Old Faithful Makes a Porno

Excited about having seen a bison, but disappointed that I was unable to get closer to it, I decide to head to Old Faithful. That couldn't possibly let me down; at least it implies so with its name.

Here are some interesting (depending on your definition of the word "interesting") myths about Old Faithful from the Yellowstone newspaper:

(Note: Each of these is considerably more amusing if you add "That's what she said" to the end.)

+ It erupts every hour on the hour.

+ Its eruption is not as high as it used to be.

+ Its eruption lasts less time than it used to.

+ Park rangers can control Old Faithful's eruption.

The last one doesn't work nearly as well as a euphemism, but it does demonstrate that park employees were asked by enough tourists to turn the geyser on and off that they felt the need to clarify the situation in print.

Speaking of humorous warnings, this sign was posted at the geyser entrance. Apparently, they are being serious.Old Faithful erupts every ninety minutes or so on average, so it doesn't take long for me to see the geyser in action. It's a pretty powerful natural force, and draws a steady stream of spectators to the nearby bleachers. Like most wonders of nature, it loses its appeal after a couple minutes and most tourists move on to the next site.

For the record...If you ever find yourself visiting Yellowstone with a spouse, it is generally a bad idea to refer to him or her as "Old Faithful." That's the type of joke that leads to an expensive ceremony for forced vow renewals.

Not far down the road from my bison sighting, I see a few cars stopped in the middle of the road. Blocking their way is a whole herd of bison.

Jackpot.

No bison or cameramen were injured during the making of the following pictures:

Now that's more like it.

I'm pretty sure that bird is the "butch" in that relationship.

It would be in poor taste to make the comment, "I sure hope that's a feeding bison calf and not an overzealous pygmy bison." That's why I'm not going to make that comment.

No moose. But the bison herd was a pretty great consolation prize.

Check in tomorrow to hear about my transition from Yellowstone to the Grand Tetons, which of course is French for "Grand Nipples."

Seriously.

Look it up.

Happy Halloween.

A Present in the Park One Should Never Unwrap

After visiting more relatives in Montana, I decide to head to Yellowstone National Park. This is what I know about Yellowstone before I get there:

+ It presents my best chance at spotting a moose since leaving British Colombia.

+ Yogi Bear's Jellystone Park was loosely based on Yellowstone. Though I venture to guess that the pic-a-nic basket prevalence was greatly exaggerated in the cartoon. Also, most bears at Yellowstone do not wear hats and ties and speak in a comical manner. Unfortunately.

+ There was a documentary that came out about supervolcanoes that claimed all of Yellowstone sits on one giant volcano that could erupt at any time, killing everyone in its vicinity and covering the United States with ash.

I tell this to three different people in one week and all of them know about it, which leads me to believe it is one of those facts that everybody thinks is impressive until they realize that everybody over the age of seven knows it too. You know, like the Daddy long-legs spider being the most poisonous spider on the planet but too small-fanged to bite humans (which coincidentally is an urban legend) or that men who live in their van have abnormally high IQs (completely accurate).

The supervolcano thing starts getting a little more frightening as I survey geyser after geyser. All you ever hear about is Old Faithful, but the lower part of the park is covered with volcanic pools and steaming geysers. Most of them smell like sulfur, but their visual awesomeness trumps that dilemma for most spectators.





Steam floats throughout Yellowstone, giving the park a creepy prehistoric vibe. Ravens frequent the landscape and I soon spot a fox off in the distance. These wildlife encounters are interesting, but I want to see something big. Something dangerous. Something like the giant elk attacking a man on the Yellowstone newspaper I'm given at the park entrance.

Apparently, it's mating season for elks and "both sexes are more likely to charge you or your car at this time." This disturbs me. Not so much the charging part, but rather the elk's intentions when it reaches me. Needless to say, I do not plan on dropping any elk soap during my stay.

It turns out, elks are not the animal I should be concerned with. About thirty miles into the park, I come across a car stopped on the side of the road. About thirty feet away from the car sits a giant bison, just chilling in the grass.

My immediate instinct is to get out of the van and take up-close snapshots of the bison. Before I do so, the following things cross my mind:

+ The video game "Street Fighter." It's a popular game revolving around giant mutants and men beating the crap out of each other. The main bad guy? M. Bison. They wouldn't name the boss after an animal that isn't prone to aggression. You know, unless they would.

+ This excerpt from the Yellowstone newspaper: Bison are unpredictable and dangerous; they weigh up to 2,000 pounds and sprint 30 miles per hour.

That's significantly faster than Martin "Van" Buren's top-end speed.

+ A picture I took next to the geysers in a moment of sophomoric weakness.

Mind you, the zoom function was not needed for this picture.

After careful consideration of the facts, I decide to stay in the van at the appropriate distance, living to blog another day.

Check in tomorrow for more about my voyage through Yellowstone, including more wildlife and a trip to Old Faithful.

And not including anymore pictures of giant feces.

That's a projectmeaning.com promise.

A Rogue List Killed My Father

Yesterday, I made the case for lists as a beneficial, necessary tool for society. Today I'll be playing devil's advocate, taking the position that lists are the work of the Devil.

Unfortunately, the most convenient way for me to detail the atrocities of lists is in list form.

Besides, I'm a big fan of irony. So I now present the eleven (seriously, Letterman, watch your back) reasons why lists are more evil than an Osama Bin Laden fart:

1. Lists are easy. They don't take a lot of time, thought, or facts. For blogs and columns, they're basically a parallel to the tv clip show. Of course, the lists on this blog are the exception, as I have painstakingly dissected all of my arguments for these lists and have carefully considered each point and supported them with scientific fact and extensive mathematical analysis, which is of course not translated into print so as to spare you, the reader, the boredom, and to keep you happy so that you don't notice, or at the very least don't judge me too harshly for, the occasional run-on sentence that goes beyond the grammatical bounds of common blog etiquette and perhaps even past the point of general human decency.

Just saying.

2. The Ex-List. This is that new show where the girl from Grey's Anatomy goes back to every guy she dated because a fortune cookie (or something like that...imdb.com says a psychic) told her that she already met Mr. Right and let him get away.

I have never seen this show, but that doesn't stop me from realizing that it's bad for America. Without lists, it wouldn't exist.

3. Did it annoy you that I just stated my uninformed opinion as fact and then proceeded to act like an authority on something I really knew very little about? Welcome to the vast majority of lists magazines routinely try to pass off as important, legitimate articles. Opinions passed off as fact really piss me off, and lists are a wonderful tool for employers of this strategy.

Which brings me to the biggest culprit, a person deserving of her own spot on this list:

4. Barbara Walters. Every year, Barbara Walters postpones regular network viewing with a special called "The Ten Most Fascinating People of (insert year)." Every year, the list gives me an aneurysm.

The honorees for 2007 included an actress on Grey's Anatomy, Tom from Myspace, a washed-up soccer star, his wife, and the guy from N' Sync with the whiny voice. The most fascinating person from the entire year, according to Walters, is a retired children's book author.

The entire affair is an insult to journalistic integrity, human intelligence, and the word "fascinating."

5. On the short list of people I regard with less respect than Babs is Joseph McCarthy, the U.S. Senator that led the charge against perceived communism in the 1950s. A master at harnessing the power of fear and using it to his own advantage, McCarthy used his power and persuasion to blacklist far too many Americans based on generally baseless claims of Communism.

Of course, the important thing to take from that lesson is not that divisive politics and name-calling across party lines can get out of hand quickly to devastating ends, but rather that lists are closely associated with Communism.

You don't support Socialism (excuse me, Freudian slip)...

You don't support Communism, do you?

6. We are currently living in The Great Text-Message Era, which swiftly followed the less celebrated, but equally as destructive "Instant MessAge." There are positives and negatives to the new methods of communication, but one of the overwhelming consequences has been the degradation of the human language. Abbreviations are prevalent, punctuation is a dying art, and spelling is seen as effective as long as you can sound it out.

