold, we cut chops and left the broken ribs for the coyotes. Buddy had to show us how to use the chainsaw to butcher the frozen deer. He had grown up when it was always cold, and the carcass would freeze too hard for the delicate butchery that we now preferred. They used olive oil to lubricate the bar and filed the teeth down and rakers low. Chips of bone and meat fell in straight lines, Buddy said, flung from around the buckpole in pink ribbons to become fodder for the mice and the whiskey jacks. But now all of us, even Buddy cut the backstraps off whole, searing them in thick iron skillets. The rib cage we hung from the red pines on the edge of the clearing. Chickadees and nuthatches perched to pick at the gristle and fat.

In late fall the deer were still fat and full. Walter and Buddy’s deer each had broad strips of tallow in their backs, and in hard firm bumps along the loins. It was a hard life they had lived, and in a hard life they flourished. When overcrowded, they would develop and pass disease; too many deer, and too many livestock and too many people were harder and more violent than starving to death in the snow.

Deep in the swamp, by accident, I had followed a beaten run. One track had combined with two and then four others, leading to the edge of an alder swamp. Hemlocks towered over the side of the bluff, silent olden soldiers standing watch over the narrow valley. The cold wind had wrested the top from one of these giants. From a distance, it lay green, pointing from the toe of the slope. Tracks grouped into a single path, beaten flat around the hemlock top. With bellies full, the deer would not be far, chewing and rechewing the needles, a safe distance away in the swamp: they would venture out again.

I found a spot above the snag, halfway up the bluff, taking refuge behind a wedge of snowy basalt. The little wind drifted south past the tree, past me and away into the valley, the way I had come. I wasn’t walking now and I took off my orange vest, my safety blaze of color. Here I waited, I waited and ate and sipped coffee, glassing over the snag. When the deer came out, they came out in groups, family groups of two or three or five. The mother doe steps out first, leading her one or two yearling fawns. She smells the wind, standing still and silent, her tail twitching, head immobile and statuesque up in the air. Walking, she drops her head, sniffing at the snow a few steps at a time raising her head, always alert. The deer feed, stripping the hemlock needles with their tongues and their cheeks. They pressed in through a tangle of bare branches, jumping and ducking. They were no longer alert now, feeding quietly in the silent afternoon.

Silently, I wait, me and the three deer and my rifle. I wait for my buck, the buck whose track led across the road and into the swamp, past the big hemlocks and merged with the others around the snag. In this good country, in this still and silent land, I wait for a grunt, and the shadowy bone white motion of antlers silhouetted by the black tangle of fallen trees and alder branches. The rut is over now, and the buck has mated. He is wary now, tired and worn down. Silently he waits; he waits in the darkness of swamps for the cover of night. He has been harassed, hunted, and chased. He may bear the scare of a broadhead, or a limp from an errant slug. A ghost, skillful and silent, he waits.

Two more deer walk from the swamp to the snag. A lone doe trudges from up the valley, heartened by the site of her brethren. The buck enters from down valley, his small horns bright white against the cedar green brush. Stillness gets stiller, and through the glasses I can count three distinct prongs. The springbuck is 1 and ½ years old, and has spent his fall going through the motions, the rites and passages of his kind. He is an outcast, solitary and aloof, without the awareness and concept of fear. Likely he has been chased by the older and grizzled bucks, chased from feeding areas, and chased from the bleating females in estrus.

The sun sets, the five deer feed, and I wait in silence. Night and darkness are not far off. Setting down my glasses, I brush snow from the riflescope, resting it on the granite slab. The scope is clear and bright, brighter than the glasses. The first doe continues feeding; through the scope I can see the curve of her haunch and the fatness across her flanks. She is full and calm and bright. The young buck is smaller, stands shorter, tired and beaten from the travails of the rut. But he is young and alone, and stands to survive the winter.

When the shot rings out, four deer retreat to the swamps edges. The report rolls up the valley, and returns, weaker. White smoke billows, obscuring the view, and then clears. Sulfur stings my nose. Silence returns, heavy and oppressive. The big doe has bounded only a few feet from the tangle, and sunk to her knees. Her head is still up and alert. I eye this through his scope, again fixed upon my prey, watching the doe with her eyes still bright, her head held high and proud. She stares up the valley along the swamp to where the two points meet, not towards me, or at her two yearling fawns. She sits under the trees in the snow with a full belly, bright and calm and still.

I wait behind the granite, my back to the bluff, watched by the quiet air and silent trees. Too many times I had gone right after the deer, pushing it bleeding into thicker and thicker cover. I wait, prying the primer from the breach and tossing it away. After a quarter of an hour her head was down on the snow, and there would be no need for another shot. The three-pointer, too young and too small, bounded away with a grunt as I pick my way down the bluff. My doe lay on her side, silent and still, red mixing with the snow. She had been quartering away from me, and the field dressing would show I had taken a lung and an artery, and she had bled quietly on the snow. Two small yearling deer watched me approach, watched the three-pointer bound away, and then turned to go as well. It was a good-sized doe, I thought, a good clean shot. She would fill a cooler and feed us well. It was a good deer, shot in good country, I told myself, a country cold and still.

That last night we would sit in the camp, drinking loudly and with cheer. The camp was made of cedar timbers, chinked tight with stuffing and caulk. Four rifles hung above the plank table, and the woodstove glowed red in the faint kerosene light. We knew that we would return to the camp, to the simple frame structure. It bounded us within its four walls, within the circle of the woodshed, the clearing and the trucks, under blankets of snow, all facing in toward the buckpole. The circle would remain unbroken until the early morning, when Skip would leave, followed by Walter. Buddy would stay the week at camp alone, and try to kill his buck.

I would drive back home on the next day through driving snow. December snows came deep and heavy and the wind whirled powder across the lakes. The landscape was sterile and silent. Even when the snow didn’t fall, the wind would whip loose powder into a blizzard. The world was shrouded in a grainy opaqueness, though through gaps I could see the blue sky above. The same blue sky over my home looked over this good country. When the winds fell and the powder settled, everything looked fresh and sterile and cold. In this country beauty was stark and wild, mercilessly frightening. It was so clear and beautiful my heart would ache. I drove back, alone through the small and shuttered mining towns and crossroads where logging trucks rumbled, hauling timber south to the pulp mills.

Black Wave Bay

2010-10-25T18:28:00.000-07:00

The big wave hit him squarely and solidly and he shuddered at the impact. It ripped the board from his grasp and sent him over the falls, tumbling and tumbling into the wash. He covered his head and rolled with the barrel, fighting nothing thinking of nothing but calm and peace and going loose. Pressure was in his ears as he was forced downward and bumped the sand in the brown and foamy water, pulled forward by his leash and the buoyancy of his board, ripped from his hands and tumbling forward on the surface. At long last the wave overran his board, released him, and he swam up from the dark.

White foam hissed around him, settling back into slack water. Mentally he counted down the seconds, his personal timer calibrated to the period of the swell. Two seconds reunited him with his board; with every following second he regained three strokes on his previous position. After thirty strokes the next breaker towered white and heavy overhead and he dove deep, deep and straight and beyond the pull of the whitewash. In two dozen more strokes he had gained enough to turtle under the last wave of the big set and holding the board in his hands he weathered the impact, the force flipping him upright. The next set was small and breaking inside, and he paddled around the crest and safely beyond the break zone.

No one understood the contradiction, he thought. No one knew the beautiful ugliness, the terror and anarchy below the surface. Perhaps the volcanic sand obscured the detail. The water here was murky, a churning brown on even the best day. Cliffs and hills and deep ravines, broad plains and haze-ringed volcanoes dominated, stark and impressive; but here the black sand reflected the light from the surface. Here the landscape was scarred with the historical markers of fire and water.

The swell had been kicked up from a strong low pressure system traveling up from the frozen continent. The storm would never arrive, not in the dry season. But it sent its army, pulling up and dropping the sea, sending ripples across the Pacific. And now the vanguard was arriving. It was traveling slowly and inexorably toward him in due time. The big swell would arrive tomorrow.

Still, he thought, it was already building. That last outside set had appeared quick and heavy and had rolled and pinned him good. He tried to punch through it, suck up the face of the heavy wave and punch through. But the wave had steepened quickly over the outer break and he found himself turtling halfway up the face. He had been rolled and pinned and tombstoned along the bottom in the swirling chaos. Yet the surface he knew, looked innocent. The sun rose behind a tower of haze casting light without color. At the morning’s offshore breeze the crest paused momentarily, and spray blew backwards away from the beach and across his face. Birds squawked from the ceiba and almond trees, and smoke rose from the fields behind the top of the ravine. The waves would peel slowly and gracefully from right to left and the pounding torrent of the big swell was inaudible from the shore.

A still lagoon ran deep into the ravine, backing the narrow flat beach. The beach, the narrow fishing boats, and the mist-backed cliffs were behind him now as he faced outward at the wide and open Pacific. He faced the horizon watching the swells roll in. Several smaller sets passed underneath raising him up and down; they were shallow here, and would break far in toward shore. Then the first wave of the big set came in, hurtled across a vast sea in a violent tempest to meet him here under the calm dawn of the tropical sun. Spinning his board, he paddled gently toward shore, holding his spot, the spot he had picked off the rocky point break where the big waves straightened and turned to a fluid curl. As the big wave rose he paddled now, to keep in place, the place where gravity would break him from the current that pulled uphill.

He paused with his hands flat on the surface of his board. This was a dangerous second, a nexus where fear and guts and skill all met. If the wave felt too deep he could still bail and dive deep, down deep under the wave away from its pull, deep enough to hide from the circular violence of the oncoming crash. Precipitously now he would gain speed sliding down the face of the wave. Too long of a wait, and the wave would steepen, and he would bury himself at the toe of the slope and then it was into the wash.

With feet under him he brought the board under control, cutting a wide and slow turn at the bottom of the wave. He waited, trailing a finger into the liquid wall. The barrel was almost on top of him now, and he bent down, grabbing the rail, hurtling forward, foam exploding behind him. He exited the tube as if shot from a cannon born again, baptized into the calm fury of salt and spray and swell.

There were other waves that day, bigger and heavier, but that ride would go unequaled for the morning. Riding straight and tall carving turns moving up and down the wave, stalling and gaining speed, he too would look innocent and calm. Innocent and calm and peaceful like the surface of the water he skimmed. Others joined him, freed from the gates of the surf resort, later risers, good for an hour before the wind switched. La Chica paddled into the lineup, a client in tow. They all bobbed together, a line of solidarity facing away from the beach eyes scanning the limitless horizon in the morning light.

The whine of a motor and whistle of a man pulled him from his reverie. “Eh! Sereno!” He paddled over to the skiff and the slender brown man at the tiller. “Quieres unos camarones?” Chipe was long and lean like his skiff, and with his face weathered dark and stiff looked beyond his years. He throttled down, pulling him along slowly, inexorably out past the break and up and over the swells. Past the danger of an outside wave Chipe idled. The priest from San Miguel had blessed his boat and the boats in the fleet, holding a mass on the beach at low tide. He’d attended too, watching from his hammock across the beach.

“Si.” He thought of the upcoming swell moving toward him, across the wide pacific. It would thunder against the cliffs, and push over the beach to the lagoon at high tide, refreshing the stagnant water with oxygen and fish and crabs. “Es posible para tu esposa cocinar?”

“Ven a las ocho.” Chipe made the sign of the cross and pointed the skiff west, past the rocky point, and motored off to tend to the nets. Sereno paddled back to the lineup, knowing well that none of the fishermen would want to fight the big swells tomorrow or the day after. He paddled to La Chica, and they spoke quickly and quietly in Spanish, making a show for her client. The rest of the lineup looked at him, the friend of fishermen and another oddity washashore out past the breakers off the narrow beach. He made room for her client; following his lead the Americans did the same. More came paddling out, paddling through the crash of the big swells and gliding quickly over to the narrow take off. He paddled into the next wave riding ahead for the narrow beach and dropping to his board as the wave faltered, riding the whitewash into the shallows.

The sand was hot, black flecks of ash were hot in the sun, and the ground felt good and hard under his feet. He walked in the cool sand on the waters edge, around the narrow half moon bay to the foot of the bluff that extended out to form the point break. His hotel was there, the thin line of bare cinderblock rooms. Chipe’s parents owned the hotel, its five block rooms under the bluff and up against the homemade seawall. He rinsed in the outdoor shower, him and his board both. The room was cool now but would bake under the sun. He’d been just another gringo during the first weeks sitting in his hammock and surfing and watching the flow of the tide in and out. It could reach the seawall and beyond working up the constant slope of the hard packed sand. But it never reached the lagoon, the still and scum covered water behind the trees.

One morning sitting in the sun in his hammock watching over the fishermen launching their boats into the churning surf his Christian name had been forgotten. By now the young fishermen had come over, accustomed to a smoke or a drink between checking and mending their nets. Gringo tranquilo, he was then, the white man who came and surfed and sat quietly and humbly, who shopped at the market speaking their language in his broken and quiet voice. He had started by helping launch the boats, spinning the long and narrow skiffs to lift the bow under the cart, heaving and pushing up the slope of the wet sand and sweating hard under the overhead sun.

Sereno he became, a name called to his face and picked up by the village children. It was good to have a name he thought, it was good and appropriate to be christened in this manner, to be given a name by his family in the sleepy village nestled into the bluff.

From his room he grabbed his tobacco pouch and his cooler and some fruit from the market, stowed his board and put on dry shorts and sandals. He pulled a bottle of water from the cooler, kept cold with bags of ice, impure water frozen from the trickling creek that fed the lagoon behind the village above in the deep ravine. He drank his cold water and ate his fruit, watching the surfers paddle and jockey for position off of the break. Soon the wind would switch, the sun high overhead would heat the land and pull the breeze onshore sending chop across the still tranquil water. The wind would ruin the morning surf.

On these days he would usually broker trips with the fishermen, when the wind was bad or the surf was flat. The Americans from the surf camp, from behind the gated walls would gather on the beach, bored and tired. He would set up trips for them with the local fisherman who spoke no English but could troll behind the big shrimp boats to the west, catching tuna and jacks. The fishermen would get fifty dollars, seventy-five if fish were caught. Sometimes for those with cars he would arrange for a guide to take them to the high cerro or to San Miguel for the bullfights. The rumor was passed from guest to guest, and they would search for the man called Sereno. But today the young fishermen were all out on the water, checking their nets before the big swells rode in.

He rolled a cigarette with the rich tobacco from the pouch sprinkling with the broken pieces of mota. It was better this way, and he smoked it slowly feeling the tide recede. When it fell below the far rocks, across the other side of the narrow beach, he would carry his shirt and his tobacco pouch and walk around the rocks to El Cuco. When the tide receded in the day he could walk the beach to town, where it would be cooler and quicker than the hot and dusty road that ran behind the village over the bluff behind the lagoon. There the cars and trucks rattled over washouts carrying cattle and pigs and workers to the farms to the west. It was hot and dusty and narrow and hard to get a ride. On the beach he could skirt the cliffs and walk on the wet hard packed sand, still cool from the falling tide.

In El Cuco he ate at a small restaurant facing the town square. The food was no better or no worse than the others there. A window opened toward the beach, and the cross breeze kept it cool. Sun was bright and hot outside the window and the door, but the narrow room funneled the wind keeping it in cool shade. Here worked Nica. She was approachable. She wasn’t from here, and had no protections of family. A family, he knew could serve to protect someone against graft and violence and disorder. Without a family to protect her, he could approach and talk and dance with her without getting anyone upset.

After his meeting with Nica he ambled across the square. The town had a small open-air market with fruit stands and a few vendors. He filled a bag with Pilseners and old bread and fruit and a bottle of wine before walking back down the slope to the beach. The tide was still low and coming up higher and he walked heavy with his parcels around the rocks to his porch snug in the rocks between the bluff and ocean.

He swung in his hammock, drinking and smoking under the shaded porch. Reaching out with his hand he explored the seams in the block wall with his fingertips, and pushing off he swung back and forth suspended in the air. The movement was reassuring; the breeze was not enough here to make him swing and he would otherwise lie still and hot and stifling. Air rushed by and made him dizzy and made the landscape of sky and sand and ocean swing in diminishing arcs before his eyes. He did not want to lie still and unmoving.

A dog nosed his hand, and he pushed off of the dog, swinging back and forth in the shade and breaking pieces off of the stale loaf and feeding them to the dog. He was unusual: healthy, fully fleshed and collared. He belonged to La Chica and she would be nearby if the dog was here. He rolled another cigarette thick and full tamping the heavier end and holding it out when he heard the scrape of a sandal on concrete and the dog’s ears pitched forward. Her client had been safely guided back to his hotel at the surf camp she was building east of town along the big lagoon east of El Cuco. Dark and lithe, she took the smoke and a beer she pulled a chair alongside. Everyone had expected him to provide her protection. She needed none though, and his advances had gone unrequited some time ago. Now she extended a leg to the toe of his hammock, rocking it gently and drinking her beer and smoking slowly in blue curling wisps. And it was enough, and better this way, moving slowly and without effort in the shade.

Together they watched the tide come up to the homemade sea wall, stones laid one by one by Chipe’s father. The tide came up and the wind blew stronger onshore and one by one the riders came in from the breakers until none were left. The tide was high and the big sets crashed in solid walls, rushing and rebounding off the bluff and the sea wall in chop and confusion. Wood and leaves and trash swirled in the wash a few meters from his feet, swinging slowly and rocking gently too and fro. But the wall was built well by Chipe and his father, and it would be many years before the mortar crumbled and was undercut by the rushing water.

There they sat, under the shade of the roof drinking and smoking, she rocking him gently and rhythmically. “It’s gonna be all time” she said. “It’ll be firing double tomorrow.” He took a long slow drag, and rested his hands in his lap.

“Yeah, it’ll be all time for sure.” He thought of tomorrow’s high tide, surging forward, driven forward by the big swells unridable in a heavy afternoon onshore breeze. He’d never seen it reach that far up the beach, to the tail of the long and narrow and stinking lagoon. It would be good for the waves to wash over the beach he thought, and refill and renew the lagoon with fresh water and new life. “It’ll be all time,” he whispered again. Under the roof in the shade of the hammock he drank and smoked and dozed and slept. The fishing boats came in, over the breakers, fighting against the swirling chop and then gliding gracefully to a stop in the shallow water. The young men would run down with the dolly, balancing the middle of the boat and run it up to the trees, chocking it still in the sand. The wind rocked him gently now, and he was swinging alone in the shade.

When the sun dipped below the bluff he went to work and retrieved his second board. He didn’t care for the feel or look of the big gun. It was thinly narrow and pointed like a weapon for a soldier going to war, and surprisingly thick and heavy despite its sleekness. He waxed the board heavily and checked the leash for kinks and tears. Cool air moved past him, slowly pouring off the land and down the ravine. As he worked in the shade he could feel the land exhale and the water flatten.

The takeoff points would be full tonight. The big swells were starting to break overhead now, and the long pauses gave everyone a chance to paddle through the low surf to try their hand at a big wave. When he paddled out he was among the first, but far from the only one out, and had to wait until he could catch his first wave. The gun was fast and squirrelly and wanted to run out from under him. The wave was steep and fast and he plunged down its face, cutting a bottom turn so sharp he threw himself from his board and was cycled through the wash. He took two more waves, duck diving fluidly deep below the tipping crest. With the next drop he spread low and broad, leaning into the turn. Riding the wave as far as he could, he practiced his cutbacks, coming back into the closing wave. The big swell tomorrow would break steep and fast, he thought, and was no place to be uncomfortable.

After four good rides he rode the whitewash in, flat on his belly, arms levering the hanging teardrop of the gun’s nose. Darkness was oncoming and the waves were no longer the danger. Day was failing and in the flat glassy light he couldn’t see the other surfers to steer around them. He felt ready and awake, and he walked along the water’s edge, even though the sand was now cool. When the big swell came tomorrow he would be ready for the excitement, excitement made even more palpable when tipped with fear.

Other surfers came off the water and gathered in tight knots along the beach, watching night as it came over the narrow beach. There was safety on the beach, in and among the families that came down to enjoy the onset of darkness and catch a cool breeze in the open air. They would swim and play soccer on the narrowly slanting beach, safe in the company of their families. Sereno too was safe, though danger could now lurk in the jungle and among the rocks toward El Cuco. He stowed his board and retrieved his cooler from his locked room, taking a six-pack to the palapa near the boats. The fishermen gathered with their families, lean and brown and younger than he. They drank and smoked and together watched the children play.

When the time felt right he walked back and rinsed under the shower. The sun had set and the rooftop cistern had cooled. Drying himself partially he let the water remain on his chest; the slow moving night air would help to cool him. Around the hotel he walked, up the steep rocky hill level with the road and skirting the edge of the village above the lagoon. In the shade of the trees the lagoon failed to reflect any light, it was dark and black – a blank spot, a canker in the middle of the beating heart of this fishing hamlet. It should provide fish, crabs, a cool place to swim, a sanctuary, he thought. He thought of rope swings and barbeque and kids splashing while floating idly in white plastic inner tubes while mothers gossiped and fathers listened in a group around the radio. Walking around high above the lagoon the water had dried and he started to sweat, carrying his shirt with the beer and wine to keep it clean and dry.

He crossed the deep ravine at the head of the lagoon. It was undersized for the slow trickle that it now held. He neared a row of homes that lined the road where the bluff flattened and bent to pick a few palm-sized rocks. When the dog rushed him he skipped a rock in front of it and sent him back, barking and false charging in fear. The next one drew a yip and the dog retreated back into the yard.

Carmen always greeted him warmly, even before he was Sereno and when he was barely even gringo tranquilo she was polite and demure. She made a fine wife and kissed him on both cheeks. She and Chipe always welcomed him into their home, and he was glad to present her with her favorite wine. Carmen would have made him a fine wife he thought, smart, bright and industrious. She showed him to the table, opening and bringing them beers and hustling the children indoors. Occasionally she would check on them, bringing more beer and salsa.

They ate together. Chipe had saved him five of the largest prawns; the rest ate chicken. He found that without exception fishermen would not eat their catch. Carmen had boiled them in a thick sauce and served them over rice with beans and tortillas and fried plantains. Simplicity and honesty ruled women’s' kitchens and he had learned to eat without a fork, peeling the shrimp and scooping the beans with the thick flat tortilla and licking his fingers clean. After dinner they danced to the radio, Chipe and the older children laughing and hooting pointing at the big slow and clumsy man dancing with their mother.

He left the couple to dance and he fetched another round of drinks. The small refrigerator was hidden in a cubby outside. Chipe had always been a successful fisherman and his income had been well augmented by guiding tourists to jacks and tuna and bullfights. Despite a ceiling fan, radio and the small refrigerator they remained practical people and had built a lean-to thatch roof against a cinderblock wall. It was cooler to cook outside, though Carmen used a propane burner instead of the wood grill. He poured her another glass of wine and popped the tops on two more bottles of Pilsener. The dancing had ended and Carmen left to put the children to bed.

Together they drank the cold beer and rolled cigarettes. When Carmen returned it was to take up her sewing under the light and warn her husband with no uncertainty in her eyes. Chipe waved her off. Sereno’s head started to buzz and the blood pounded in his ears. He was floating now above the table, the ravine, the lagoon and the small fishing village with the beautiful right-handed point break. He looked from the clean break over the beach to the still and dark lagoon. “La laguna,” he asked, “Cuando nueva agua llegar?”

They both looked at him, unsure of what he was asking or why. How could he ask them he thought, about the lagoon and when it was refreshed; when the trash and the filth would be cleansed by new water? He started again. “La laguna de Los Flores, es con mala agua, si?

“Si.”

“La agua is vieja y muy sucio. Manana, los grande olas limpiar la laguna?”

“Es possible” Chipe said. “Es possible con viento y olas.” He shrugged without commitment. Wind and waves he thought, a day of wind and waves could reach the lagoon. If not, when the rainy season came the ravine would turn into a torrent and flood the lagoon with freshwater. He could wait he thought, to see it flood during the rainy season; it was but a short time away.

“En estacion de la lluviar, el rio limpiar la laguna?”

“Quiza si, quiza no.” Chipe was noncommittal again, rolling another cigarette. “El rio llega a agricolas ahora.” He thought of the farms, the pigs, cattle and melons that all grew to the west. They were thirsty for water, and the water from the little creek now flowed, diverted to the farms. He lit and took a long soulful drag, holding the tickling smoke inside his lungs he exhaled looking up into the jungle canopy.

“Comprende.” he said, “Comprende.” He understood and thought of the growing swell, sliding closer during the night and the inevitability of its arrival. The swell would arrive and the waves would crash and thunder, and the lagoon would be renewed. It was inevitable. Wind and rain and water had helped shape this earth and in the end, would prevail. He felt sure of it. The swell was timeless, ageless. People, he thought, their lives and lies and abuses, could never stand against the insoluble inevitability of wind and sun and surf. They sat in the dark now, drinking in the soft light cast from a waxing moon. He thanked them for dinner and received kisses and hugs. Chipe said he would be there to watch him ride the big waves tomorrow. Carmen would say a prayer to St. Ignacio that evening for him. Few, if any of the fishermen would go out today and many would pass the day watching the big surf.

Walking home in the darkness he stopped above the still lagoon. The moonlight reflected off a narrow patch of water, surrounded by the propping roots of the mangroves. The roots kinked and coiled around and over the open water encircling and squeezing the pool. It reminded him of cow’s heart he had seen under the glass case of a butcher shop, as a child, a heart attached to the veins and arteries, a still heart cold and bruised that didn’t beat. In the darkness, he couldn’t see the garbage, the scum, though it was black and still. He picked up a rock and threw it hard and far, trying to hit the lagoon and send ripples across the still and dark surface. It fell short. Others rattled around the thick trees. Some things, he decided as he gave up on the labor, couldn’t be reached.

Consciousness came slowly in the predawn. The hammock didn’t swing and he’d rolled his head away from the water during the night. A dog barked and a bird squawked a shrill and urgent cry. He was aware of the same sense of urgency, gnawing at him slowly and roiling him inside. In the stillness of the morning he heard the first crash and hiss of the surf pounding its way inward along the break. When the tide rose the swell would thunder and shake the rock itself.

He made preparations, drinking a bottle of water and eating two bananas. He stretched his back and shoulders circling forward and back. He rechecked the leash and board and put his room and porch all into order. The big swells were rolling and he felt the inevitability of their pull. Paddling through the inside break he hit the first wall of wash but the reformed wave had already been broken and he punched through. He stayed well off the point now; as the big swells rose and fell they unzipped across the small bay. The rises were towering and the troughs were deep, deep enough at this tide to roll and bounce him among the jagged rocks off the bluff should he falter.

After the inside break he paused and slowed his paddle. The big swells were firing, unfurling in clean lines from right to left. They were thick and heavy and he would need a break to get under and through. He paddled, slowly keeping in place and riding up and over the reforming waves. Then he accelerated, digging and pushing himself forward shoveling hard as a boil of water folded down toward him. He rocked forward and dove the nose deep under the upward pull, deep into the dark and cold water feeling the pressure from the water until it passed and he popped upwards safely behind the wave. The effort had knocked him backward and broken his momentum and he dug harder and faster, diving under two more waves. His shoulders burned as he paddled hard, pulling himself out and into the ocean. Gritting his teeth he adjusted his course left and up and around the unfurling lip of the last wave. Still he paddled, out and beyond the break of the heavy outside sets where he paused, panting and spent. He let the current pull him back in line with the takeoff near the break, watching the sets roll under him and steepen on their collision course with the land, detonating on the point with indifferent violence.

Waiting, he kept his spot on the outside, waiting for the next big set. He was not going to put himself in too deep, not this early. The gun still felt squirrelly. And the waves... At low tide the big sets were breaking far out on the point, further than he had ever been before in the deep water. They were shallow sloped, and then steepening in the upper half to throw a huge oblong barrel. He had never seen these back-heavy waves before, never here nor anywhere else. Out in front of the break he had to paddle hard to catch speed in the shallow part of the wave, double hauling until he started to drop. He dropped slowly into the toe of the wave, rising well over his head behind him. Crouching low he moved up the shoulder and into the steepening section of the wave and turned back to the bottom feeling sluggish and slow. Picking up speed he cut back up the face of the wave, exiting over the top in a burst and kicking the board away for a clean landing. He felt ready, and gathering his board he paddled out to the takeoff.

Ready and waiting, deep into the takeoff, he sat calmly on his board, with flat swells rolling under him. From the horizon he watched his set roll in. In the troughs he lost sight of it, rising again the lead wave appeared, slowly closer and closer. Then there was no doubt as the wave towered above him, sucking up and steepening. He turned his board, looking over his right shoulder he only saw the wave, it was kicking up big and he was racing backwards up its slope. At the shoulder he felt his feet lift higher and he popped up, low and straight. He would need to be ready for the drop and if he were too deep in the break he would need to dive deep and hard or be pinned and smeared into the rocks. He hung motionless on the shoulder as seconds ticked by and then the wave fell away. It fell away and he plunged straight down fast and headlong. He pressured the tail out left and took the force of the bottom turn in his knees carving a wall of spray as he climbed back up the wave riding a roundhouse cutback back into the barrel. Cutting back again the barrel engulfed him He rode on the shoulder matching speed as the barrel rolled and rolled. And the sound… The muffled opiate trance of the sound of a circular tunnel of solid water defied physics, defied acoustics: it was loud and calming and rushed through his ears like a throaty wind.

The rest of the morning he surfed the big swells until his arms ached and his legs trembled. He rode in as far as he could and then paddled slowly to the inner break, riding the wash to where he could plant his feet into the sand. Looking back he watched the few remaining riders dropping into waves that were breaking double overhead and more, throwing barrels and exploding onto the bluff.

He had been out a long time, longer than usual. The wind had held and the big swell kept most riders sitting on the beach. They eyed him silently as he walked alone. The tide was out but rising, and the hot black sand burned his feet as he walked to the seawall and into his hammock. Sleep came fitfully and started and stopped. He was so tired, with sleep oppressively heavy and pinning him down making his head swim. He thought of those first nights half in dream and partly in daydreaming recall, of walking the wet sand in the falling tide with hermit crabs scuttling away from his headlamp. There had been so many of them, more than he’d ever seen. They too walked the wet sand, protected in their shells from the violent crashes and pulls of the rolling waves. In the hammock in the calm hot air his body still felt the ripples and the movement of the heavy swell rising and dropping beneath him. Without swaying he was rolled and roiled, motionless in the hammock.