Lists are yet another way of avoiding the traditional paragraph, and in order to effectively break the rules, you must first understand them.

Thank you for listening to my rant. I will do my best to avoid sounding like a disillusioned, bitter old man for the duration of this blog.

7. Thanks to lists, Hollywood has run rampant with talk of the A-List, B-List, C-List, and whatever David Hasselhoff belongs to at this point. These lists allow for class warfare within the entertainment industry.

Also, by the unspoken standards, a guy who blogs from the van he currently calls home is on the Z-list, several letters below the likes of the Dog Whisperer, Charo, and the Dad from "My Two Dads" that wasn't Paul Reiser.

8. For every valuable list (Schindler's list, the Ten Commandments, and the Bill of Rights come to mind) there are a thousand useless, degrading, and downright offensive lists that should not exist. Don't believe me, check out the following link:

http://www.amazon.com/The-nbsp-Best-nbsp-of-nbsp-Ben-nbsp-Affleck/lm/QUTT49Z0TK7P/ref=cm_srch_res_rpli_alt_1Hit lists

9. Evil Overlord List. Apparently, sci-fi geeks have been compiling a running list for nearly two decades listing all of the actions they would take if they "were an Evil Overlord." The idea supposedly stemmed from a "Saturday Night Live" sketch with Bond Villains praising a book entitled, What Not To Do When You Capture James Bond.

Sounds like fun and games now, but what would happen if the ideas ever stumbled into the hands of a real live Evil Overlord? Now we're talking about the first LMD, or "List of Mass Destruction."

10. Not all list violence is hypothetical, unfortunately. Ever heard of a hit list? That's right. Guns don't kill people. People with lists kill people. Which of course, pales in comparison to the most important reason why lists are slowly destroying the fabric of our society:

11. Ryan Seacrest.

He's the host of the most popular television show in America, has his own morning radio show in Los Angeles, and is in the process of replacing Dick Clark as the face most Americans see to bring in the New Year. And we wonder why our country is falling apart.

The point is, the last thing this country needs is more Seacrest. But thanks to lists, you can't even get away from him on the weekends. He replaced Casey "Don't call me Shaggy" Kasem as the host of "American Top 40," a radio show that I couldn't get away from even in Canada, and an entity that would not exist without lists.

If you leave today's blog with one thing, make it this:

Less lists means less Seacrest.

Next Week, I List the 42 Most Influential Plumbers of the Modern Era

Every year, Santa Claus, in order to find out who is naughty and nice, makes a list and checks it twice. Dude is capable of delivering presents to all of the children across the world in just one night (well, all of the Christian children whose parents have money) and he still feels the need to utilize a list.

That's because lists have become such an ingrained aspect of our society, so essential a part of our culture, that we couldn't live without them. If lists went away the financial market would fall apart, natural disasters would run rampant, and bastions of freedom would randomly pursue preemptive wars in faraway lands. And who wants that?

So today I celebrate the eleven (I'm coming DL) reasons why lists are to be celebrated.

1. Without lists, we wouldn't have VH1. List shows comprise exactly 98.2% of that network's programming, and without them, we wouldn't know nearly as much about Flavor-Flav's dating habits. Those list shows are just so damn watchable. I can't wait until they come out with a show detailing the 50 best list shows on VH1. That's something I'd definitely watch if I was bored and nothing else was on.

Related note: I remember one weekend in senior year of college, all four of my roommates and I sat down to watch an episode of "I Love the 70s" over breakfast. It turned out to be a marathon, and none of us could look away. Before we knew it, it was dark outside. This is how I explain the fact that I've been homeless twice since graduating from college.

2. High Fidelity. This movie turned lists into a way of life. As I see it, a pretty fantastic way of life. To honor it, I present a list within this list about lists, detailing the top 5 John Cusack movies (not to be confused with the top 5 movies with John Cusack in them) of all time:

1. High Fidelity
2. Say Anything
3. Grosse Pointe Blank
4. Better Off Dead
5. 1408

3. Maxim's "Hot 100 List." An endless source of enjoyable debate and yet another excuse to look at attractive women wearing very little.

4. Lists are a fun way to start debates and settle arguments. What better way to show a friend your opinion is better than his than by citing a published article in a reputable magazine that lists your preference higher than his. Where I'm from, that's called, "List Serve."

5. American culture is all about striving to be number one. But you don't get to be number one if there is no number two. And three. And four. And five. And six. And seven. And eight. And nine. And ten. And eleven. And twelve.

I bet you thought that was going to stop before it did. Well, you don't get to be the number one blogger through conventional methods.

6. Without lists, there would be no way to put the truly great and the truly horrible things in life in their proper perspective. Sure, that call by the referee on Monday Night Football was incompetent, but was it among the 10 worst calls of all time? Yeah, the mustache that guy on the bus was sporting was remarkable, but could it be considered among the 50 most influential mustaches of the modern era? These matters need their proper place in history, and lists allow for that to happen.

7. Lists are easy to write and easy to read. All I'm saying is that we're both winners here.

8. Remember when you went to the grocery store to buy eggs, got sidetracked in the magazine aisle, saw a bargain in the produce section, and suddenly remembered you are low on paper towels? If you'd made a grocery list, you wouldn't have come home with a trunk full of groceries and no eggs.

9. "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways." That's top notch Victorian poetry by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. You may see it as a passionate poem about love, but I see it as a clinical poem about the importance of lists.

Once again, ladies, I am single.

10. If lists didn't exist, you would not be reading this sentence, and your mind would not currently be blown.

11. Bucket lists are a pretty cool thing. I realize the concept has been tarnished recently by a movie which squandered the considerable talents of Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson, but it's a pretty amazing idea when you think about it. Why wouldn't you make a list of the things you want to accomplish in a lifetime and then do your best to fulfill it? In fact, my advice to you is to finish reading this blog, make your own personal bucket list, and then start working to cross items off that list.

Seriously.

What are you waiting for?

Are List Blogs Listless?

Blogging a list of the reasons why I'm happy to have named my van Martin Buren got me thinking about the increasing abundancy of lists in modern society.

We have grocery lists, to-do lists, bucket lists, and even hit lists. We just can't get enough of the things. But is the ubiquitous nature of the list (yes, I do use words like "ubiquitous" to mask my insecurities by trying to prove I'm smarter than you) a boon to society or an annoying trend that, if left unchecked, will ultimately lead to our collective downfall?

I'm determined to find out.

Unfortunately, the only way I could think of to analyze the role of lists is by list form. Oh cruel, cruel irony.

Tomorrow, I will be providing a list of why lists are a national treasure and the next day I will provide a list detailing why lists are pure, concentrated evil. Afterwards, I will analyze both lists and ultimately determine the credibility of lists as they relate to the meaning of life.

If I were in graduate school, this would be my thesis. So yeah, there's a reason I decided not to go to graduate school.

After my list experiment (which I guarantee will fundamentally alter the way in which you view your own existence or your money back) I will be returning back to blogging about my recent experiences. This week you can look forward to blogs about Yellowstone National Park, experiences in Idaho that may or may not involve potatoes, and my insatiable quest for a moose spotting.

Until then, please enjoy this link to a video where a moose shows a dog what's up.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K94JlejW5LQ

Rutherford B. Hayes Didn't Have the Same Ring to It

After a world-wide vote that rivaled the voting turnout of American Idol (you have no proof that it didn't), a winner has emerged for the name of my 1992 GMC Vandura/ apartment.

It was a very close race and "Hydranoid" and "Pam Vanderson" put up strong efforts. Thank you very much for your suggestions, Matthew and Dan. However, just edging those out was the winner, and new name for the projectmeaning.com van...

Martin "Van" Buren.