Going Feral

2010-04-25T07:34:00.000-07:00

I would grow dreads if I could. But there's a caveat with that.

I would let them form as a result of inaction. And lack of attention. And willful arrogance. Growing something implies a deliberate action. I propose no action at all.

I think that our original hipster forebearers let their hair go feral as a response to the strict and tidy norms of their era. For them it was another outward sign of rebellion against conformity - the conformity that bounded their appearance and actions.

Some thirty-five years later, I knew people with manicured dreads, who spent just as much time rolling and primping nice evenly-sized and rounded plaits as any sorority sister did curling and coifing. The style had been normalized, but the social message had been obliterated. Not just obliterated, but sodomized and napalmed. Dreads were now kind of cool and a "look" one achieved with time and an assortment of products.

Fashion, IMO, is meant to serve a narrow purpose. It is meant to make funny looking people more attractive. Do you have a horse face? Head square and blocky? There's probably a trick for that too.

It's the same for clothing. Fashion can teach people how to advertise their best features (and hide some defects). But it's meant to be done with a light touch. If you're already smokin' hot, nice hair and trendy shoes are just icing on the cake: likewise, they're not going to make you a foot taller or fifty pounds lighter.

And it's precisely this sort of misplaced energy that irritates me. I think that fashion has morphed from an individual concept to an exercise in crushing one's soul. It officially happened when trendy neo-hippies decided to start rolling their dreads twice a day with special conditioner. When the nonconformists of our era buy into the consumer-oriented fashion and style industry, hope is thin indeed.

But how do I take my own game to the next level? How I can I further my personal agenda of disaffection? Obviously, no more shampoo. There are probably some other general rules I need to live with. For starters, my conquest of apathy-induced dreads, by definition, cannot make my life more complicated or expensive. As a barely take notice now (haven't combed my hair in a week, and switched to a 2 in 1 shampoo/conditioner), that's a low bar already set.

My hippie predecessors were tired of societal norms about how they should dress and wear their hair and live their lives. Along the way that message was bastardized, and all get-ups were subsequently included in gross-scale commercialization of style. To me this isn't about rebelling or unconforming. It's about not caring enough to make an effort anymore.

Going feral also needs to remain practical. If I have problems keeping my helmet on and start taking direct tree limb shots to the head, I have become a hypocrite. And if the project irritates my wife enough that she refuses to sleep with me, well, there's a saying about cutting your nose to spite your face.

Past flirtations with hair apathy make me believe that maybe it just won't dread. But after all, maybe that's the point. Leave it alone, and see what it does.

And maybe, just maybe, that's the defining aspect of my personal brand.

So, let the lack of action begin.

East of town

2010-04-09T20:35:00.001-07:00

"Fuck you"
"Fuck me? Fuck your mom. Fucking cunt. Get the fuck outta here!"

It's not that Frank couldn't handle people cussing in his pool hall. He was uniquely situated near the overpass between industrial hell and WWII era tract housing. He saw his share of cracked out punks and meth heads, and a sassy fifteen year old barely raised his hackles. Her clothing he had tolerated, and was even OK with the clove cigarettes. At the site of her piece of shit boyfriend with the ear discs and Billy Idol haircut he had only shrugged. Frank had seen it before.

But to address him improperly, in his own establishment, well that was a mistake.

Mark and I always assumed Frank kept a gun in the back office. We would debate about what it was, but we were both sure it was there. He ran a cash business after all, on the Eastlake border near the highway. I seemed to think it was a simple .357 revolver, snubnosed and gloss black. Mark thought it could be nothing else but a sawed off 12-gauge, maybe even a Mossberg with a conversion kit to hold a couple extra shells. For us, bored and idle as we were, it was as good of a debate topic as anything else while we smoked cigars and played better then average 9-ball.

There was no doubt that Frank could shed his share of abuse. He was a Yankees fan. Cleveland at that time was suffering from a drought of self esteem and sports acumen. Sure, the river didn't really catch fire now, but it still smelled bad. Even the fish flies didn't show up any more, not like they used to. The Browns were gone to Baltimore, and the Indians had shown signs of life only to run into a lockout. The Cavs showed flashes of brilliance before MJ hit a miracle jumper, and then slid into years of mediocrity. To be a Yankees fan, a supporter of regular champions from a gleaming mystical metropolis was just an insult to everyone else.

And it was clear, at Frank's pool hall, that the Yankees were the house team. And it really was a slap in the face we thought. I would later meet Clevelanders, as I aged and grew up, and we always shared a special bond, like deprogrammed cult survivors. My college roommate was mystified by this bond. I tried to explain it to him once. Most Clevelanders, I said trying to quote Howard the Duck, have nowhere else to go, that's why they are still in Cleveland. We live in constant reminder of failure. The city crumbles, we have all of the big city problems with none of the big-city clout. Crack, heroin, gun violence and shitty schools without the draw of tourism. Sure, I admit, we have the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, but that's only because donors were even more afraid to put it in Detroit. Out of sheer spite to Chicago and New York, we hang on to our concert hall and playhouse, just so we can say "Look, we're every bit as good as you are."

But we're not. Our industries left or are leaving. The only things that are consistent are consistently bad. We got our football team back, but they have been terrible. The Yankees posters remind us of our failures. The Chicago Bulls beat the best Cleveland could throw at them: Nance, Kerr, Price, and Doughtery. Before that Elway crushed the city with the Drive, and later the Indians had The Mesa Choke and coughed up the World Series. Living in Cleveland, you get used to disapointment.

The posters threw it in our face. I made the mistake one year of trying to kid Frank about it, and he almost tore me a new asshole. Three years of playing pool and he would recognize me, but didn't like me. He probably had plenty of friends already in New York.

So we sat back and watched him tear into this pre-pregnant teenager. At least it was entertainment. Had we better things to do, ten-thirty wouldn't have found us partially drunk at Frank's pool hall. We swore all the time, it wasn't really a problem. But this girl was cursing a blue streak and a half, and it irritated Frank. In his world, I guess women make pies and patiently dish out blow jobs on request. In Frank's world, I imagine, the words that come out of a girl's mouth don't include "cocksucker" and "quifer".

He probably thought it reasonable to tell this girl to watch her mouth, to take some time to consider her language, to act like a lady when in his establishment. She probably had father issues though, and quickly learned that there was no winning an argument, swear off, or any kind of confrontation with Frank. Frank was from New York after all, home of pennants, glamour, and real tough people. I sank the eight and started to wonder what had brought him to Cleveland.

While the little dust up had been entertainment, when it settled the hall once again was unintersting. Women were scarce there, even angst ridden girl punks were an improvement. The ceiling seemed dingier, the air even more stale, and the jukebox tinnier and full of treble. That night we left shortly after. Settling up we paid twelve bucks for an hour and a half of pool. On a weekend, I wondered if that kind of take would be worth defending with the business end of a firearm.

I drove back. Back then I kept a five gallon bucket full of beer in the back of the truck, replacing the ice as needed. By now the bottles had been in long enough that all identity had peeled off and floated to the surface. When we could get someone to buy for us, I purposely chose bottles of similar shape and size. We made a game of it, honing our tastes to identify Warsteiner from Sam Adams.

After dropping Mark off I headed back in toward the city. I couldn't help but think of Frank, and wonder where he went off to at night. He had to go somewhere. I lit a cigarette and tried to picture Frank, going home, somewhere east of town. He would drink beer in the hot night air, sweating, looking out over the old industrial valley, a reminder of something that couldn't be flustered or touched or torn or burned down.

The Secret Life of Knees

2010-03-15T14:04:00.000-07:00

“I’m going to knock you the fuck out.” I said to myself. It was the sort of promise I found myself making several times during the race. The first instance was at mile 8, when the course doubled back on itself, and racers passed shoulder to shoulder on one lane of the road. A lady with an orange bib (marathon relay) running in the opposite direction was furious, screaming at everyone she passed “Why are you running this way? Why are you running this way?” Of course, she had been shuttled to mile 6, and ran the return loop to the 13.1 mark, and had not run past the convergence. Still though, after passing several dozen, if not several hundred other runners, a pile of orange cones, and race officials, a sane person would have gotten it.

Now I’m a cheerful lad, and I was cruising along, barely a third of the way into my race. And she pulled me out of my zone. Crazy bitch. Something needed to be done, someone needed to look out for every other innocent runner on the course.

I never let her get further with me than “Why are you”. I raised two fingers, pointing my right index finger at the bird I flipped her with the left. She gave me a good hard glare, but shut up. Runners of the 30^th Hyannis marathon, you’re welcome. Still though, I made a mental note to jab her in the throat if I ever saw her again – not that I’m condoning violence against women, I just never wanted to hear her voice again.

The third time was over a span of four miles later in the race, centering around mile 21. I was chasing down a group of people who had slowed their pace. One of them was a kid who I later found out was eleven. I passed him running up one of the last climbs. A few minutes later, he ran up to me, and asked for the time. “Almost two buddy.” Then he ran past me. And stopped. I passed him, and he started running again. After he was about 100 yards ahead of me, he’d stop again. We repeated this dance several times before I started keeping count, then a half a dozen more.

Full disclosure: this little shit ended up beating me. That wasn’t the irritating part; a lot of people beat me that day. But who lets an eleven-year old kid run a marathon? Seriously. Eleven-year olds shouldn’t be left to brush their teeth without supervision. This kid would suddenly pull up to a stop, and nearly trip up someone behind him. I watched one guy nearly steamroll him, and then stop to give the kid a firm talk about race etiquette. After I walked the water stop at around mile 24, I didn’t see him anymore. When my wife watched him cross the line about a minute ahead of me, she was equally shocked. Is there anyway an endurance event is not physically damaging to a kid? Are these parents criminally negligent? If someone knows better, please let me know.

Oh yeah, I was going to push him down the next time or two he stopped. It seemed reasonable at the time.

Bracketed between these two morons, I made my most important vow. And it would be the only pledge of violence I followed through on.

Last year I trained for and ran the half marathon, my first real distance event. In my recap I talked about the lack of epicness that the ordeal entailed. After the fact, I felt somehow cheated. My friend Mark had kept a blog about his training sessions and race day experience, and it remains a piece of riveting journalistic excellence. Don’t expect that from me, not here.

My decision to train was based on several factors. The first is that I like to eat - I mean, really like to eat. I exercise so I can continue to eat what I want, when I want, and until I am sick if I so choose.

For most who know me, you know I am semi-employed, with little to no work in the winter months. I work for a two-man arborist business, and when my boss takes off for three months to go surfing, there is little left for me in terms of employment. Add in the fact that Nantucket is a small and isolated island, and you have the ingredients for an existential crisis. Distance training requires mental discipline, and running in brutal winter conditions needs preparation. Knowing that I had miles to turn probably kept me from turning into a lazy, unemployed and worthless alcoholic.

The last piece was motivation. The unknown has a certain calling to me. I already knew I could train and run a half marathon easily. And though my attitudes are currently shifting on the subject, improving on times was never an important goal. So I signed on for the marathon for the same reason I drove across a sandbar at low tide: to see if I can make it.

Hal Higdon seemed like a delightful old man, so I chose his Intermediate training schedule. I felt comfortable with that level, having completed a half marathon, Iron teams, and some other shorter races the previous year. It peaked at two 20-mile long runs, and tapered three weeks before race day. I was initially a little uncomfortable with only going 20 miles for my long run, but decided that I could push it to twenty-two if I wanted.

The only problem is that September was beginning, and I hadn’t run since early July.

There are several excellent athletes on island, the kind who run full Iron Man triathlons and are competitive in endurance races. I see them in the spring, when we overlap at the pool, then we disappear from eachother’s lives. My wife’s coworker is one of them, and she once told me that my training regimen is backwards, or at least opposite everyone else. This is true. I train hard in the winter and early spring, as I mentioned, since there is nothing else to do. Summer is for work, surfing, and bluefish; drinking beer and clamming, smoking cigars and sitting on the beach. Last year, after Iron Teams, I did nothing until the Nantucket triathlon a month later, and wheezed my way to a subpar 5k. Now I was two months removed from even that piece of isolated activity.

Higdon’s schedule was 18 weeks, which gave me just five weeks to rebuild my mileage base. So the first day I panted my way to 1.75 miles, running a box from my house out Crooked lane to Madaket, and back on Wannacomet. Six miles was that week’s total. The first three-miler nearly killed me.

I had started running only two years before I moved to the island. I was lifting a lot of weights at the time. My employer, the venerable U.S. government, had decided to subsidize $75 a month towards employee gym memberships, as well as provide thirty minutes of paid exercise time three times a week. Combined with a spouse student discount, I was working out at the university gym for $10 a month. With the salary figured in (yes, I was technically getting paid to work out), I actually made an hourly rate of $12.63 while pumping iron.

Even then, I would slowly jog a mile or less, just to warm up. Then I started running outside on nicer days. Then I took the dog with me, so I wouldn’t have to exercise twice to tire her out (an energetic husky mix, she has since become my running partner). Sierra loved the runs, and I slowly increased my mileage. My back pain, a presence for the last two years, started to ease. Running it seemed, loosened and stretched the muscles that no other therapy had been able to reach. Eventually I was regularly running 3-4 miles two or even three times a week.

Getting back on track was harder, because I knew what I was capable of. I kept pushing myself all the way through mileage buildup. The training was unremarkable until Thanksgiving. We spent the holiday with Jen’s aunt and uncle in the Catskills, and the Saturday following the feast I drove to the Ashokan reservoir for a 12-miler. I ended up running 13, looping the only road I knew twice. Both times I ran into a deep ravine, and had to climb back up to the spillway. Having completed that run I finally felt like I had my legs back, and the marathon seemed less abstract, and like a real possibility.

Spending the winter running on Nantucket is an ordeal. There are two obstacles to training here. The weather sucks. My gym membership lapsed, so I did not have the luxury of running inside during inclement weather. I became a devoted follower of forecasts, and planned my runs between gaps in the radar or before and after wind events. Nor’easters were of the utmost importance to track; one storm event could derail runs for an entire weekend. I even became a devoted student of the tides: if I kept on top of the charts I could run along the hard packed sand on Nantucket Sound.

This winter, I am told, was colder than most. Snow stuck around for almost 2 weeks over one stretch. Gales blew. I started one Sunday run in snow, which turned into horizontal rain. By the end, the sun popped out and the temperature was 45 degrees. I ran a tedious 8 miles down and back the Polpis bike path, over snow and ice without falling. I ran into headwinds so strong, the air would make a low whistle if I opened my mouth, like blowing into a soda bottle.

If the weather weren’t enough of an obstacle, it is compounded by the island’s limited size and eclectic geomorphology. One of the reasons I became a student of the tides was to utilize the beaches. There is only one major east-west route across the island: several long and narrow ponds bisect the island running north to south. Very early on, I grew tired of the limited road options. The situation only worsened as my mileage increased.

So I ran beaches. I ran Dionis to Eel Point, and south to the Head of the Plains. I ran along the bottom of Clark’s cove and Hummock Pond. I ran every way I could to avoid running the same path past the windmill and high school. I poured over walkjogrun.com for hours, days in advance mapping my routes. I was always precise about the mileage, and clicked away until I was within a quarter mile of my goal. It was not only the joys of discovering new routes, and running a new piece of undiscovered island, but a process to look forward to. Jen would sometime wonder how I seemed to know weird back streets and trails. The Google Earth platform, as useful as it was, often confuses streets for driveways, trails, or nothing at all. This made runs reconnaissance missions as well.

I exhausted the Middle Moors, alternating staring at Hoick’s Hollow or the old aboveground tennis courts. I started crisscrossing the scrub plains between Eel Point and Madaket roads. I ran from Smith’s point to Wauwinet. I ran the Polpis Milestone loop. I topped altar rock dozens of times, circled the cranberry bogs, and ran narrow trails in an orange cap during gun season. I spooked deer, horses, ducks, lovers, and teens up to no good.

Eventually I took to naming my routes. ‘The Retarded Angel 17’ extensively crisscrossed the island’s west end. I ran it the day before leaving for Christmas vacation, and on the map it looked like an asymmetrical praying angel. ‘There’s Beer at the End’ started in Squam, and ended at the Brewery after fifteen miles. During the last stretch, running along a road cratered with deep puddles, I shocked myself on Bartlett’s electric fence.

Injuries, I think, are part of every endurance runner’s training. I suppose that most are nagging and manageable, as mine seemed to be. I was stupid, and switched from my Saucony’s to New Balance halfway through. For whatever reason, they didn’t feel right. I felt like the sole was slapping hard on the ground. They were stiffer, but this had been recommended to me. I went looking for big guy’s shoe, something that would last longer than my roadsters. In the end, after only nine miles my foot gave out in view of Sankaty. Things were touch and go for a week as I kept my ankle iced, and rush ordered a new pair of the same model Saucony’s. Somehow, the tendon (or ligament) connecting at the top of my foot/bottom of my shin had become inflamed and painful. It was weird.

The major problem came in the latter stages of my second 20-miler. I had to move it up, as a wicked low pressure system was heading our way for the weekend. This storm was the first of two that paralyzed DC. So I moved my run up to Friday – a cold and windy day. My plan was to run the Polpis/Milestone loop, and then a loop through the Moors. By mile 16 my hip flexor had tightened in the cold, and had affected my stride. My knee started to hurt. At mile 18 I started to grunt in pain with every stride, and walked the rest of the way home.

I knew what the problem was. I had impact-related patellar tendonitis years ago. Now it was back. I took a week off. We were going to NYC for vacation anyway. The walking however, made it worse. Fortunately, I was beginning a three-week taper, and only missed a ten miler that weekend. Returning home, I kept on a strict diet of ice and Ibuprofen. The next run I did was a five miler, and I had to stop at 4 because of the pain. I bought a brace, and it helped. After my final Sunday run (an 8-miler), I found that the pain became manageable after five or so miles.

Tim Lepore is my doctor, and I went to see him the Tuesday before the race. His office is filled with arrowheads, stuffed armadillos, Winchester rifle posters, and pictures of him competing in 100-mile endurance races. He was definitely the man I wanted to see.

“I need to know if I’m tearing my knee to shit.” That was my first question for him. I really wanted to compete in the race, but not at the expensive of major damage. After that, I was really interested in managing my pain. Tim examined my knee, feeling around the kneecap, and asking a few other questions.

“I’m not sure if I’m the one you want for advice” he stated. Dr. Lepore, it had been rumored, ran from Hyannis to Provincetown on a stress fracture that he stoicly self-medicated along the way. He is one tough SOB. But I wanted his advice, and he was fair in dispensing it. We talked about where the pain was, how I had trained, and my past history. He told me all about races I should do. Once, his nurse had to restrain him from running home to get me a topical pain reliever from his personal stash.

At the end of the visit, Tim had given me race plan, some quality anti-inflammatory drugs, and motivation. I later returned and picked up a vial of his secret sauce, some kind of topical super awesome icy hot that smelled like garlic. His imparting words were to take it easy until mile twenty, then I could be the wolf, picking off the three-legged deer. He sent me out with strict orders to call him on Monday, and tell him about the race.

Between the meds, the advice, and his personal support, I was back on track to race. I also would have been scared to tell him I didn’t finish. I wanted to be the wolf, not the gimpy deer.

I had entered the Clydesdale class, for men 211 to 225 pounds. Race day morning, I weighed in at a naked 213, before breakfast. There is some kind of formula of calculating energy usage by an athlete during competition. The relationship is quadratic, so it leads to the fact that I consume about four times as much energy to move the same distance as a hundred and fifty pound runner. I am not complaining about being tall and well built. Most times, the advantages are superior. Except in running. I burn through shoes faster, and need to drink more. My knees experience much more striking force on the pavement. One of the reasons I chose Hyannis was to be able to measure my success against people my own size.

Race day was cloudy and cold, with a light breeze. Both sun and snow threatened that day. I opted for a bit of a lighter setup, a thin long sleeved shirt under my regular running jersey, rather than a thicker layer over top. The trip to Hyannis entails getting up early, driving to the airport, flying the commuter plane over, and renting a car. Repeatedly, I had to tamp down my excitement until I was in the starting gate, and was excited to start running. I knew I would be out there a long time, my guess was 4:45, so I was happy to be underway. I ran an eleven minute first mile, repeatedly reigning myself in and waiting for opening to appear, not blowing by slow runners at the start. The second mile passed after another ten minutes, followed by a water stop. I would need to hit all of them – I had calculated my ideal fluid intake at something basically unachievable. By mile five I had settled into a regular ten minute mile, which felt dependable and the right expenditure of effort.

The Hyannis course is a 13.1 mile loop that the marathoners run twice. At the marker for mile number 12, everyone started to pick up the pace. Of the 4500 participants, the marathon had been capped at 500. Only 1 out of every 9 runners were wearing the blue bib, and I reigned in my competitive energy to let the others pass. At thirteen miles, the halves turned right to the finish. I tapped the mile marker, and whispered, “I’m going to knock you the fuck out.”

My race was two races. The first, other than the crazy yelling lady, was without incident. I hit 13.1 miles in about 2:11, exactly the pace I had planned on. My Ipod playlist had been carefully chosen, and I had been in the zone for long stretches at a time, coming to and realizing three miles had passed, and checking my splits.

I thought I was prepared for the letdown after finishing the first loop. My veiled threat was my own motivational ploy. I wasn’t going to strike the 13-mile placard: it was symbolic. I was going to take out that second loop, and I was in for the fight, and I was going to win.

But I had underestimated the emotional letdown. Since mile 12, the crowds had grown, the pace had quickened, and energy was everywhere. I could here music and cheering from the finish gate. Then I passed it, and it all went away. Two hours earlier, the starting chute had been packed with people fenced to the sides. Now, traffic came in one direction. I had to dodge half marathoners who had finished up and were spilling off the sidewalk and getting in my way. On Main street, I was forced to the side and spent a quarter mile in fear of a driver opening a parked car door. Then the enormity of another loop seemed apparent.

Finally, I reached the turn for Sea street, and the sight of a dozen runners stretching out ahead of me. I went through my checklist. My legs felt a little tired, but my stride was smooth. I knew I had plenty of reserve. I meditated on my body. A brief back cramp had come and gone, as had a side stitch. I had no pain in my knee or hip. There was a slight ache from my right instep, and I resolved to ignore it.

Still though, miles 13 to 15 were the toughest, mentally. I had been running for two and a half hours straight by the time I reached the mile marker 15 water station. I stopped and walked through it, as had been my plan. I took three cups of Gatorade, dropping the empties in the three successive garbage cans on the right. After the third cup, I kicked back into a jog and began ascending the slight hill from the Hyline dock to the JFK memorial. I felt great. Runners ahead of me started to flag, I stayed at my 10 minute mile pace, grooving up until mile 18. This was the prettiest stretch of course, and finishing looked like a real possibility.

My goals for the event were tiered. The primary one was to finish the race. Then to finish in under five hours. Then under 4:45, the time I had guessed on my registration form. Those were the goals I had control over. I also wanted to place in my division, but knew enough not try to control anyone else’s race.

I had kept an eye out for mile marker 17. I passed it before a climb, knowing that I had less than ten miles to go. Singe digits. I played the concept over and over again in my mind. At the mile 18 water stop, I pulled off onto a lawn, and stretched my hamstrings. They had started to ache a little, but would not complain again.

I hit mile 20, and could tell my pace was slowing. I was not going to be the wolf. However, I knew I wasn’t the deer either. Nothing hurt terribly, my feet and legs felt, I thought, like I should expect them to feel after running twenty miles. They were tired though, and a little stiff, and that had begun to shorten my stride, and reduce my speed.

Miles 21 to 23 were tough. They ran along a busy street and then through a residential district that was kind of boring. It was the last part of a loop before being led back into the homestretch. Since mile 20, a realization had dawned on me gradually. I knew I was going to finish. Discovering this had been a process, not a revelation, and I would obsess about it for the rest of the race.

During these later miles, my music list failed to distract me from my running, and I turned it down. It was getting cold, windy, with a few specks of drizzle. At times I started feeling chilled. I had stopped passing, or getting passed by everyone (except for that little shit kid). The only song that worked was “So Lonely” by the Police. I put it on the list as a joke. Now it seemed remarkably appropriate. There were few runners, spaced out in a long line. The crowds were gone, and even the volunteers at the water tables and intersections were looking bored with the pace of the later finishers.

I played a lot of mental games. Every 5 minutes I would check my splits, and work out in my head what I thought I was running, and what my finishing time would be. I walked a two hundred yard section as my instep started hurting, and stretched my foot out on a fire hydrant. When I recalculated my splits at mile 23, I realized that I could safely walk the rest of the way in and get under the five-hour gun.

Considering Tim’s wolf-deer motivation, I tired to push my pace for the final 5k. My legs still felt remarkably strong, but stiff. I could not stride out as far as I wanted to, and when I pushed it, my knees hurt. I tried running faster with the same choppy stride to make up the difference, but after 23 miles, the increased aerobic effort was too much. Even after another brief stretch at the final water stop, I still couldn’t do it. I would not be the wolf.

Around 25.5-ish miles, I pulled off to the right. I had plenty of time. I was going to beat my estimate of 4:45. My foot hurt, and I didn’t want to reach the finish line looking like I was in distress. I knew where I was, and walked forward, rotating my torso, adjusted my hat, wiped my face, and shook out my leg. I straightened my shorts and tightened my ipod band. When I saw the sign reading “Hidden drive”, I jumped into a trot. The pain disappeared and my stride lengthened. At the bottom of a hill, the road turned slightly into a quarter mile straightaway before the finish turnoff. Up ahead, I saw the 26 mile marker, and remembered the promise I had made, and kept. I knocked you the fuck out.

I had caught up to a guy in a red jacket who had passed me while I was walking. His kids jumped out into the course, and hand in hand, they ran together for the finish line. I slowed, letting him get ahead. For starters, I wasn’t going to chase down some guy in the last 100 yards of a marathon. Second, I had also spent a good five miles considering my finish line pose, and wanted a clear picture.

My official time was 4:41:46. In all my flexing, I forgot to stop my watch right away. I turned about a 2:11 on the front stretch, and a 2:30 on the back end. I’m not disappointed at all, and am more surprised that between walking through water stops, two stretch breaks, and two walk intervals, I only lost twenty minutes. In hindsight, taking those breaks is likely the reason I was able to go relatively fast for the second loop.

In fact, I won third place in the fat guy category. True, there were only 7 guys who ran the race at that weight, but it is hardly my fault. I got to go around town afterward and eat dinner with two medals around my neck.

As I write this, it is the morning after, and I am very hungry. I burned up around 4500 calories, and have been cold from lack of any energy stores in the tank. I feel like I have run a marathon. My knee hurts, as I haven’t iced it, and my feet hurt if I walk without slippers. Otherwise my legs are just sore. The worst injury though, is some chafing. While my scrotum remained undamaged, it managed to rub both my thighs raw. Go figure, I must have nuts of steel.

What’s next? Probably a week off, and then I’ll start looking into training for the Nantucket Iron Teams Relay. My knee could be a minor problem, but between some strengthening and stretching exercises, rest and reduced mileage, and cross training, I am sure of a recovery. Another marathon? I won’t rule it out, but I am not rushing to find one to enter either. Besides, summer is coming, and summer is for beer and bluefish.

Party Rhetoric

2010-03-13T06:29:00.000-08:00

Beverage parties are sweeping the nation. Unless you've been living under a rock, you've heard of the tea party phenomenon. Originally a grassroots movement of fiscal hawks, the Tea Party movement quickly morphed into a angry mob coopted by misspellers, racists, nut jobs, and even racist misspellers.

But since those good old days of misdirected bigoted outrage, the movement has been under fire from splinter cells and the liberal media. Some claimed that asking $549 to attend a convention to celebrate fiscal discipline was disingenuous. Some wondered who would sponsor the ultimate tea party platform? The convention was sponsored by Tea party nation, a for-profit group. Like any family reunion, though, it was not without its drama. Tea Party Patriots, boycotted the event, saying that her sister Tea Party nation was "hogging all the attention". Tax Day Tea Party wanted to come, but thought that exposing his children to 1776 Tea party's life partner (America's Re-Tea party) would be unhealthy for them. The Tea Party Express and American Tea Party were both there, which was awkward since the divorce. And when FreedomWorks Tea Party arrived late and drunk, he was asked to leave. He hasn't been doing well since his wife left him for the Coffe Party USA.

And who could blame him? She was obviously taken in by a cult of some sort. Advocating cooperation in government? And a platform of participatory democracy and non-obstructionism? Sponsorship from CNN? Bah. Where is the flag waving? And yelling? No signs or angry anti-government speeches? Some movement. Its like she left the Bundy's for the Cosby's. The Simpsons for the Waltons. I find the whole idea of the coffee party ridiculous. There's a reason that Married with Children was terrible but long-lived. It had sex appeal and irreverence. Nobody wants to sit down and calmly discuss their differences with tolerance and mutual respect. That's for Canadians.

I worry for the future. The coffee party movement has the advantage of positive recall. I don't drink tea: I don't drink coffee either. But I used identify coffee drinkers as the hip crowd who would get to stay out late. They would probably grow up to play acoustic guitar and ride trains across India and give their kids names like Rhys and Daria, and shop at Whole Foods.

When I think of a tea party, I picture little girls sitting around a table with their dolls and father who is frustrated at not having had a boy. When I think of a coffee party, I think of people who are otherwise to dull to stay alert on their own.

Is this what I am resigned to? Is this the spectrum of real political affiliation nowadays? As I see it my choices are tea or coffee; fringe lunacy or mind numbing politeness. I know I come down heavy on the tea party movement, but at least they have a recipe for success.

Our bevero-political groups are playing a dangerous game of hot drink one-upsmanship. Boilling water proliferation is at an all time high. We should act fast. Liberals are already rallying around the coffee movement, a decidedly reactionary, but intellectually productive drink. In a cave somewhere, there's probably a clandestine meeting of rebels forming a soft drink alliance. Before we know it, we will see a veritable soda fountain of political movements in various stages of media coverage, and there will be Coke parties everywhere.