There are several reasons why I am excited about this name. So many, in fact, that I will present the top 11 reasons (take that, Letterman!) why Martin "Van" Buren is an excellent name for my lovely home:





1. Martin Van Buren, though a forgettable president, had an amazing hairstyle. It feels good to be able to honor that.

2. It's a much better choice than his successor, William Henry Harrison, because Harrison died thirty days after taking office. That would be asking for a breakdown, no matter how much I wanted to use the slogan, "Tippecanoe and GMC too."


3. It's easy to shorten it to Martin, which honors Martin Sheen (a televison president), Martin Short, and the tragically forgotten hit sitcom featuring Martin Lawrence and the brilliant Sheneneh...come to think of it...she looked a lot like Lawrence.


4. Sticking with the television theme...Seinfeld once mentioned a gang called the Van Buren Boys, a rough tough street gang that was named after Martin Van Buren and "just as mean as he was." So it gives me, you know, street cred.


5. If "Martin" gets old as a moniker, I can refer to the van as "MVB," which sounds very important.


6. The "Van" part is meant to be used as a pun. Get it? Very clever, if I do say so myself.


7. According to Wikipedia (which is of course 100% accurate), Van Buren's presidency was "largely characterized by the economic hardship of his time, the Panic of 1837." So yeah, that makes the name politically and socially relevant for our current times.


8. The name was originally suggested by my friend Derek, who is currently in medical school. The man's about to be a doctor. If people are going to entrust him with their health, it should be pretty safe to entrust him with not screwing up my van's name.


9. If the name doesn't work out, I can blame it all on Derek. Here's hoping that judges take a liberal interpretation of the term "malpractice."



10. Van Buren is a busy street in downtown Phoenix. It is best known as a popular hangout for prostitutes. Just thought you should know.

11. When the van breaks down (which will likely happen at least twenty times in the upcoming year), I can loudly exclaim, "Damn you, Martin 'Van' Buren!"

I Found Nemo

Montana is roughly 100 times the size of Rhode Island, yet more people live in Rhode Island than in the entire giant state of Montana. I think this is because East Coast elitists are afraid of big skies. Montanans, on the other hand, are afraid of very little. Not only do wild animals not scare them, they actually pursue the giant creatures that roam the rural terrain.

Hunting is huge in Montana, so much so that during a gathering, my relatives chose to watch hunting on television. Let me just say, for the record, that the next great television personality will not come from a hunting show. These guys dish out high fives faster than Puddy on Seinfeld.

My cousin Shane wanted to share the beauty and splendor of the Montana outdoors, and after silently noting that I was about as likely to become a deer hunter as I was to play Russian Roulette, he invited me to go fishing on his boat in a nearby lake.

It turns out Shane's small fishing boat can really fly, and as we pull away from the shore, he cautions me to prepare for a swift ride.

"Hold on to your hat," he yells with a smile.

I laugh, noting his delightful colloquialism and enjoying the increasing breeze. Of course, not ten seconds later, the wind catches my hat and sends it sailing into the water behind us. How annoying. If only I'd been given a proper warning.

The bad news is that my hat will be soaked for the duration of the trip.

The good news is that, regardless of my fishing skill from here on out, I know that I have at least caught something with Shane's fishing net.

It turns out, I'm not so bad a fisherman after all, as my hat is soon replaced by a trout, which you can see by the picture to the left, is the most glamorous fish in existence.

That trout is soon followed by another trout, only this one is gigantic. I know it doesn't look huge in the picture, but what would you say if I told you that the tackle box in the background was the length of three football fields and that the hand you see is none other than the Hand of God reaching down from the Heavens to pat me on the back for catching such a gigantic fish? Shane estimated that it weighed well over a pound.

Fishing is pretty easy when you have a boat, technology that monitors the depth of the lake and at what depth the fish are currently swimming, and an experienced fisherman helping you out because you threatened to ruin his good name in your blog if he didn't catch you some fish.

But fear not, we release each fish we catch back into the water so the dumb things can live to be caught another day.

After all, our fishing expedition isn't about catching fish as much as it is about catching up with family. And even though the biggest fish we hook (Shane guesses it to weigh at least ten lbs. while I insist I've finally found my white whale) gets away by catching our lure on the botttom of the lake, the entire trip is an absolute joy thanks to Shane.

As a true Montanan, Shane loves hunting. He loves fishing. He loves the serenity of a day spent in the great outdoors. But most of all, he loves people.

"I love showing visitors a good time. I never get a chance to leave Montana, so its rare that we get to see family from out of state, but I would love to spend more time doing stuff like this," he shares on the way back. "The meaning of life, to me...What's important to me, is that I have the respect of the people I care about. "

On the Highway to Helena

With strangers in Montana treating me like a friend they'd known for years, I couldn't wait to visit my Montana-based relatives. After all, we Mosiers are known for our kindness, hospitality, good looks, modesty, intellect, senses of humor, openness, creativity, money-making skills, athletic ability, brevity, and colorful use of unjustifiable adjectives.

My cousin Shane and his wife Nelma live in Helena and they do not disappoint. Shane and Nelma make the amiable citizens of Great Falls seem like callous jerks in comparison (just kidding G.F.; you know I love you) and immediately take me in as family even though they haven't seen me since I was only nine years old.

The couple has had difficulties with work in recent years, but they have managed to handle things well. Shane worked his way up to middle management through many years of hard work and determination, only to see the company he worked for fall apart. With few options in a rural Montana setting, he turned to truck driving. He has been driving the past six years, making good money, but ruing the fact that the job takes him away from home so often. It is not unusual for him to work twenty hour days, six or seven days a week.

Nelma worked as a supervisor in the same tax company for thirty years, only to find herself being undermined at every turn. The stresses of the job turned her into a person she didn't want to be, so she recently tendered her resignation. The off time has given her time to breathe, and the result is a sweet, caring, happy Nelma. She has such a wonderful disposition that I hardly believe her when she says her kids couldn't handle her attitude for another tax season.

Nelma has made her world famous Mexican egg rolls and invited her immediate family over for dinner. Her kids, both roughly my age, have kids of their own. Saige, a precocious little seven-year-old, enters the house with an expectant grin on her face.

"Where's our cousin?"

"Here he is."

Saige strains her neck to look up at me. Her grin slowly turns to a poorly hidden mix of fear and disappointment. Her younger sister, Makenna, follows her into the room and also stares up at me, a feat that seems to make her dizzy. The scene is eerily reminiscent to the point in Kindergarten Cop when the children meet Arnold for the first time.

I smile and wave, which prompts both children to slowly retreat to the nearby guest room. As Nelma carries on a conversation in the kitchen, I overhear two little voices emanating from the room.

"He's scary!"

"No he's not."

"Well...He looks scary."

Touche.

Despite their fears, the little girls approach me before dinner to show me the clown noses their mother just bought them as well as their collection of Care Bear dolls. They put the clown noses on various bears as I react in emotions ranging from amusement to astonishment to horror. The kids find this very enjoyable. When they discover that I happen to know the name of one of the Care Bears (look, I never claimed to be cool), their perception of me changes from "big, scary guy" to "giant pushover."

Before I know it, I am being accessorized with clown noses, scrunchies, and flowers. I never thought I'd be nostalgic for the time when little kids found me scary, but seven hairstyles later, it happens.

Check back tomorrow to hear how my fishing trip with Shane caused a blackout in the New York City greater metropolitan area and other fish tales.

Sharpie Wisdom, Children's Edition

It's time for another edition of "Sharpie Wisdom," the consensus most popular blog dedicated to 1992 GMC Vandura autographs. Take that, www.vandurart.com!

This time, I thought I'd highlight some of the signatures of children I've encountered along my trip, because I strongly believe that children are the future. I've always said that. Ask anyone. I said that even before the song, and I wasn't born yet. Which made me, well, the future.

I rest my case. Onto the signatures:


While visiting family in Montana (more on that in days to come), my cousin Kelly signed the van, turned to me, and joked, "I'm envious of your trip. I wish I could do what you're doing, but unfortunately I had kids instead."

Her young son, Trevon, looked devastated. It turns out children don't always have the best ear for sarcasm. Trevon signed his name in his own tears, which luckily consisted of pen ink.



I have many quotes on the van, but Ivy remains the youngest person to use this technique. After writing the quote, Ivy signed her name. I suggested that she properly attribute the quote to Robert Frost. She called me old. I would have argued, but my bed time was fast approaching so I didn't have the energy.

Incidentally, I often take the road less traveled on this trip, but that's usually because I bought a budget GPS.


According to their mom, young Matthew and Megan fancy me a bit of a "rock star." I'm certain this will change when they get old enough to realize that rock stars absolutely never use "fancy" as a verb.







I mentioned to eight-year-old Wilson that a lot of people sign the van with "Stay safe" with the occasional "Don't die." He found this humorous and immediately prognosticated my death. Thanks, Buddy.

Wilson also liked the explanation of "42" as the meaning of life. Being eight, he accidentally wrote the "2" backwards. Either that or he did it intentionally as an ironic statement about the inherent fallacies of human rationale.



While watching a presidential debate in my van, I kept getting interrupted by a loud voice emanating from the car next to me reading the signatures on my van aloud. I soon discovered it was a mother reading to her daughters. They seemed excited about the novelty, so I offered to let them sign. Both girls signed with this same expression.

Some would see their statement as a lovely expression of childhood innocence and exuberance. I just saw it as proof that they've never been to Tucson.

Zing!

Well, that's all the time we have for today, kids.

Until next time,

Where People Are Greater Than Waterfalls

Great Falls, Montana is not aptly named. The waterfalls in the town are few and far between, and none of them are particularly great.

Picking up the slack, their gas stations are awesome. You know how many small businesses like to be creative in spelling words in their names, or "wordz in their namez?" One gas station chain picked a rather unfortunate word to misspell. On the positive side, the station is very popular with truckers.

After filling up on gas (I swear that's all I did there), I follow my extraordinarily cheap GPS to Black Eagle Falls and it leads me straight to a private golf course. After further examination, I discover that Black Eagle Falls is now a dam, and a dam closed to the public at that.

This does not particularly bother me. I am just happy to be back on American soil. It's not that I didn't enjoy Canada, it's that for a few minutes, I didn't think I was going to be able to leave. Let's just say that border guards are not known for their congenial nature.

I thought crossing the border back into America would be easier, seeing as I am an American citizen. I thought wrong. One border guard was particularly nice and fun to talk to. The rest all seemed like they wanted to punch me in the face, clearly ignoring the "pledge to be courteous at all times" posted in the room I sat in while they tore my van apart.

I'm pretty sure one guy was mad at me because he lost a surefire bet that I was carrying weed across the border. The other guy was probably pissed because he had to search through the laundry bag riding on top of the van. That smells about as fresh as the box Kevin Spacey delivered to Brad Pitt in the movie Seven.

Fortunately, my faith in humanity was quickly restored in Great Falls, home of the nicest people on the planet. People approach me all the time on this trip, but it's almost always because of the van. In Great Falls, smiling coffee drinkers continually approached me while I was typing this blog at Starbucks, just because they happen to be genuinely friendly and interested in striking up polite conversation with complete strangers.

Gary, a tall man in a leather jacket, espouses the virtues of enlightening philosophical conversations, then graces the van with a poem he wrote while dealing with addiction.

Rodger and Tait, an unusual pair with a friendship defying generational boundaries, are as pleasant as anyone I've come across (and an "s" away from forming a country western band. Tell me "Rodgers and Tait" doesn't sound like a popular music act).

Rodger is a Vietnam vet with gray hair and a positive outlook on life. He does his share of charity work and isn't afraid to share his opinion on anything.

Tait is an eighteen year old business owner who dabbles in acting, modeling, hiking, mountain climbing, and high school. In his spare time, he cures various terminal diseases and brokers peace talks in the Middle East.All joking aside, Tait is the most energetic young man I have ever come across. His credo is that God has given us all the gift of human potential and it is our duty to fulfill that potential.

"Most people never give themselves enough credit," he says, hopping up and down.

Tait is so energized with life that he seems to have trouble containing his physical excitement. Rodger, on the other hand, is the picture of cool and collected.

That the two have developed a friendship based on intellectual conversations over coffee is a testament to the atmosphere created by a town like Great Falls.

Or as Rodger likes to call it, "Good Falls."

There Will Be Blood

You know those end-of-the-world blockbusters that Hollywood keeps churning out? The ones where a widespread pandemic/unprecedented natural disaster/ army of flesh-eating zombies rips through society until only a few survivors (most of them slightly off) litter the streets of once crowded cities?

That's how downtown Calgary feels on Canadian Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving in Canada is basically like Thanksgiving, except it is held on the second Monday of October, lends itself to a weekend getaway, and is celebrated with far inferior football.

Calgary is large and sprawling, with a population exceeding one million Calgarians. Downtown is located in the middle of the city, with Centre street leading straight to the Calgary Tower, which is Canada's way of, let's call it "overcompensating" for their lack of a Space Needle.

Normally, I expect this area to be jampacked, as the various pay parking lots indicate. But on Canadian Thanksgiving, with many Calgarians leaving town and others eating turkey dinner at home, the downtown area is essentially shut down for the day.

Cruising through the eerie ghost town that just one day before was a booming metropolis, a particularly interesting piece of graffiti catches my eye.

Vomit...No explanation. It's not particularly offensive. It's not a swear word. Yet I find it oddly disturbing. Then compelling. What could it mean? Is the graffiti pro-vomit or anti-fence and simply expressing its disdain? Is there a street gang in Calgary that uses the name "Vomit?" Or is it a directive? Does some random Calgarian wish for all passersby to throw up?

I had to know, so I looked it up on Google, which led me to a world-wide graffiti appreciation message board. The same mark exists on various rail cars in Calgary. A member on the board named "Caboose" ends the thread by bragging, "I am friends with Vomit."

Using deductive reasoning, I discern that Caboose is likely a train-hopper and, rather than an ardent supporter of upchuck, knows a fellow who uses the moniker "Vomit." If I went by "Vomit," I would not be as eager to share this fact with the world, but I must admit, it did cause me to stop and take a picture.

As I get out to take that picture, I am met by a small congregation of quirky Canadians who have gathered just above the vomit and behind the nearby railroad tracks. Upon further investigation, I discover that I have stumbled upon "The Tree of Life." How apropos.

"The Tree of Life" is part of an upcoming city arts festival. A Hungarian born performance artist named Istvan Kantor (aka Monty Cantsin) has attached a red flag to an ordinary tree in the hopes of establishing the area as "a new landmark for Calgary to direct information exchange within the framework of everyday life."

Kantor is the disputed founder of "Neoism," an underground philosophy that supports radical performance art, pranks, and a collective identity where everyone refers to themselves as "Monty Cantsin." "The Tree of Life Project" is set to last for three days, and as far as I can tell exists as an opportunity for Kantor to self-promote and perform various odd tasks...or what some would refer to as performance art.

I interview Kantor on camera, and he provides an extemporaneous performance of an old folk song from his native land. His rambling answers to my questions often seem incoherent, but are interesting nonetheless. When I point out the unfortunate juxtaposition of "The Tree of Life" next to the "Vomit" fence, he shrugs it off, pulls on a ski mask and begins digging a hole in the ground.I can only imagine what the children's keyboard and Marilyn Monroe calendar lying around the site are for.

Say what you want about Istvan Kantor, but "Monty Cantsin" seems like a nice guy. The spectators that the exhibit attracts are all interesting and amiable. And why shouldn't they be? On this day, in the empty downtown streets, "Monty Cantsin" is Calgary.

A nice lesbian couple takes a picture with Istvan next to their car, obscuring part of the license plate with Kantor's hand to highlight "666."