It's only a matter of time until someone else skips over soda entirely and into the realm of libations. This would be mostly to the detriment of the Tea Party. The Coffee Party movement would be at a distinct strategic advantage. They could coalesce with the post meal aperitifs, your Kahluas, Kemoras, and other wealthy industrialists, whose power base is in the Northeast. Through espresso stouts and coffee porters, they could join up with the lagers and ales and evolve to caucus with the Keg Party. It would only be natural that they find common ground with the Tonic Allegiance of Gins and Vodkas, and become an important group to woo in an adult beverage dominated Congress. Very quickly the Tea party would find itself bereft of mixers and left to broker entrance into the narrow ideological sway of the Hot Toddy Spectrum. Our beloved two party system could end up a parliamentary open bar gone mad.

What would that leave the Tea Party Movement to do?

It is only reasonable to find a beverage that unites other movements under a common umbrella. Alcohol, after all, is the universal solvent. What better a symbol to promote Tea Party platform, subject to paranoia and fits of emotional outbursts than consuming a distilled spirit? They seem to hate socialists, so vodka is out (if you don't like it, move to Russia). Scotch and gin are too British - the Tea Party moniker makes that association untenable. Tequila? Only if it learns English first and promises not to take our jobs. Rum is a good idea, and has the benefit of domestic production. But it comes in too many dark varieties; even the lighter colored ones are viewed with suspicion.

This leaves us with the only obvious choice: whiskey. You can drink it straight, or you can mix it with coke or ginger ale or seven up. You can make cosmopolitans, long island ice teas; whiskey sours, old fashioneds, and boilermakers. Its hip, trendy, cool, and full of positive name recognition. It will bring at least enough drink combinations to avoid invoking cloture.

I even have a new name for the Tea Party movement: the Whiskey Rebellion. I'm thinking that they can hold their next convention at the Jack Daniels distillery. What better location to hold a Whiskey Rebellion? The schizophrenic nature of a distillery town that banned the sale of alcohol is a natural backdrop for the movement.

Still, aren't there any other options? Ahh. If they could only schedule a mixer. At least that's a party I would consider attending.

Central American beach camping for beginners

2009-10-26T07:58:00.000-07:00

I was admittedly a novice at Central American surf beach camping.

Anyone fortunate enough to travel through Latin America has observed careless tourists hemorraging money as they go, drinking too much, and taking little notice of their possessions. As far as this goes, if you can't take the care to safeguard your stuff, you don't deserve to have it. Master this fact, and you are on your way to an understanding.

Just the other day here in the 'tucket, I saw some dude out out walking a dog. Kinda. This guy was was typical NY tourist, collar up, pink shorts, parading his Bichon Frise around Quaker street. I could have kicked the thing a good 30 yards (35 if it hadn't been wearing some kind of jacket).

In El Zonte, I had to step over a dead dog in one of the streets. Meanwhile, this douchebag probably dropped more on his dog in a year than an El Salvadorean family sees in a year.

The thing to understand, is that here in the states we mostly safeguard our dogs. Down there, a dog is a tool with which to safeguard one's possessions.

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How to safeguard one's possessions when beach camping in Latin America.

1) Find a good dog.

It seems a matter of fact that there will be a dozen or so dogs around whatever beach you are camping. They will size you up. These are survivors, but will likely die in a week without you feeding them. The goal is to start a terrible dogfight near your camp. Wait until you have gotten the pack's interest. Throw a couple of tortillas (10 for a quarter) onto the beach. The strongest couple of dogs will win out. Remember what they look like. If one has a louder bark than the other - winner!

This little fella was waiting for Keith to pass out so he

could eat his wounded leg.

Often times there will be a family around from you you are renting beach space, hammocks, or living space. In this case, you will inevitably be courting their dogs.

2) Feed the dog a big pile of food.

When you have found a good dog (dominant, good bark), lure it into camp with a tortilla (or day old cookie (a nickel at the bakery). Then leave it 3 more tortillas under your hammocks.

3) Go a short way away.

Take a short walk or surf. 30 minutes to an hour. See if the dog is still there when you get back. TIP: Tie or hang your stuff off the ground or the dog will piss on it.

4) Feed the dog more food.

If the dog is still there, he obviously sees you as a sucker. He will hang out all day for the prospect of a meal. His bark will at least draw attention to a potential camp thief. This is the best you can hope for. Before you leave for dinner toss another few tortillas under your hammock.

5) Sleep with food in your pocket.

On your return, drop the last tortilla, cookie, chicken bone or whatever under your hammock. Go to bed with a tortilla in your pocket, or rub some chicken grease on your shirt during dinner.

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How to safeguard yourself from dogs in Latin America

To be fair, much of what I have to say here can be gleaned from the good read "The Sex Lives of Cannibals" by J Maarten Troost. But I can vouch for it.

Dogs are the first line of defense there. Shotguns are next. If a dog barks at someone, fine. Bites them, fine. Pulls a limb from a bandito - that might actually earn it dinner. These dogs are tough, and aggression is rewarded. Don't feel that you have any recourse with the owner. The only association that exists between most locals and their dogs is the sporadic feeding of chicken bones.

So, don't be a pansy. Expect packs of dogs. Fortunately, rocks are plentiful.

In El Salvador, rocks came in two sizes: distractors and yelpers. Distractors are quarter sized, and go in your left hip pocket (assuming right hand dominance). Yelpers are ping pong ball to racquetball sized, and go in your right hand pocket. You might need them quickly.

When you first get rushed, often times you can keep on walking and toss a few distractors over their heads. Aim isn't important. That's why you can fling with your left hand. Just get them interested in some noise opposite the direction you are traveling. Works best for dogs around houses.

Sometimes though, ya gotta make em yelp. Wing a yelper rock with feeling at the closest dog to you. Odds are he is the dominant one, and the others will follow his lead. Even if you miss, Latin American dogs understand what a good rock throw is all about, and will back off a bit. If it is too dark to see clearly, skip a yelper in front of a dog. This will buy you some space, and opportunity to throw a few empty handed fakes to conserve your supply.

You eat like El Salvadorans

2009-10-07T17:56:00.000-07:00

Alternate title: But how much ceviche can you really eat?

I could eat a lot of ceviche.

A surfer's diet in paradise is set by routine. You get up at 5. This is 15 minutes after Sam has been up checking the surf and discreetly making noise to wrest his friends from their hammocks. At 5am the surf is perfect: offshore wind, glassy, and no other assholes are out yet. Breakfast is a plantano or manzana that you grabbed last night from a fruit vendor in town, at the cost of a nickel. You eat it before putting on sunscreen and hitting the surf.

At about 10am Noah and Keith hit the beer stand (Sam surfs on for another hour or three). First comes a full litre aqua. Then a plate of huevos rancheros. Two dropped eggs covered in picante sauce, over a bed of frijoles negras. Tortillas on the side, smaller and thicker than their Mexican counterparts, are great covered in hot sauce. The eggs doubtless came from one of the chickens running underfoot. By now the wind has changed, and we eat under a tin or cement roof looking out at the point break, watching a now crowded field of surfers jockey for position and wipe out on mushy waves.

Then come the cervezas. Icy cold Pilseners keep rolling in for the rest of the day. Sam shows up and is eager for vendor food. We pack up the camino naranja, and cruise the CA-2 looking for vendor food. It's the heat of the day now, though we alternate windows down and AC. The landscape is too beautiful to cut yourself off from it for too long. Either way, reggae and Dropkick Murphy's are pumping.

Sometimes we seek out the most modest streetside grill we can find. "Se comida vende?" we ask. "Si, Si", and a plump El Salvadorena eagerly points us toward a bench and table. Her husband sits in the shade and nods. Their daughter is sent to take our drink order, and the son bikes to a bigger stand to get more Pilseners. Watermelon trucks rumble a couple of yards past, flying through the cliffs and curves on the way to Honduras or Guatemala. The bottles shake on the table.

"Hice la tabla." The old man wandered over. You made the table? We look at the joints and slats appreciatively, dropping a couple buenos and muy amables. We invite him to sit and buy him a beer. Little is said. He knows no English, and our Spanish is limits us to few pleasantries and queries. He excuses himself when the food arrives.

"Tengo pollo o pescado." Chicken or fish, the woman told us. The fish was always a pescado frito, fried whole in oil. The chicken was seasoned and grilled. Everything was cooked over a simple fire grate. The quality and simplicity were amazing. Each meal came with a fried plantain. The tally? 15 beers, 3 meals; 17 dollars.

Other days we would opt highbrow. At the tops of overlooks, 2-story concrete structures dominated the vistas. The kitchen was below and seating above, always overlooking a pocket beach and point break 500 feet down. Here was more cosmopolitan. Ceviche brisas del mar came in a soup bowl with saltines. Fresh octopus was identified by suckers still strong enough to stick to the plate. The shrimp were 8" long. And each plate came with decorative, yet tasty, whole crabs. The tally? $50.

On other days, when we would need to stop for hielo, we would go into town for pupusas. The pupusa lady worked a piping hot griddle under a hot tin roof in the middle of the day. She would slap two circles of dough around a thin layer of chicken, cheese, or beans and pat them together. They were good, but they were hot. We took a bag home one day for dinner. Four hours later, I swear they were still too hot to eat. The tally? $8.

On the way back to the beach, we would stop for a bottle of anejo or a few packs of Pilsener. We would lounge back into the hammocks with a cocktail and cigar and pass the heat of the day. The fishermen would come in and unload their catch, and sometimes stop by for a chat and a smoke. The evening surf session would begin after 4, and conclude after sunset (530).

Then it was dinner time.

I enjoyed stepping out at dinner time. It was a time for formality, so we would wear flip flops and shirts. With the sun down, people would emerge and congregate in front of shops. It was no longer blistering hot. Kids played soccer in the street. Everyone would stop and give us the eyeball. In El Coco, the nearest doctor was a 3 hour bus ride away. Not too many gringoes came out this way; those that did never left the gated security of the lone resort. We were a spectacle indeed.

Teenage girls would cluster, point and giggle. The old men would nod. After we sat and our round of Pilseners arrived, a gang of boys would hang out in front of us and give us sidelong glances. Apparently they heard that Americans get drunk and go crazy. They were disappointed when we didn't, and soon returned to their games.

Dinner fare was more of the same. I was tempted several times by the Huevos tortugas, but couldn't bear the environmental burden. One night we found a whole fried red snapper stuffed with shrimp for $12. It was easily the best meal I ever ate. As the woman came to gather our plates, she looked at them with surprise and smiled. "You eat like El Salvadorans" (Ustedes come como Salvadornenos!) she said, picking up a bare snapper skeleton that had been nibbled to the cheeks. It was obviously a complement, and we were as pleased as she.

After dinner, the shopping would begin. There were some necessities, the morrows breakfast fruit and some more cold Pilseners. Occasionally we would buy a soccer ball for the kids, or a melon for a neighbor back at camp. We brought her a watermelon. We got cake.

Sometimes we stood around with the old men, who wanted to talk about cars. They were especially interested in what we drove (Senor, que coche usted conduce?). These are very practical people. They were happy with my Land Cruiser, and thrilled with Sam's dually dump truck. Keith's Camry though, failed to impress.

Naturally, by this time you may be wondering how we retained our stuff, especially in a region where becoming separated from one's possessions is a common occurrence...

Next: Perros playeros!

Christ!

2009-09-27T20:33:00.000-07:00

Sorry to have tuned out. I've been busy (see facebook photos of awesome summer fishing)!

I know my one follower and mother's friend (That's you, Jane) have been anxious to see what I am up to. And I hate to disappoint my fans. And yes, 2 fans deserves the plural.

Every morning I read the the headlines on cnn.com, the NYT, local Nantucket news, and the Houghton MI Daily Mining Gazette. The DMG is the last bastion of xenophobia driven news and opinion written by a troop of semi literate baboons.

Enter the 9/12 Letter to the editor:

Bible clear on Earth's age

Once again, Robert Kohtala, you are mistaken in your view that the Bible does not tell us how old the earth is. It seems that for someone who loves to talk about the Bible so much that maybe you would actually read it instead of just believing everything you hear. Please allow me to educate you.

The Bible is very clear on the age of the earth. The first sentence of the Bible states that in the beginning, God made the heavens and the earth. This means there is no prior life or aliens or events which happened before this time. God is relying on the fact that we know what the word "beginning" means. Then God made light and called the light "day" and the dark "night." "And evening passed and morning came, marking the first day." How much more clearer can you get? Our seven-day work week is based on the Bible's seven-day work week of creation. Do we have a seven billion-year work week?

So now we have the six-day creation, which includes mankind, starting with Noah. Genesis 5 gives Adam's genealogy to Noah. Chapter 11 gives the genealogy from Noah to Abraham, and on and on it goes until Jesus Christ. The Bible describes each and every generation from Adam, so there is no lapse of time, no billions of years went by, just generations. There is no gap between Adam and Jesus Christ, from which we now base our dates (i.e., 2,009 years from Christ).

From Adam to Abraham are 2,000 years, from Abraham to Christ are 2,000 years, from Christ to the present is 2,009 years. The earth is about 6,000 years old. Scientists are now proving that the Grand Canyon and the Niagara Falls could have formed in that time period. However, imagine this: The day God created the earth, scientists would have said the earth was billions of years old. Why? Because God has the power and ability to form the earth so well that the appearance of it seems to have taken billions of years. It was fully formed on day one.

True Christians believe on every word written in the Holy Scriptures, which were breathed by God, in the same power He used to create the world and all mankind. Read up before you start preaching false information. God is watching.

Rachel Laurn

Hancock

Now, one letter is just a sign of a kook. In my head I started to outline a satirical letter in response, praising Ms. Laurn's stolidity. But arguing with fanatics is like kicking yourself in the balls, so I let it go.

Enter the 9/25 response. Now one is a kook, 2 is an epidemic. Remember, at 2 people we can start using the plurals, which means more of these folks are probably lurking.

Bible has God's infallible words

Rachel Laurn's letter of Sept. 12 was good. She is correct when she stated that true believers in Christ Jesus our Lord believe the Bible is the inerrant, infallible Word of God.

Genesis 1:1 declares, "In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth." And after this statement the details are given in day 1 through 7.

God created the earth first and the sun, moon and stars were not created until the fourth day, (Genesis 1:14-19). Genesis 7 depicts the flood (about 4,000 years ago) that covered the earth, was by the judgment of God because of the wickedness of man, (Genesis 6:5-7).

Genesis 7:22-23 "All in whose nostrils was the breath of life, of all that was in the dry land, died. And every living substance was destroyed which was upon the face of the ground, both man, and cattle, and the creeping things, and the fowl of the heaven; and they were destroyed from the earth: and Noah only remained alive, and they that were with him in the ark."

According to Henry M. Morris, "It is reasonable that Adam and his descendants all knew how to write and kept records of their own times. Genesis records the eyewitness accounts of these histories as written by Adam, Noah, Shem, Isaac, Jacob and other patriarchs. The respective divisions can be recognized by a recurring phrase: "These are the generations of Adam..." (Genesis 5:1) for example.

Moses compiled the writings of these God-fearing patriarchs into the book of Genesis. Genesis is cited at least 200 times in the New Testament and Moses is never noted as the author of any of the citations, according to The Institute for Creation Research( icr.org).