A man named David, an Istvan fan, has volunteered to help with the exhibit and asks if I can give him a lift to his apartment so he can pick up his guitar and play a Monty Python song about the meaning of life. When we get there, he shows me his unique artistic passion. He used to live in Japan, and secured a piece of technology that converts handwriting into typeface.

The instrument looks simultaneously futuristic and archaic, but has allowed him to experiment with computer interpretation. The experiment allowed him to be a guest speaker at Arizona State University, an accomplishment David takes great pride in. He has spent countless hours writing various expressions backward in cursive and analyzing the computer's results. For instance, "Logan" backwards emits the word "regal."

Smart computer.

On the way back, David regales me with stories of Istvan's hardcore methods.

"He got famous for going into art museums and splattering his blood on the walls," David tells me excitedly. "Needless to say, the museums did not appreciate that."

Further research shows that Kantor got famous for throwing his blood around quite frequently. Getting kicked out of art museums seems to be his calling card, a fact he wears with pride and features on the front page of his web site, which shows him being dragged off by multiple guards kicking and screaming and proudly proclaims "Banned from most museums around the world."

When we return, David, stagename "Davisio" begins to play songs as Istvan digs a grave for a body that hopefully doesn't exist. David is interrupted mid-strum by a tall man in a Railway Security uniform.

"This is private property," the guard states matter of factly. "You're going to need to move away from the railroad."

Apparently, Canada also has "The Man," and here he doesn't take a holiday. I brace myself for Istvan, legendary blood-splattering resister to authority, to react with fire and brimstone. Instead, he quietly picks up his keyboard and shovel and feebly moves it away from "The Tree of Life" and next to the "Vomit" fence.I guess even Neoists need to pick their battles wisely.

I'm Sure Calgary Has Plenty of Popular Gay People

My first impression of Calgary was not a good one. I had just visited Vancouver, which is a remarkably beautiful city, and was really disappointed in the landscape transition from British Colombia to Alberta.

After all, Calgary is a sprawling city built on prairie land. The terrain never really changes. The biggest park in the city doesn't have a single tree. All I see heading into Calgary are a wealth of densely packed together houses and yellow grass.

Calgary sucks, I think to myself, simultaneously wondering why my subconscious happens to remain so immature.

Then a funny thing happens on my way to loathing Calgary.

I find out that good friends of my mother were visiting at the same time, so I call them at the nearest pay phone. They are in town for an Olympic pin convention (why wouldn't they be) and have never really left their hotel. They have a meeting in an hour, then leave in the morning. In order to see them, I must expertly navigate Calgary.

As it turns out, I am unable to expertly navigate a large city minutes after arriving, so I stop at a gas station. The two clerks are just about the nicest people I have ever met. They break out a map and write detailed instructions on how to find my friend's hotel. Intrigued by this project, they sign the van.

The guy is wearing a wristband that says "Life is a journey, not a destination," so he scrawls this expression on the back. Underneath, the girl writes "Michelle, Calgary's favorite homo!" I'm not sure that should be a self-appointed title, but it made me laugh nonetheless.


My mad dash to say hi to friends led to me experiencing the city, and I must say, Calgary grows on you. Between the people, the wide open spaces, and the lower gas prices, it might even be a comparable home to its flashier neighbor to the West.

It's even better on Canadian Thanksgiving, when the downtown area is so empty that wildlife confidently blends into the urban scene.


Be sure to check tomorrow's blog for more on my stay in Calgary, with a variety of tales including but not limited to: vomit, performance art, and the tree of life.

Reasons to Wake Up In the Morning That Don't Involve Megan Fox

Since I've already started ruling out items in order to find the meaning of life, I figure it is only fair that I start highlighting some underappreciated aspects of life that may hold greater meaning than they are given credit for.

The following are all possible answers to the ultimate question:

+ The smell of impending rain on a clear warm day.

+ An unexpected day off of work.

+ Condescending stupid people. I can deal with arrogance and I can deal with ignorance. When you put the two together, the results are magical. For clarification on this, check out the following links a good friend sent me:

http://www.cnn.com/video/#/video/politics/2008/10/17/racist.obama.newsletter.kcal

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zRqcfqiXCX0

+ Funny videos on the internet. Of course, this implies that life had no meaning before Al Gore invented the internet. Either that, or America's Funniest Home Videos was vastly more important than any of us realized at the time.

+ Bob Saget. That man is a national treasure.

+ That moment when you wake up and realize that it's Christmas morning.

+ That moment when you wake up and realize that it's the first day of Channukah.

+ That moment when you wake up and realize that it's time for Kwanzaa.

+ Making fun of political correctness.

+ Punching someone who really deserves it, then politely reminding children that violence is never the answer.

+ 43.

+ Meeting someone who makes you too nervous to function correctly, then realizing that you've had the same effect on her.

+ Earning the respect of the people whose opinions truly matter to you.

+ Speedos, chia pets, and the musical stylings of Wayne Brady. Of course, these are only applicable for the French. They live by different rules.

+ Ending a blog at exactly the right time. I can not stress how crucial it is to

The REALLY Bachelor Pad...Thanks Mike

My van just passed 100,000 miles on the odometer, and the first digit never rolled over from a zero to a one. That means, to my dismay, she likely has over 200,000 miles on her now. After all, if my van were a human, she would now be old enough to drive herself.

In honor of this, it's time for phase two of everybody's favorite promotional game, "Name that van!"

Since the last time we played, I've had numerous suggestions for names for the Project Meaning van. I've decided to list my five favorites here and let everyone vote on their preference. After all, I am all about spreading Democracy.

Here are the five finalists:

+ Martin Van Buren (suggested by Derek in Tucson, AZ) I like this one because it incorporates a bad pun, makes me seem educated, and reminds me of Van Buren Street, the road in my hometown of Phoenix that is notorious for its plethora of prostitutes.

+ Barking Beast (suggested by Jaime in Bend, OR) This is in reference to Arthurian lore and the legend of the questing beast. The beast was known for the great barking sound it emits from its belly. The beast has a mixed bag of body parts from a serpent, lion, leopard, and hart, which according to wikipedia is a fancy name for a deer.

+ Charles "Corky" Thatcher: The Van (suggested by Steve in Phoenix, AZ) I just thought this one was funny. And who doesn't love a good episode of "Life Goes On?"

+ Hydranoid (suggested by Matthew in Renton, WA) Hydranoid is a character from Mathew's favorite cartoon. I don't know anything about said cartoon, but I think the name has a classy, futuristic vibe to it. Plus, it's one of about three suggestions I got that didn't involve a pun.

+ Pam Vanderson (suggested by Dan in Phoenix, AZ) Because my van has quite a bit of mileage on her, yet remains stunning. Plus, I like boobs.

Thank you for everyone who contributed. I've been asked to keep Sexbeerviolence, a personal suggestion, in the running, so feel free to vote for that as the name as well. Let me know your favorite, and I'll do my best to stay true to the Democratic process.

Though I may involve the electoral college.

Tony Montana Deserves Better

It's time for another installment of everyone's favorite blog, "Finding Meaning by Process of Elimination." We've already discovered that the meaning of life has nothing to do with pogs. Now it's time to rule out something else in my quest for nirvana.

Once again, the rules are simple. I can not rule out anything as the ultimate meaning until its cosmic irrelevance leaves me more confident than David Hasselhoff at a German swingers convention. This time, I am ready to dismiss...Gigli.

The movie Gigli has absolutely nothing to do with the meaning of life.

Here are the facts:

+ It is widely considered to be one of the ten worst films ever made, yet remains overrated.

+ It remains to this day the film containing the worst acting performances of Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez. That's saying something. That's like having the worst venereal disease at a budget brothel.

+ Despite being absolutely ludicrous, the film lacks the ability to entertain with its campiness and incompetence, instead remaining simultaneously boring and flabbergasting for its two hour duration.

+ It is a slap in the face to lesbianism. Lopez's character changes sexual preference like she were changing clothes. And she converts for Affleck, marking the second time (Chasing Amy) that lesbianism lost out to the charms of Ben Affleck. If that's not a slap in the face, I don't know what is.

+ The movie manages to make Jennifer Lopez in her prime unattractive, an unpardonable sin. At one point, while working out, she decides to seduce Affleck. So she spreads her legs, glares at him with flirtatious eyes, and delivers the following line with a straight face:

"It's turkey time. Gobble gobble."

To the movie's credit, Affleck did not respond with, "Cock-a-doodle-doo."

All of this would simply make Gigli simply another awful movie if it weren't for the ultimate unpardonable sin: they dragged Al Pacino and Christopher Walken into this mess.

You don't mess with Serpico.

Therefore, I find that Gigli is irrefutably devoid of meaning and can under no circumstances be considered existentially relevant.

If anyone wishes to argue this point, I'm willing to take my case all the way to the Supreme Court if necessary, beacause not only is Gigli not the meaning of life, I'm pretty sure it is unconstitutional.

Gobble gobble.

Things I Find More Amooseing Than Bad Puns

All I wanted was to see one moose.

Is that too much to ask?

I spent eight hours driving across Canada, from Kamloops to Calgary, and my only real goal was to see a moose. If I saw one, I don't care if there was a stopping point or not, I was going to get a picture.

Unfortunately, the closest thing I got to seeing a giant moose was spotting a giant sign that I initially thought was a moose. Turns out it wasn't even a moose sign; it was an elk sign. I'm really glad I didn't stop in the middle of the freeway to take a better picture.

Since wildlife was not out in full force, I had to settle for picturesque views of nature. The Canadian Rockies compare favorably to the Colorado Rockies, with a variety of landscapes ranging from arid and, well, rocky, to tree-laden and covered in snow.

My favorite area came in the middle of my trip, where two mountains came together at a small lake. The surrounding fog gave the area a majestic feel, which was soon ruined by a sign that read, "Welcome to Salmon Arm, Heart of the Shuswap." What a ridiculous combination of letters.

I started to feel indignant towards my Canadian brethren, but then remembered about Weed, California and Bellybutton, Arizona and Intercourse Pennsylvania. I immediately hurled a stone through the nearest glass house.

I then spent the next three hours of my drive pondering how ice could possibly cost twice as much in Canada. This seems completely unreasonable to me. You know that old expression, "He could sell ice to Eskimoes?" Apparently, there are a lot of great salesmen North of the border, because it costs more here than in my hometown of Phoenix, Arizona.

After I am done pondering Canadian supply and demand, I find myself transitioning from British Colombia to Alberta. Almost immediately, my amazing scenic journey turned into a bland drive through Northern Kansas. Alberta is one of the three "prairie provinces" (along with Saskatchewan and Manitoba)and it is considerably less impressive visually than its neighbor to the West.

If provinces were movies (don't question my logic), British Colombia would be The Godfather and Alberta would be The Godfather III. If provinces were characters in those films (seriously, just go with it) British Colombia would be Michael and Alberta would be Fredo. That's right, Alberta, I called you Fredo. Lower your ice prices and then we can talk.

Actually, the more I saw of Alberta, the more I liked it. But I'll save that for future blogs. For now, here are some pictures of moose that I didn't take, but wish I had:
As always, you're welcome.

Laurie

The best thing about this project, and perhaps about life in general, is the Wow moment. The Wow moment is that rare instance when you feel like you have made an actual difference in someone's life. In that precious fleeting moment in time, life always seems to make a little more sense.

The Wow moment is a gift, and one that tends to evade us in everyday life.

A man named Laurie gave me that gift just last week.

Laurie is a "First Nation," basically Canada's version of "Native American." He comes from a heritage that is known as the Thompson Tribe, but he clarifies that "Thompson" is not the actual name.

"What is the tribe really called?"

"I could tell you," he says, grinning, "but you wouldn't be able to pronounce it."

"Try me."

"Nɬeʔképmx."

"Okay. You win."

Laurie laughs. He laughs a lot, which is truly remarkable given his circumstances.

I originally spot Laurie as I am leaving Vancouver. He is located by the freeway entrance heading East and he looks tired and cold. I decide that I could use some company on the long trek across British Colombia, so I pull over.

"Where are you headed?"

"Kamloops."

"Hop in."

Kamloops is a four hour drive from Vancouver, so Laurie and I have plenty of time to talk. Laurie is not shy about sharing his story.

Laurie almost grew up as an American citizen. His family briefly lived in Washington, but a five-year-old Laurie split his head open and required serious treatment, forcing the family back to Canada for medical care. Instead, he grew up in Merritt, a town about an hour West of Kamloops.

He is sixty-six years old. The better part of those years, forty to be exact, were spent working as a logger. As technology advanced, so did Laurie's skills, and he soon became accomplished felling trees with machinery. Unfortunately, logging jobs are not always plentiful, even in Canada, and Laurie often found himself driving hundreds of miles of icy roads from job to job.

It was not always easy to stay awake. In fact, it was often near impossible. Laurie had never been into drugs, but he had once dated a woman with a cocaine addiction. He had access to crack cocaine, and one day the need to stay awake on the dangerous roads trumped the need to avoid the dangers of drugs.

He took a McDonald's coffee stirrer, dabbed the end of it with a very small amount of cocaine, and swallowed it. It took hold quickly and kept him alert through a particularly long drive. The next drive, he used a little more. Then a little more. Before he knew it, he was addicted.

Three years into his addiction, the crack started taking over his life. It was no longer just a distraction, it was his reason for living. Laurie worked hard for decades to build up his reputation as a logger, and now his addiction was affecting his work. Sensing a disaster ahead, he stopped logging, hoping to return to his craft when he was once again able to faithfully execute his job properly.

"You have to stay true to your moral code, eh?"

It's a weird statement to hear from a crack addict, but it seems genuine and fitting with Laurie. He is a kind, gentle soul, even in the throws of withdrawal.

Three years after quitting work, he found himself homeless in Vancouver, roaming Hastings and Main for weeks on end, concerned with little more than his next hit. We bond over our experiences being homeless, though we both recognize the stark differences in our situations.

"Hastings and Main is Vancouver's Skid Row," he tells me. "Does Las Vegas have a Hastings and Main?"

"Las Vegas is one big Hastings and Main."

Laurie laughs again. He is feeling better than he has for quite some time. You see, Laurie decided two weeks ago that he had lived with his addiction long enough. He had several Wow moments come together at one time in his life and found that he couldn't avoid action any longer.

So he has been weaning himself off the drug. He has repaired his diet in an effort to get himself stronger. And he has taken action to get away from Hastings and Main. His goal is to find treatment in Kamloops, and he has focused his single-mindedness to this pursuit.

The first time Laurie tries to get out of his living Hell, he is stopped by transit authorities and sent back. The second time, he is caught hitchhiking by the police and sent back once again. This is his third effort to get out of town, and when I pick Laurie up, he has managed to stay away from cocaine for three days.

He has been battling several withdrawal symptoms, the worst being severe diarrhea. But he seems to have turned a corner for the better. His main concern now is for his friend back in Vancouver.

"He doesn't know I left. He's going to be worried. But I know he has the will to heal himself as well."

Laurie calls his friend "Cowboy," and his friend affectionately returns the favor by referring to Laurie as "Indian." Cowboy was recently hit by a car, and the crippling effects may leave him in line for a large settlement. Laurie prays that he will never get it.

When you're addicted to crack, money really is the root of all evil.

Cowboy is not alone in his handicap. Laurie speaks of an army of addicts, many of them crippled, and beat down, sent to wheelchairs by their addiction.

"You'd think it'd be a deterrent, eh? But no."

Laurie makes most of his money now "from the dumpsters," collecting metal and turning it in for profit. He once found a jacket by a dumpster and used it for warmth through the long winter night. It turned out to be a security guard jacket, and Laurie now has a criminal record for theft.