John E Saari

Mohawk native

Calumet High School Class of 1951

Jackson, Tenn.

At least this one graduated from high school.

OK. Not only do I have nothing better to do, but I'm kinda an asshole too. I'm going to see if I can bait these folks. Here is my response. Will post link if the DMG publishes.

Bible laws no modest proposal

I was quite pleased to read Ms. Laurn’s (9/12) and Mr. Sari’s (9/27) Letters to the Editor in the Daily Mining Gazette. It seems that we too often settle for the general sentiment of passages rather than their literal truth. In the book of Genesis, as noted by Ms. Laurn, lifespans were clearly detailed: Noah lives for 959 years (9:29), and Methusaleh 969 (5:27).

But it is not enough to merely accept the Bible at face value. Besides providing a rich genealogical history, it also clearly dictates how we can avoid a sinful life - and maybe live past 900 too.

Personally, I am trying to be a good emissary, though I find it hard to lead by example. I know I should stone anyone who has left Our Lord to worship other gods, but that seems impractical (Deuteronomy 17:2-7). I live on an island, and we only have very small pebbles.

I try to avoid eating pork, as it is an unclean animal. I also avoid hare (though I will eat rabbit), and since I don’t know what a rock badger is, I avoid both badgers and rocks, as I previously noted (Leviticus 11).

I also am trying to grow a beard and keep from cutting my hair as outlined in Leviticus 19:27. But I just can’t fill out a beard very well. I get jealous every time I see a lumberjack, knowing that he is a better Christian than me!

I have since read about others who are taking a literal approach to their own Holy books. Apparently, there is a small sect of people across the ocean somewhere who think like me (and apparently, like my Copper Country friends!). I forget what they call themselves, but they have no problems growing beards, avoiding pork, and killing those who disagree with their literal fundamentalist interpretations.

It’s not our right to try to contemporize the Bible, to weigh competing messages, or to examine the role of metaphor. Jesus never questioned (Matt 27:46), so neither should we. God may be love (1 John 4:8), but that is just not enough. Love alone will not help you live a thousand years, smite your enemies, or gain your entrance to heaven.

Noah Karberg

Nantucket, MA

Too far? Not far enough?

Don't start thinking that I have gone all religious on you. The bible is many things, among them a collection of parables, folksy wisdom, a guide for healthy living in ancient Mesopotamia, and a quasi-history of some historical figures. I tried to walk a line between satirist and fundamentalist, meanwhile hedging my bets lest I get struck by a thunderbolt.

BTW - Mad props if you can find the Thomas Swift allusion.

Darwinistic kinesiology

2009-07-28T09:00:00.000-07:00

I've always admired the plasticity of the human body.

Even now as the western diet oozes its way across the globe, populations still maintain amazing physical distinctions. It reminds me of Darwin's finches, but with people: Pacific Islanders are robust, Mayans short, and the Dutch are freakishly tall. Instead of a local food source dictating the shape of a beak, social and environmental factors have affected the physical manifestations of race.

Where entire cultures have taken thousands of years to evolve, individuals can demonstrate remarkable plasticity over the course of several months. But it's not just as simple as Jared; all that fat fuck had to do was walk to the store and eat a sandwich.

Think of yourself as a library book. Fiction or non. You were written to convey a story, recount history, or to aid in repairing Volkswagens. Call it genetic typing, will of the Creator, whatever. Based on your fundamental premise, you are going to be placed in a predetermined location. Though you may be a trashy romance novel with aspirations of a sex manual, it doesn't change the fact that you are never landing in the Dewey decimal 600's.

If you were born as the Volkswagen repair guide, you are probably stuck on a narrow shelf of car repair manuals, bookending with Audi down at the other end. Sorry, but there just isn't anywhere for you to go. However, if you were born as a text on Eastern Orthodox expressions of cuisine and culture in the inner-Moldavian belt, you have leeway in your lateral expression. You may be placed in the 200's and bear the outward resemblance of a religious text, but also be able to resemble social sciences (300) or even history and geography (900).

Let's push the numbers analogy a bit, and find out which are really the most meaningful. I weigh in at a solid 210. I have weighed just around 210 since college. I bookended 195 after a camping trip and 225 after a protein-filled powerlifting kick. But for the most part, a solid 210. The number stayed the same, the difference was the particular goal.

Fine, that would put me little better that a Volkswagen manual.

But wait. I have moonlighted for that same period as musclehead, distance runner, fat stinkin' drunk, and triathlete. My weight rarely changed, but my abilities did. I recently turned a 21 minute 5k. This was just a few months away from finally benching my body weight. After my kayak camping trip I looked wicked ripped awesome, less so after training in the pool to swim a mile straight, though I was probably healthier.

The obvious parallel. At various times of my past couple years, I could be mistaken for a couple different kinds of athlete. A couch potato too. My bookends reflected much more than simply my body mass.

Within that though, there are limits. It would require an extreme effort and some shady supplements for to put up 300 pounds on the bench. A sub 20 minute 5k is also likely unobtainable. We're running into the physical limits of my frame and inherent athleticism.

So is it a blessing, or a curse, to be only marginally talented at a variety of athletic skills? I count beer pong, surfing, running, swimming, biking, looking awesome with my shirt off, and throwing stuff at other stuff as things I am Ok at, but could be better. The problem is that I've reached the endgame at each one, and don't think there is room for improvement.

I credit motivation for what I have been able to achieve. But we are no longer exactly like Darwin's finches. Pacific Islanders traveled hundreds to thousands of miles in open canoes to establish new colonies throughout micronesia. Large girth, and the accompanying fat reserves and low metabolism allowed them to survive the ordeal. So much so, that ingrained into their culture is an acceptance of robustness as a sign of good health. Combined with a lack of significant emigration or immigration, such physical traits are still intact.

The same mostly holds true for the other examples. The Dutch tend to be so freakin' tall because of biological relationships between body mass and cold weather, augmented by good diet. Mayans, those that we have records of, are thought to have been shorter as a result of famine and persecution by the Spanish conquistadors (modern Mayans immigrating to the US have grown 4" taller on average than their 'native' ancestors, based on better nutrition).

I can't help but wonder if the reverse is true today. For example, I am a hodgepodge of German, Czech, and Slovak interbreeding that found a home in America. I would really like to think that in the great melting pot, the most plastic of the offspring had the greatest chance of success, and in Darwinistic fashion went on to produce offspring with the best chance at a brighter future. Only, instead of success tied to the ability to weather famine or spear a fish, success was based on the ability to do at least marginally well at all of what was required.

Whether this was tied to the new world, or a modernizing Eurpope is inconsequential. I can't help but wonder if an immigrant farmer from an isolated Slovakian village (Eastern Europe, for the geographically crippled) marrying an industrialized and efficeint German could produce a 'supercrop' of offspring better suited to a myriad of tasks in a changing world?

Even though it is becoming less and less politically correct to tie a singualr country to a physical style, I believe the evidence is there. While a nature vs. nurture argument is not called for, genetic evidence exists for emotional and psychological traits. Why cannot these be mostly tied to a culture? The best example I can think of is soccer, with its long history and worldwide appeal. Until recently, where players have been bought, sold, and shifted internationally, there have been distinct styles based on regionism, if not nationalism.

The British style plays long clears and headers, as soggy English weather makes a short passing game untenable. The Germans are meticulous strategizers. The Brazilians use quick moves and individual 'samba on grass" to out-athlete opponents. Etc.

It may be hard for our egalitarian society to imagine, but there existed a time when cultures did mostly specific tasks, and were subject to definitive environmental factors. Selection led to different cultural groups (which often evolved into their own countries, principalities, or semi-autonomous tribal regions) taking on different physical expressions. If not for the artificiality of political boundaries enforced by happenstance superiority of a given European army, it might hold more obvious truth.

Regardless, our common Eurpean ancestors mixed (for Caucasions, anyway). Specific traits may have been softened, but offspring were better suited to face the challenges of a new world. Sure, I can't win first at any individual event, but I can camoflage to a number of necessary things. I would like to think that my failure and achievement at such sporting events owes itself to a different mix of Darwinsim, when being able to blend into the needs of a new culture ensured future success. Not just the ability to procreate, but to feed and house progeny after the fact. Such properly reared children wouldn't be bookended merely as day laborer, mason, or farmer. Instead they would have the ability to compete for any number of positions in the new world.

Plasticity, it would seem, might be an environmentally influenced response. It was first a result of circumstance, due to the result of modernization and a shrinking world. Cultures interbred on scales not really seen before. The best adept at specialization within their former niche roles lost ground to those who were able to adapt to a variety of opportunistic labor. The successful might need to draw on a variety of physical attributes, from more than a unique singular ability.

Darwin's finches evolved into specialization, driven by differing beak shapes in response the availability of foodstuffs at each isolated island in the archipelago. Success in our modern human society has driven us instead towards generalization: the ability to gather, hunt or otherwise produce food is no longer central to advancement. And it is here that plasticity can reap the greatest rewards.

The Connecticut Civil War

2009-07-22T05:52:00.000-07:00

I live in an odd place. It's an island, about 12 x 5 miles off the coast of Cape Cod. It's called Nantucket by most, though "The People's Republic of Nantucket" might be more accurate.

I am thinking of a better description. I call it "New Connecticut". Though I know at least 2 reasonable people from there, the name is not a complement.

I feel that I have a short time in which to be objective. I am in a unique position here. I wasn't born here so I will never be a local townie, and haven't developed a hatred of all outsiders. I live here year-round and hang out with other locals, so I don't think they are all brain dead hicks. And when I work, it is for all sorts of people. After nearly a year, I think that I can identify the problem with Nantucket.

The problem is squarely with the people of Connecticut.

We all have a natural instinct to reproduce our surroundings wherever we go. I have hung the same pictures in the same sorts of places in the last 5 places I lived. My wife arranges each kitchen to resemble her mother's (which in turn resembles her grandmother's).

I was working a job the other day among a grouping of cottages on the East side of the island in a community called Sconset. We were pruning a giant Norway/Sycamore maple for a client, a mostly reasonable young grandmother type from Connecticut. She had just shown up for the season, and wanted more sun to fall on her patio without opening up a view to the municipal water tower. Her name was Diane.

While Diane sat on the porch and called out instructions on which limbs to remove, her neighbor, Emma, pulled up in a loaded down SUV. The tree in question straddled the property line between Emma and Diane, in the middle of a giant privet hedge.

Diane: "Welcome back, Emma."

Emma: "Good to see you, Diane."

(The women, of course, could not see each other through the giant privet hedge. Only from our vantage point in the giant maple could Sam and I see both. They stood, not facing each other through the hedge, but looking west along the property line at the tree, and presumably the skyline behind. In fact, they never saw each other throughout the whole of the conversation.)

Diane: "How was the Steamship?"

Emma: "Calm. It was a very nice ride over. So, are you having work done on this tree?"

(The pleasantries were quickly dispensed of, and the tone changed. Sam sighed audibly, roped off his saw, and leaned back in his saddle with a resigned look. I followed suit. We obviously weren't dropping branches on anyone today, not yet anyway.)

Diane: "I'm having some of the branches on MY SIDE pruned off. I want more light on my patio."

Emma: "You could just cut the whole thing to the ground instead..."

(Sam covered his face with his gloved hands. I couldn't tell if he was laughing or crying. As a veteran of the Nantucket service sector, he was obviously preparing for what came next.)

Diane: "I am not letting you cut the tree down!"

Emma: "It would be better for your neighbors. You're being selfish!"

(Ah! The plot thickens. Or, er, clarifies.)

Diane: "No one wants to look at the water tower!"

Emma: "I think the water tower is pretty..."

(Let's be fair. I have heard that the coatings on the steel tower change colors with the angle of the sun, and they are really cool at sunset. It isn't as stupid as it sounds.)

Diane: "You also thought you spoke for everyone in Fairfield."

Emma: "That was different." "How much to cut off everything on my side?"

(As usual, when faced with responsibility and decision making, I fake a Russian accent and say "Talk to boss. Boss him." and point toward Sam. Sam, realizing that he has a client already under contract sees an opportunity to pad his estimate. He takes sides, saying that he can't prune any more off the tree this summer, seeing as how it would be bad for the tree and unfair to the current customer, etc.)

Diane: "You know I won't allow you to cut the tree down. It's common property. We've been through this, here and back home. It always ends with..."

(As you recall, they can't see each other. While Diane speaks this last sentence, Emma storms toward her house. Diane stays, looking West, speaking until she hears the slam of her neighbor's door. Diane harrumphs, disappears inside, and returns with a glass of white wine. It is 1030.)

Diane: "OK, where were we?"

Diane and Emma live in the same community in Connecticut, possibly even abutting property owners like they are here in Nantucket. And like the loaded down SUV, they have brought too much with them. Psychological baggage, so to speak.

People usually vacation for a new experience, a chance to hang out somewhere cool with amenities dissimilar from those at home. But if you are from Connecticut, you apparently are unhappy unless you can bicker with your neighbors over the visual aesthetics of your yard.

Big Momma Roca (Part II)

2009-07-20T07:27:00.000-07:00

I didn't really want to paddle back out right away. I was inside the break and had about 15 seconds to decide: fight the surf and paddle out, or paddle around the break and back to shore. I was tired from being panicked and underwater. A beer would have been nice, but it was still 730 in the am and the ice probably hadn't been delivered yet.

It was surprisingly difficult to paddle out through the surf. I took 7 waves on the chin before I got back outside the break. Sam and Keith could turtle their boards and use momentum to pop up, still paddling. They made it in 3 or 4. Assholes. I labored with odd never-used muscles in my shoulders burning. There aren't very many gym quality exercises that mimic laying on your back and paddling.

Once back outside, I slid off my board, and used a swim kick to keep in place for the next couple sets. Then I started missing waves. Lots of waves. Overcautious, I would stay out of position until I was sure not to get swallowed too deep in the maw of another NoahKiller. When I was in the right place, I would drop back. Eventually though, I found my balls, and started going for it again.

I caught a few. At first I was just body-boarding them in, getting a feel for accelerating, turning, and ditching. Then I did a couple pushups, extending my arms and lifting my shoulders and chest off the board. I even got one one knee for a little bit. I wiped out a few more times too, and after one short lived ride where I managed to plant both feet for a brief instant, I even got a little cocky. I paddled downcurrent to brag to my buddies about how I was a natural. I was outside the break paddling parallel to shore and staring straight ahead, watching the distance shorten between me and Keith.

The first time I realized I should have been looking to my right was after some emphatic pointing and a 2-word shout I couldn't make out. I turned my head and saw what Sam had been warning me of: outside wave.

The wave wasn't a killer. It had a nice shape, and was set up for a beautiful peel. But it was going to fuck me up if I didn't move quickly. The wave was stacking up and getting vertical real quick. I paddled hard to my left and into it, trying to get around the lip. I was double hauling now, watching the face jack up in front of me. It was going to crest, and I wouldn't be able to get around it.

In hindsight, I should have gone right at full paddle, and duck dived or turtled. The first wave of an outside set is usually a little smaller than the next. The 2nd, 3rd and 4th seem to be biggest, before dropping off again. I would have been set up get outside and maybe even catch one.