This is Laurie's light, breezy story he tells to disarm me. You don't come across a lot of humor when you've spent the past three years sleeping outside in cardboard boxes, but Laurie has managed to keep his sense of humor intact.

It is this ability, this presence of mind, which leads him to Kamloops, which compelled him to turn his life around, which led him to my van on this day.

Because Laurie is a man who appreciates a good Wow moment. And two weeks ago he had three of them.

First, while prowling around Skid Row, he formed a bond with a man that transcended normal human interaction. Laurie shared his soul and the man responded in kind.

"If money is power, then he had all the power a man could hope for. But crack cocaine brought him down."

The man wept, broken from years of abuse and spiritual neglect. Laurie was there to catch him with a knowing look and a warm embrace. The connection they shared touched Laurie deeply.

Another Wow moment came in the form of a near arrest. Laurie was snorting crack with an otherwise reputable woman. The woman was a nurse, and a good one at that.

"You know how sometimes you can just tell that someone is a good person?" Laurie offers. "I knew that she was a good person."

The police officer that found them seemed to agree. He let Laurie and the nurse go. But the nurse was hysterical. The brief moment when she thought she was going to be arrested was clearly the worst moment of her life. Laurie saw her as her life flashed before her eyes and he was taken aback by the despair in those eyes.

Ten minutes later, she was snorting a new batch in a nearby alley.

This is the power of crack cocaine, Laurie thought to himself.

Laurie's next Wow moment, and the final impetus for his search for help, came when another friend died. The man, weakened by his addiction, passed away from double pneumonia.

"He was trying to get help, but there was nothing there for him. He tried to help himself, but by the end, he was too weak."

Now, as I sit in my van, parked on a Kamloops cliff where I have recently interviewed my new friend, Laurie breaks a long but comfortable silence.

"You know, this experience means a lot to me. Please, tell my story. It means so much to me that my story is shared. If I can convince one kid who would have made a bad decision to go the other way, then I will have found some meaning of my own."

He pauses to reflect, then stares straight into my eyes.

"I think meeting you has reassured me that I am making the right decision. Thank you. Thank you for being here."

Wow.

Welcome to Van City

Vancouver is my type of town.

A city so nice they named it...well, once. But it's a nice name. It's even got "van" in it.

This fact did not evade a large Vancouver bank, which christened the city with a particularly inviting moniker.I was in Vancity. It doesn't get better than that. You know, unless you're not living in your van; then it can get a whole lot better.

Staying in Vancouver is an enjoyable experience. The city is so well planned out, it's bordering on pretension. The downtown area is a breathtaking urban achievement, but remains only a short drive away from a splendid beach that somehow manages an ambience of isolation. The surrounding residential areas, despite consistent density, can best be described as quaint.It's a metropolis of over two million people, but it has the comforting presence of a small town. Though I stayed only a couple days, Vancouver left a big impression on me. I could almost see myself living there.
You know, if it didn't happen to be in Canada. What a shame. Maybe they'd trade it to us for...I don't know...Omaha. We could sweeten the pot by throwing in Carhenge, which is (of course) a Nebraskan replica of Stonehenge, made out of cars. As great as Vancouver is, the Canadians might not be able to turn that offer down.





Speaking of shames, is there any interesting piece of architecture McDonald's doesn't interfere with? First the Space Needle, now this... What's next, they double up the St. Louis Arch and paint it golden?


Vancouver has a burgeoning film industry, so much so that it is often labeled "Hollywood North." Apparently, Tom Cruise is aware of this. Well done, Vancouver. Now all you need is more hookers, a traffic problem, and a general disregard for human decency, and they'll start calling Los Angeles "Vancouver South."






Oh, and to my millions ands millions of Canadian readers (again, numbers are estimates), I hope you had a great Thanksgiving yesterday.

And don't forget to vote.

Pardon Their French

Sorry for missing yesterday’s blog. In Canada, I rely on public libraries for the internet. I spent the better part of yesterday driving, and by the time I got to an area with libraries, they were all closed.

Tomorrow is Canadian Thanksgiving, which means all libraries will be closed the entire day; so no blog tomorrow, unfortunately. However, in the next week you can look forward to blogs on Vancouver, Calgary, the Canadian Rockies, and the hitchhiker I drove to Kamloops. Of course, each blog will come equipped with pictures and sarcastic witticisms.

In the meantime, I will share a few more insights into Canada:

+ Canadian pronunciations are crazy. It’s bean really hard…I mean "been" really hard to keep a straight face.

+ Things are spelled differently too. Words ending in “er” generally end in “re” and the European “u” keeps showing up. This sign should have brought back some memories of my time doing day labor in Vegas. Instead, it made me think of the Queen.

+ It’s really cold here. I figured you knew that already, but you can’t fully appreciate it until you’re here. All I’m saying is keep an eye out for Canadians doing suspicious activities to harm the environment. Global Warming clearly would be an upgrade here.

+ How hard is it to get a stoplight right? First, I have to deal with flashing green lights, and now the traffic signs are sideways? This is unacceptable. However, I forgive Canada because they have a tabloid magazine, much like The Enquirer, devoted to American gossip with a Canadian twist. So instead of the headline reading “Scarlett Johansson and Ryan Reynolds Have Secret Wedding!” it reads “Scarlett Johansson and Ryan Reynolds Have Secret Wedding…In Canada!” I find this to be beyond hilarious.

+ The country seems to be fairly evenly split between English and French culture. For instance, most products are labeled in both languages, there are several French radio stations, and half of the women don’t shave their arm pits. Okay, I’m guessing on that last one, but I don’t have proof that it’s not true.

Even the upcoming election is split down the middle. The Conservative candidate, Stephen Harper, could easily pass for American, while the Liberal candidate, Stephane Dion, is as French as they come. The most recent controversy came when Dion was asked about his plan for the recent financial crisis and could not answer promptly. His excuse was that there was an English translation issue and he did not understand the question.

Upon hearing this, George W. Bush quickly responded, “Wait…You can do that?” and immediately requested that all media questions for the rest of his term be submitted in Spanish.

A Bunch of Rambling, Followed Briefly by Clarity

Carolyn, the friendly mother of three I met in Renton, advised me to stop in Bellingham on my way to Canada. Bellingham is a college town (home to Western Washington University) with a beautiful bay, many gorgeous trees, and an above average Walmart.






These are pictures of a parking lot at Western Washington University. Not a bad place to go to school, eh? Wait, what just happened? I think the Canadians are starting to get to me, eh? Ahhh!!! It happened again.

Anyway, Bellingham was so picturesque that I started taking artistic pictures, like this picture of a lonely dandelion in the midst of fresh green leaves, which of course represents my childhood. You see, the juxtaposition of the fuzzy white strands gently blowing in the breeze, simulating the corruption of purity, with the abundance of green contrasting devilishly in the background, a scathing reference to the current financial crisis...wait a minute...Now the French-Canadians are starting to rub off on me. This is horrible! Quick, onto the next picture before I start glorifying pretentious films.





This is the Bellingham Bay. Having been born and raised in Phoenix, I've seen my share of harbors, port, marinas, and bays. This one tops even the best Phoenix has to offer.






Sometimes parking costs money, which is not something I have a lot of, so instead of pulling over to take pictures, I take shots while driving. While this practice has yet to cause an accident (emphasis on the word "yet") it usually results in interesting pictures. Here, I have managed to turn the delightfully quaint Whatcom Museum of History and Art into an appropriate setting for Citizen Kane 2: Rosebud's Revenge.

Now, because I never like to end a blog with a joke about a seventy-year-old film watched primarily by those who were forced to see it in school (but don't think I'm not coming for you, Charlie Chaplin's Modern Times), I would like to share Carolyn's meaning of life.

"My life is and always has been defined primarily by family and faith. My parents, sisters, aunts, uncles and cousins and now my own family...hubby and children. In the end, through good times and bad (and we've definitely seen both), it is faith and family that get me through."