I duck dove. In plenty of time. My angle was bad though. I had tried to get around the wave, and didn't take it straight on. I gave the wave too much surface area of my board and body, and it spun me, ripped the board from my hands, and I was sent tumbling. Instead of the singular Hoganesque body slam, this wave gave me the prizefighter's three-punch combo. The initial jab stunned me briefly and rolled me off the board. Sure, I was tumbling, but it was familiar and I had gotten into a protective ball. Then he hit again, a left hook backed by several tons of rolling water that sent me down to the mat. Thinking I had weathered the storm, I was caught by surprise with the final body shot, that felt like it came from below. Panic rose again: I forced it down, wait, wait, wait, swim to the surface, breathe.

The next two waves were 6 feet of whitewash by the time they met me. I paddled right into the teeth of wave number 2 and tried to duck dive. Physics of buoyancy just don't add up for that much whitewater, and it sent my on another ride. I tried turtling into wave number 3, and fared no better.

By now I had been pushed nearly 200 yards inshore. I was caught on the inside of the break. Waves were no longer crashing over me, but I still faced down a pile of whitewash. I paddled hard, and turtled into wave number 4.

My introduction and farewell to Big Momma Roca lasted all of 1.5 seconds. It was clear that we just weren't right for each other. As I paddled into #4, I rolled off to the left of my board. Her first embrace was warm, and even a little tingly. The tingle turned to burning, and I knew that this was no jellyfish. Then, as the wave caught my board and dragged my leg over her the other direction, that bitch Momma Roca really dug in.

In the lull before the next set, I paddled downcurrent and found an exit among the boulders. Sam and Keith soon followed.

I was never worried about sutures, since the cuts really weren't that deep. Salt water and UV is a great infection fighter, and OTC antibiotics were easy to get. I was however amazed at the shear number of cuts and that they all ran in the same direction.

This was the only picture I thought to take. Note that I am still bleeding 5 hours after the event.

We walked over to the beer shack under a tin roof. I took a lot of stares, but felt really tough. I had paid some dues, and traded skin with Big Momma Roca (I would later pull some barnacle fragments out of one of the deeper cuts).

My favorite comment came later that night, from a landscaper at our hotel, "Senor, por que lucho usted el leon?" (Mister, why did you fight that lion?"

Coming up next: "Ustedes come como El Salvadoreno!" (You eat like El Salvadorans!)

Alternate title:

But how much ceviche can you really eat?

Noah channels some liberal guilt

2009-06-25T17:11:00.000-07:00

(A note to readers: A black friend of mine told me that it was Ok for me to use the term "Black". I also use some unsavory epithets in recounting anecdotes.)

Bear with my analogy for a moment. I always defended my love of sports as being 'a metaphor for the human experience.' Live athletic competition could distill life lessons about the value of competition, perseverance, and hard luck. And apparently, it can also relate to an over-educated sports fan lessons from the ongoing civil rights struggle.

http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/eticket/story?page=vicksatlanta

How was it, in my 30 years of life, did it take an espn.com article that used the Michael Vick plea bargain to clearly explain the roots of judicial mistrust in the black community?

I was hardly sheltered. I grew up with liberal parents in a mixed race community. I went to private school where we read Native Son, The Color Purple, and How to Kill a Mockingbird. One of my best friends in middle school was black, as was my doctor. I was hardly underexposed to the broader community.

However, I had obviously never picked up on some key pieces of information. Through my 12 years of Catholic school education, no nun, priest, or brother would tell us how the leading civil rights leaders of the 1960's were routinely harrassed and wiretapped by government agencies. Instead, during my senior year in high school, the administration brought in the choir from and all-black inner city school. We sat in the gym, white students from a private school, and watched blacks sing and dance for us. Even at the time I felt there was something wrong with this.

Grade school was equally disheartening. We learned about the African-American civic pioneers of our city. Apparently Garret Morgan invented the traffic light. George Washington Carver invented peanut butter, but he wasn't from Cleveland. We definitely didn't learn how Christians had used specific old testament passages to reconcile racism.

In Kintergarden, we had safety day. We were too young to learn about black history I guess. That day, we took a trip the muncipal fire and police stations. We got to tour the fire house and sit in a police car and turn on the siren. Later the policeman would tell us to wave when we saw a cop, and to stop when the police said stop. "We only want to stop and talk to you." He said. As an impressionable 6-year old, those lessons would stick.

Had I grown up black, I probably wouldn't stop.

The Dallas Innocence project has freed nearly a dozen black inmates who were wrongly convicted and imprisoned in the 1980's to early 90's. The project is revealing a troubling tend of wrongful convictions over a narrow period. It is quickly becoming clear to all, save for the Dallas County Prosecutor's office, that the DA was willing to railroad the most convenient black suspect the police provided. DNA evidence is exonerating suspects with similar stories nationwide.

As the espn.com article pointed out, the trial was not about Vick's alleged offenses. It was about the outpouring of vitriol and death threats against Vick himself. It was about the polarization in public response and subsequent assumption of guilt on racial lines. Once again, black community leaders must have thought, a man is facing a lynch mob without his due process. Lost in the public spectacle was the symbolic picture: that once again in the deep South, in a city where leading black figures had been targeted and systematically undercut, a black man had been judged. The black community wasn't supporting dogfighting; they simply didn't trust the system that had already robbed their civil rights so many times before.

My father in law and I once had a conversation about racism. He is friends with a famous black author who gives speeches around the country about owning your own racism. "Everyone," Terry said, "is a little racist. It doesn't mean that you are necessarilly a bad person. You just have to own your own racism before it owns you."

I didn't really buy it at the time. I did more than just say the right things, I acted on them, for the most part. But I never really took the time for empathy. What got me started? The King of Pop.

Fine, he was likely a child molestor. The jokes existed for years. But he was a black celebrity who was convicted long before by the court of public opinon. Same with OJ. And Vick. Public support for the acquittal (of the previous two) suddenly seemed less like an exercise in justice, but a rare victory. For once, a leading black figure beat a bum rap. I remember the divisions over the OJ verdict. At the time I thought of it only as tribalism and the retreat of people to identify with their own groups. I didn't see it as a referendum, however belated, on a the criminal justice system.

My racism? I need to own up to failing to empathize. I remember driving on M-203 after a trip to the city beach. The same redneck is always there in his lawn chair, expounding on gems, like "niggers don't like the cold, that's why you don't see them here" (I am pretty sure that he is the same guy who has never been south of the Portage Lake lift bridge, is 66, has a paper route, and lives with his parents - seriously). On the ride home, I was explaining to my wife that although he was a bigot in every sense of the word, it was easy to understand how living a sheltered life in the Upper Peninsula could lead someone to those same conclusions.

I wasn't accepting his language or racism by any means. I just stepped inside the world he grew up in, looked around at place (100% white), time (segregation era), and environment (racist backwater), and realized that those factors could turn anyone into a misinformed bigot.

Never had I applied the same courtesy to understanding why blacks I knew were defending OJ, MJ, and Vick.

None of this is particularly earth shattering - walk a mile in another man's shoes kind of stuff. But I don't understand why it would take someone as smart as me so long to realize. Obviously, I am still maturing. Even my Grandma got it right before I did. Nana, may she rest in peace, was the youngest daughter of a bootlegger who grew up in the West Virginie hills. She still used the more colorful term, as in, "Noah, who is that colored friend of yours?" She wasn't that bad, hardly even a low-level racist, until the last year of her stay in the nursing home. The nursing home was run by the Cleveland Catholic Diocese, and had just obtained a rental priest from Nigeria to cover its domestic shortage. He was the first black man my Grandma had ever personally met. For her it was simple: if God and the Church is OK with a black priest, then everyone else needs to be too.

For my Grandma, the conversation had to be in terms of religous enlightenment. For me, it was sports. Her empathy derived from sharing a common faith with her priest, the first black man she knew. Mine involved following the public spectacle surrounding an electrifying former Hokie, whose singular athleticism put Virginia Tech on the map. Both may seem equally weird to the respective nonbelievers, but they framed the debate in a context we were each familiar with.

Never underestimate the healing power of sports.

Big Momma Roca (Part I)

2009-06-22T18:06:00.000-07:00

I am fascinated by dichotomy. The division of a concept into two seemingly contradictory groups. Nothing can better describe the first couple days of a novice surfer. Dichotomy is also a perfect context for relating the culture of El Salvador.

On our first day we surfed one of the coolest places in the world. El Zonte is one of many right-handed point breaks off the CA-2 in the Western Coast.

(From the perspective of someone standing on the beach, a wave at a right-handed point break will peel from right to left. Most people are right dominant, they naturally surf left foot forward on their board. This enables someone to watch the wave as it breaks, as well as other surfers.)

We got there early. Sunrise was 5:30 local time. We talked to a couple of locals who advised of the best way for gringos to surf - sunrise and sunset, since they weren't usually good enough to surf mushy waves in the middle of the day.

(At night, land cools off quickly while water remains warm. In the morning cold dense air moves offshore over the ocean, helping to stand up the waves and keep everything clean. By 10am, the southwesterlies would dominate, roughing up the surf. By the same forces, land will cool off quickly at sunset.)

Paddling out here was easy. I knew enough from sea kayaking to pick a lull in the bigger sets, and paddle like hell to get out of the break zone. My board was a 7'6" Al Merrick. Sam picked it out. He said that although it was a little squirrelly and hard to ride, it would be easy for me to get out of the break, since I could both duck dive and turtle it. This board turned out a royal pain in the ass, but made me a better surfer.

(As a wave is about to break over you, there are two ways to keep from getting smoked. If your board is small enough, you duck-dive. As you lie prone on your board, you paddle straight into the break. Before getting smacked by a couple tons of water, you quickly pick up the nose of your board and shift your balance forward, taking a deep breath. Then you push your board down, hug it tight, and let the force of the wave drive you down at 45 degrees. After the wave passes you push yourself off your board, locking your elbows and shifting balance to your feet, and pop out behind the wave. If your board is too large to duck-dive, you need to turtle. Turtling is simple, but hard to do well. Longboards are 8' and longer, and have too much forward mass to duck dive. Instead, the rider will roll off the board and hold it in a kung-foo grip. A good surfer will let themselves get whipped around 360 degrees by the wave, and end up back on top of their board, still paddling. It's simple to explain, but hard to do well.)

We bobbed around outside the break. The sun was just getting up, and a hazy sky was casting a weak pinkish orange glow across the water. Birds were calling from the almond trees on the beach. Behind them, steam rose from a deep ravine, blurring the distinction between backlit mountain and lightening sky. The wind was offshore, and blew a fine mist off the wave as it stacked and steepened. As the wave peeled, the crest would fall forward, slowly. The sound was more like a breeze than a crash. Sitting there on my board it was calm. Tranquil.

This morning I would be introduced to my first sets of waves and dichotomies. A wave is at once both beautiful and terrifying, calm and violent, constant and ever-evolving. A surfboard is both a best friend and worst enemy. And this tranquil scene would quickly turn frantic.

Within ten minutes, the first set rolled in. Sam and Keith caught the 2nd and 3rd waves, respectively. I paddled around, watching to see what wave shape they paddled for and how they positioned themselves. Sets came and went, usually 3-5 waves every 5-10 minutes. Between sets, waves were small and unorganized. After 30 minutes of paddling around and away from waves, I decided that it was time to go for it.

(Waves usually break right around the same point. This is where a surfer will position himself. Occasionally a bigger wave will roll in and start breaking further out - this is known as an outside wave. )

I had drifted East with the others, several hundred yards from where we entered. The drop off was sharper, tide was starting to go out, or the sets had just started getting bigger. Regardless, I was now paddling up or around 6' of water.

(Breaking waves are no mystery. Water depth controls wave shape; waves will pile up when water depth is about 1.5x wave height. Wind, tide, and seafloor shape will all dictate when the wave actually breaks, and to crest begins crashing down. So while a wave will always follow a wave 20 seconds later, small differences in wind, height, or tide will make it react completley differently than its predecessor.)

A new set rolled in. The first wave started closing out, and I aimed for a spot between the crests, rolling up and over the face. The second wave was already taking shape. It looked good. I turned my board to a set of cheers from Sam and Keith, and paddled for it.

(Closing out - when a wave face breaks in two directions. Dangerous, because the two breaks can meet together with you in the middle, resulting in a Noah pancake)

I put myself in too deep. Instead of sliding gracefully down the face, I was suddenly pitching ever further forward down the wave. The wave started breaking over me, and the nose of my board buried itself at the base of the wave. The crest grabbed the tail of the board and pitched me forward, end over end. According to the lingo, I had gone over the falls.

I was surprised by how much damage I didn't do to myself with that first spill. With the first roll, I landed with my heel on the fin, splitting it open. With the second, the nose nailed me in the tricep. If I hadn't been protecting my skull, I'm convinced it would have lodged in my brain. Then after 5 or 6 underwater acrobatics, I was Tombstoning.

(Tombstoning is an ominous maneuver, and for good reason. The weight of the overhead water can force a surfer down, sometimes pinning him to the bottom. He is stuck until the wave passes over. Meanwhile, a buoyant surfboard is carried along, sticking straight out of the wave - like a tombstone. The leash stretches as the body weighs down the board, lipping the edge.)

I was stuck. The wave had forced me down. My tombstone (which a novice might think marked the burial site of a certain Al Merrick) was pulling me forward, keeping me stuck in the same part of the wave. After what seemed like 30-40 seconds (in actuality, no more than 5-10), I hit a sandbar and was flipped forward onto all fours, and pressed to the bottom. In an instant, the weight was off me, I planted a foot, and shot upward into the foam.

"How'd that treat you?" Sam had caught the next wave, and was now sitting on his board without the least expression of concern.

I wanted be tough. I wanted to be funny. But I was also pretty sure that I had peed a little. I could taste saltwater in my upper nasal cavity. I settled for understated truth.

"It didn't turn out like I had hoped.

"Yeah. You put yourself in too deep." With that, Sam turned and paddled back into the surf.

I had been shaken up, and was reconsidering if I should even be out here. But athletes adjust, and I could ponder dichotomy later that evening. There would be more surfing that morning. Besides, I still had my date with Big Momma Roca.

Coming Soon: Big Momma Roca (Part II)

Life on the CA-2

2009-06-22T14:55:00.000-07:00

It happened exactly like this:

Noah and Sam are driving to a job site. It is mid-March, sleeting and blowing 40.

Sam: "Dude, you wanna go on a surf trip?"

Noah J: "OK. Sure. Where?"

Sam: "El Salvador."

Noah J: "Sounds expensive."

Sam: "It's dirt cheap."

Noah J: "Isn't it pretty sketchy?"

Sam: "I'm sure we'll be fine."

Noah J: "I don't surf."

Sam: "You'll learn."

Two weeks later we were on our way to the Pacific coast of Central America. As far as our conversation, we were both exactly right.

Look for periodic installments to come. A recap blog if you will.

Up Next: Big Mamma Roca

Our Colors Don't Mix (republished from earlier note)

2009-06-22T14:24:00.000-07:00

One reason I wanted to avoid a headline like "Sparty sucks", or "Michigan State Eats Cock" is because crass is not a decent substitute for clever. Clever is a Michigan thing.

Michigan State exists because not everyone who can't get into Michigan wants to live for 5 years in Mt Pleasant or Big Rapids.

My friends who have been cheering for State should remember that they are not Spartans. They are Wolverines. Wolverines do not cheer for Spartans.

Mark Dantonio (State football coach) was actually quite clear on this point. He was quite adamant that no Spartan would root for Michigan to beat OSU last November, even though a Michigan upset would potentially send MSU to the Rose Bowl.

This is also that same coach who decided to ridicule Mike Hart's height after Hart concluded a 4-year, 711 yard career sweep of the Spartans. I know this because I immortalized it on the t-shirt I was wearing tonight while rooting against State.

This is the same school who responded to a season hockey sweep by goonery, and beating the hell out of Steve Kampfer while he lay face down and unconscious on the ice. The State News defended the incident by claiming a Michigan starter shouldn't have been playing in the final minutes of a game with a 2-goal lead.

Many warmy and fuzzy soft news pieces are gushing over the home-court favorite Spartans, and the meaning and identity of this team to the State of Michigan. Bullshit! Is Sparty what we really need to represent the State of Michigan and city of Detroit? Sparty is the goddamn problem!

In a city with a crumbling school system and violent crime, to we really need to idolize an athletic program ripe with early draft defectors (Taylor, Randolph, Brown, Peterson, Cleaves et al.) and trigger-happy holsterless pistoleers (See: Plaxico Burress)?

Should we expect the combination of expansive Detroit urban home abandonment and a student body with a history for arson to result in anything beneficial, win or lose?

While Michigan's auto rival states in the South gloat over Detroit's fall, should we emulate a program that gloats in this year's downturn of the Michigan football program? (http://blog.mlive.com/ganggreen/2008/10/dantonios_moment_of_silence_co.html)

I don't mean to be apocalyptic, and I am not particularly religious. But you reap what you sow, be careful what calf you put on a golden pedestal, etc. etc. Of my friends, Michigan alum aplenty, we should be mindful that Detroit (and the state of Michigan) can still succeed IN SPITE OF the values represented by Michigan State.

So let me remind you of the meaning of rivalry, loyalty, and thoroughness. 1) If I wanted to cheer for Michigan State, I would have applied there.2) I am a Wolverine, and I do not cheer for Spartans. 3) I do not want the Spartans to succeed, in either the name of the State or the Big Ten, because the Spartans lack class and values.

Pandemic Schmandemic (Reposted from an earlier note)

2009-06-22T14:17:00.001-07:00

I first learned about the swine flu in the El Salvador International Airport. Easily 50% of the people there were wearing various mask-type implements over their face, from full on cartridge respirators to cheesecloth.

They looked silly.

I saw a security person checking passports without gloves. He probably handles 200 passports an hour. Same with the ticket-takers, cashiers, etc. Meanwhile there was no soap in the bathrooms (this was the 3rd world, after all).

At this point we decided everyone else was retarded, and what didn't kill us only made us stronger.

To date, Swine flu has killed less than 1000 people. In a normal year, flu can kill a half million. The last "Pandemic" in 1968 offed an even mil. The official record I guess, is held by the Spanish flu of 1918-1920, responsible for more than 75 million deaths (though it reasonable to assume that modern medical care could have greatly reduced that number).

To the numbers:
DEATH ANNUAL RATE (#/YR)
Spanish flu 1918 25,000,000
Hong Kong flu 1,000,000
Swine flu (ytd) 1,000
Flu (normal yr) 350,000
Heart disease 17,500,000
Cancer 7,600,000
Violence 1,600,000

The point of course, is that the same flu-panic retards rushing to the ER for the sniffles would probably be better off spending their time in other activities: smoking cessation, walking on a treadmill, putting down the doughnut, and not worrying themselves frantic. Statistically, at least, those activities would be the safe bet. But these are probably the same morons who felt that a N-95 dust mask was their ticket to surviving the apocalypse.

I understand the hubabaloo over a particularly virulent strain of H1N1. It underlies what I see as the most awesome health irony ever. Swine flu initiates a massive immune response in healthy individuals, leading to lymphatic fluid overload in the lungs, then suffocation. This is why it (and the Spanish flu) tend to kill the young and healthy instead of culling the old and sick. Those of us who choose to eat well, exercise, and not get hysterical over media hype on imminent death have healthy immune systems. The idiots on the other hand, whose poor choices can saddle them with any variety of system-weakening ailments, likely get a free pass.

Fuck. It's like I'm being stalked by the smart and sexy virus.

I have never been a fan of chronic disease, or seeing family members and friends succumb to the random incidences of cancer or the bad luck of poor genes. Outside of these personal connections, I always liked to think that disease still functioned with basic Darwinistic purpose, leaving more resources for the rest of us - that a calm and rational portion of the populace making healthy living choices might live to stave off Idiocracy.

But apparently, if you think that wearing a mask on a crowded plane will keep you safe, you might just be OK after all.
_____________________________________________

Though your humble narrator works out daily, he is keeping twinkies and a pack of smokes at the ready, just in case.

Bedeviled Guilt (republished from earlier facebook note)

2009-06-22T14:12:00.000-07:00

I've always enjoyed Jonathan Swift's "A Modest Proposal". As an aspiring writer, I can appreciate the difficulty in striking the right note with satire. But it also reminds me that behind every pack of feral street children one or more parents are likely MIA in some fashion.

I hate feral children, mostly because nothing can be done about them. You can't hit a kid, and can't find their parents. Direct action is fruitless, as the little bastards are unparalleled in destructive tenacity, and you only wake up with garbage on your lawn or your car keyed up.

Maybe we could just eat the little shits.

I always thought the name 'BIg Brothers and Big Sisters' was a compromise. Naturally, fewer people would seek help from a more judgmental organization named 'Because you fail as a parent' or 'Let me show you how it's done'. Regardless, the Nantucket chapter seems to do a decent job. There are far fewer punks running around here than in Hancock, Cleveland, or Ann Arbor, or even across the Sound on the Cape.

So why does your heartless narrator suddenly care? Selfish motivations of course.
1) I currently enjoy feral-free living, and would like it to stay that way
2) I am registered for a race, benefitting Nantucket Big Brothers Big Sisters, and
3) I am encouraged to solicit donations for said organization, since the race was unable to land a corporate sponsor this year. I have spent 16 weeks training for it, and am going to be really pissed if it folds.

I just registered at Active.com, and they set me up with a nice donation page. But I think they take a cut of all donations as a service fee, so fuck 'em. I am not thrilled with my involvement on Active.com. Regardless, if anyone feels so inclined, donate directly online to Nantucket BBBS. It won't count toward my total (so long, dreams of purple embroidered fleece vest made from recycled soda bottles), but I don't really care.

http://www.bbbsnantucket.org/events/index.html

I have mentioned the race in passing to a few of you. The full name is the Nantucket Iron Teams Relay, which is misleading, as it has an individual category also. It is like a rhoided-up triathlon that traverses the island, and consists of 6 legs in the following order: a 3 mile road run through town, a 1 mile surfboard paddle across the harbor, a 3.5 mile soft sand run, a 1/2 mile swim back across the harbor, a 19 mile bike, and a 6.5 mile road run back to town. I believe there should be a 7th leg drinking contest where each beer consumed lowers your time by 5 minutes.

I'll spare the training montages, except for a good conclusion - My dog, Sierra, as an analogue for feral children. She was a shelter dog, and can be a real pain when she isn't exercised, which is the fault of her owners. After our training runs though, she is sweet as a peach. Now Sierra is at least as intelligent as some of these street urchins, (definitely more productive) and had a hard beginning to her life too. But with the right handlers, she has become a productive member in human society with a little discipline and exercise. Morale of the story? Leash and walk your bitches.

High Time We Got to the Point (republished from earlier facebook note)

2009-06-22T14:08:00.000-07:00

http://sports.espn.go.com/oly/swimming/news/story?id=3901721

Am I alone in defending Michael Phelps?

(See my upcoming youtube clip, featuring Noah screaming "Leave Michael alone! Leave him alone!" while pulling out his hair.)

I don't even really like the guy. He was rude to Mark Spitz, is a poor speaker, and as a Michigan alumnus, I feel he does not represent the University well. But if you happen to be one of the sanctimonious 5% of former college students who did not get high, ever, good for you. Go back to your respective unicorn poster-hanging, quad preaching, or teddy-bear snuggling cliques. The cool kids are talking now.

We are easily forgetting our place and our own juvenile antics. Our past 2 presidents have openly admitted to past drug use. No one saw fit to open old leads in those cold cases. Seriously, does South Carolina, the last bastion of that old rebel flag, not have any more serious problems for police to investigate? Does someone getting high at a frat party 5 years ago really take precedence over the dozen or so odd sexual assaults and robberies bound to occur on campus this weekend?

Our government has missed the point for years on drug policy. Every action has had an unintended consequence. Stricter border enforcement led to more home grown growing and violence. Enhanced detection equipment moved growers indoors, creating more potent weed. Large scale operations became small closet jobs. Pot is more widespread and available now than I ever remember it being in my own adolescence.

Having failed on the supply side of the equation, we turn to controlling demand. Get high and you will lose your friends, grades, scholarship, and financial aid. You'll never be able to accomplish anything. A series off Drug Control Policy adds never failed to impart on me their message of guilt and fear.

With this we come to the real reason for the Michael Phelps backlash. He got high, and accomplished more than any one human being could ever hope to achieve. One leaked photo did more to subvert our government's position than any movie - from Up in Smoke to Pineapple Express - ever could. In their anger and impotence, law enforcement is being overzealous in their desire to punish Phelps for undercutting their last foothold in the war on drugs.

Instead of punishing Phelps, and going through the standard process of publicist-mediated apologies and suspensions, why not try taking a more realistic approach? Have Michael (in his haltingly terrible public speaking manner) talk about how he obviously couldn't accomplish his Olympic feat if he was high all the time. How there is a time and place for relaxing, as well as for focus and dedication.

I can imagine the format now. He could talk about how he would get up at 5 to start his workout, and would burn 2500 calories before the rest of us were up. He would mention the discipline to his diet, and his continued push to improve technique. Eventually he would get to the point and talk about sportsmanship, and win or lose, giving it your all so you can walk away and be happy with your results, and move on to the rest of your life. He could sum up by saying that if you are indeed beaten, you can move on without looking back, celebrate, and relax, and prepare to start over again.

And though I gather Michael lacks the sense of comedic timing of your humble narrator, he could turn to the South Carolina police officer left of the podium and say, "I think it's high time you moved on..."

The Rage of Achilles

2008-11-20T09:27:00.000-08:00

I turn 30 soon. The age milestone is irrelevant. Sadly though, it marks a decade of becoming boring.

I was never angrier than at 18. I punched holes in the wall, fought with my parents, cheated on my girlfriend, and drank myself silly. And that was just Saturday night. I hated insincerity, flattery, and often loathed myself. I was never more interesting, more surrounded by friends, and haven't since put out prose of any decent quality. I wasn't really an asshole or bully, just a bored and angry teen looking to have some fun and assail the greatest perceived wrongs in my own small world.

Well, lots of weed and a liberal education will temper that. The modern act of college education develops multiple tolerances, to preachy environmentalists, omnipresent vagrants, and a host of slighted, hyphenated Americans. While trying to impart their quota's worth of education on me, University failed to impart a decent understanding on the nature of Rationalistic thought, and that really bit me in the ass.

Rationalism is at worst, a complicated contradiction: at best, a murky duality. The blueprint of our educational system was hatched roughly around 500 BC. Socrates (and a bunch of other child molesters) thought that in order to understand the world, we needed to unerstand ourselves, and we needed to do so with rational thought. The contradiction/duality that lies therein, is that while our true self is supposedly rational, we can never truly understand the world with rational thought alone. It takes moral development to extricate ourself from our irrational self. In other words, no fun.

In an era where the Church controlled education, such a goal was more attainable. But in the modern reality, the price i paid for putting up with aggressive panhandling was taking occasional joy in watching Hobo Joe beat the shit out of Vagrant Tim. I had opportunity in class to apply critical skills to practice. After that, I just wanted to get drunk and try to get laid. Moral development be damned.

So like many others, I shed my teen angst to seek an appropriate combination of education and fun. In hindsight, after my 4 years, I considered myself a pretty good Rationalist: able to bypass other's petty emotional shortcomings and use application of fact to understand the new world stretching out in front of me.

My rationalism, though hollow, took several years to show flaws. After moving up to the hinterlands for a spell, I used my incomplete philosophical understanding to explain away bigotry, racism, and stupidity in my community as only a matter of perception. I was functioning as most other over-educated liberals of my social standing - an intelligentsia that pitied faults enough to keep from scorning them. Instead of calling the 3-toothed bigot an asshole for who he was, I was caught up trying to understand the life experiences that led this sheltered rustic man to the viewpoints he espoused today.

The worst thing I ever did was subjugate my rage to my intellect.

The Greeks, though career pedophiles, understood the celebrated virtue of rage. I Iliad, one of the first written works of literature for our species, forgoes the immediate history of the Trojan War to focus instead on Achilles, and how his penchant for going berserker drove the war itself. The first line, and entire theme of the Iliad, are devoted to the rage of Achilles.

While your humble narrator was never dipped by the ankle into the River Styx (and only faintly resembles Brad Pitt), he feels a certain kinship with Homer's Achilles. Not to recap the entire epic, but the plot is driven by Achilles wrath; by both the taking of a favored wench by Agamemnon and the slaying of his BFF Patroclus. It makes for compelling reading. Though arbitrary and childish the rage of Achilles proves to be the catalyst that drives the Iliad, not to mention the subsequent generations of Western plagiarists and their assorted heroes.

Rationalism be damned, Achilles is an Empiricism and needs no further experience than that of an angst-ridden 18 year old to decide his course of virtue. Empiricism is the raging yang to Rationalism's subdued yin: it emphasizes the role of experience and senses in the formation of ideas. In many ways Achilles is childish and hotheaded, acting more like an enraged alcoholic than an enlightened Thesbian. But he gets results, if not sweet vengeance. We would idolize Achilles, save for his tendency to go a little overboard when dragging a dead Hector behind his chariot, and thus violating the rules of combat.

Rage will do that to a man. If Achilles was a pussy, nothing interesting ever would have happened to him (or been written about him). Even in death, he remains heroic. Though history diverges about the details of his death, Achilles is most often said to have been killed by a coward on a lucky shot. Others attribute Apollo to guiding the fated arrow, noting that Paris would never get credit for slaying such a hero.

Achilles, the great warrior-empiricist, is immune to arrows even in death.

In that spirit, I bring my fight to you. My great Rationalist experiment has reached its end. In 10 years, I have not been able to reconcile that great duality of man's nature. I long for the glory days of being a thorn in some one's fucking side, inspired and courageous. Who will be my metaphorical Briseis, my casus belli?

_____________________________

Enclosed artwork: The Rage of Achilles, 1757, Giovanni Battista Tiepolo.

Insulted by the Greek King Agamemnon (pictured on the left cowardly shielding himself behind his cloak) who stole Briseis, Achilles prized wench from the defeat of the Acheans, Achilles (Center) needs to to be restrained by the Goddess Athena (Right). Athena counsels patience, as greater glories await.