Tales from an Exotic Foreign Land

While traveling through our neighbor to the North, I thought it might be fun to document some of the small differences between American and Canadian culture. I was right. Those Canadians sure are quirky, with their beer-drinking, hockey-loving, no gun violence ways.

Here are the immediate differences I found:

+ Before turning yellow, their green lights flash off and on. The smaller stoplights flash off and on immediately. I assume this is to warn about stale green lights and prevent accidents, but it had me worrying about the possibility of an epileptic seizure.

+ They really do love their hockey. The radio DJ I’m listening to says many bad words (words George Carlin indicated you couldn’t say on the radio) in reference to the Calgary Flames, the arch rival of their precious Vancouver Canucks. If this sounds like gibberish to you, you are not alone.

Also, a commercial presents the opportunity to win Olympic hockey tickets, at which point a manly man starts crying, indicating that a love for hockey is enough to bring even the most masculine guy to tears. It’s like they’ve never even heard of football.

+ That DJ on the radio isn’t even a sports personality, but rather a morning guy on a rock station. His signature bit is to give away free gasoline to callers who answer questions correctly. The station promotes this with a jingle indicating that the DJ “has gas.” It’s nice to see that some things carry over from country to country, but did it have to be corny morning show jokes?

+ Speaking of gas, it’s a trap here in Canada. The signs at gas stations say $1.24. Sounds amazing, right? The catch is that Canada refuses to catch up with the rest of the world (and by “rest of the world” I mean “United States”) and is still on the metric system. So that $1.24 is per litre. And they even have the audacity to spell liter the English way.

It turns out gas is slightly more expensive in Vancouver than in Seattle. Here is a picture to prove it:
The kicker is I am paying about 25 cents per litre for various taxes from the Queen. There’s nothing worse than paying Canada’s taxes while living with America’s healthcare system.

+ Canadian pronunciation differences crack me up. Route becomes “root,” processor becomes “pro”cessor, and “don’t you know” is a perfectly acceptable replacement for a period. My favorite pronunciation comes when an ad for the television show “House” comes on the radio.

In a thirty second commercial, “House” is pronounced about twenty times, and you can tell each time that the professional voiceover girl is struggling not to call him “Dr. Hoose.” It is like they are training their audience not to refer to their favorite show as “Hoose.” I find this to be hilarious.

+ The popular form of poker here is called Pai Gow. I learn this when the radio show mocks a political candidate for his affinity for gambling on Pai Gow and sleeping with prostitutes. I also find it interesting that John McCain is mentioned. On the news they say that McCain is being endorsed by the NRA. This is met with a sarcastic “Great.”

I find this intriguing primarily because of the influence of American politics on Canadian culture. Quick, name a Canadian politician. Hell, name their Prime Minister. Props to you if you knew that they had a Prime Minister.

+ I visited a gorgeous beach in Vancouver (pictures of Vancouver to come in an upcoming blog) and was shocked to see the following sign:


So let’s get this straight: No camping, no fire, no lifeguard, and no drinking, but you’re free to walk around naked? What’s the point if you can’t drink? Or are they merely specifying that you can’t drink martinis? Maybe they are declaring the beach to be “Moosehead country” and banning any sissy drinks with olives.

Either way, this is clearly unAmerican. We, descending from puritans, would of course frown at the idea of nudity so close to a booming metropolis. But we would never ban drinking on the beach. (You know, except for when we do, but that’s usually a “wink and a nod” ban. )

After all, if we prohibited getting drunk on the beach, the blue states would be sorely lacking in offspring, and the red states would have nothing to aspire to.

Thank you. Thank you. I’ll be here all week.

And by “here” I mean Canada.

O Canada, We Stand on Guard for Thee

It never struck me that my van (name forthcoming) would make it hard to cross the border, but I probably should have seen it coming.

I have been to the Canadian border at Niagara Falls, and therefore know that the Canadians somehow managed to get the much better area. It is common knowledge that the American side of the Falls pales in comparison.

Well, go figure, but the Canadian side is nicer on the West border too. Couldn't we have negotiated this better? I know our military is spread out right now, but surely we could still scare Canada into giving up the good land.

As I drive toward the border I am met with an arch that would have surely disappointed Napoleon. It has a US flag on one side and a Canadian flag on the other. On one side it states "Children of a Common Mother," which I think is far too Britain-heavy a message. On the other side it states "Brethren Dwelling Together in Unity," which I hope is a clever ploy to throw Canada off track until we find a way to steal some of their land.

Of course, when I get to inspections, I am singled out to head into customs for a security check while others are cleared to drive on through. This happens to me when I'm not driving a suspicious looking hippie van (name forthcoming), so it doesn't surprise me now.

What does surprise me is the stern look on the faces of all the Canadian guards. I know they're just doing their jobs, but an accusatory stare is not the best way to greet tourists. I need Canadians to maintain their delightfully harmless reputations so I can pretend to be one of them when I travel abroad.

Right now, the man in charge of my fate looks less than pleased with me, thus marking the 2,756th consecutive time a French-Canadian has made me nervous. This particular French-Canadian asks a lot of questions and refuses to smile.

"Where are you going?"

"Vancouver."

"How long will you be there?"

"I dunno. I was thinking like three or four days."

"Exactly how long will you be there?"

"Four days."

"Business or pleasure?"

"Both."

"What do you do for business?"

"I drive around searching for the meaning of life."

"How much money are you taking with you?"

"Huh. I guess I don't have any money on me right now. Go figure."

"Where will you be staying?"

"My van?"

"What?"

"My van. I'll be living in my van. It doesn't have a name yet."

"Do you have a business card I can see?"

"Sure."

"Take a seat sir. I need to check on some things."

At this point, I sit and he starts fact-checking, presumably perusing this web-site. As I wait for clearance, I decide that a guy with no money, living in his van, searching for the meaning of life sounds like a really stupid cover some terrorist would cook up. You know, if said terrorist was really bad at his job.

It is also at this point that I begin to regret not shaving. As the guard peruses my site, I start to worry about the moose joke I made on my most recent blog. Canadians are notoriously thin-skinned, and I would hate to give him any reason to keep me from crossing the border.

After what seems like forever, he hands me my papers and sends me on to the land of beer and hockey; he still never smiles.

The important thing, however, is that I will ride me a moose yet! Bring it on, Canada.

(For the record, Canadians are not particularly thin-skinned. I just enjoy calling large groups out for being thin-skinned, because any offense taken becomes painfully ironic when expressed out loud.)

(Oh, and if I happen to find the meaning of life in Canada, don't worry. I vow to bring it back to the good old US of A, regardless of how much it weighs. That's a patriotic promise.)

Eddie Van Halen

My 1992 GMC Vandura is acting up again. As I type this, it is in a Bellingham auto shop getting serviced with a new muffler, a transmission fluid change, and a quadruple bypass. Of course, none of this directly addresses the original reason I brought it into the shop, which is its random inability to start when I turn the ignition.

Yes, my vandominium is old, unreliable, and I suspect slightly sinister. And part of me likes it that way. What's the fun of traveling when you know you're safe and secure and there's absolutely no chance of your vehicle/house careening off a cliff because the brakes finally decided to give out?

The truth is, my van is my transportation, my shelter, and (thanks to my nomadic reality and complete and utter lack of personality) my closest companion on this journey. It is the Kit to my Hasselhoff, the Herbie to my Lohan, the Wilson the Volleyball to my Hanks.

It is a key character in the projectmeaning.com story. Which is why it is an unforgivable shame that I haven't named it yet.

Unfortunately, I have a tendency to be a poor judge of taste when it comes to naming things. I still shudder when I recall that I desperately wanted to name my second dog, a Tibetan Spaniel/Toy Poodle mix, "Little Lady."

As if its not hard enough being a young boy with a small lap dog, I was going to compound the problem by giving it the most effeminate name imaginable. Paris Hilton wouldn't name a dog that, and I'm pretty sure she's a chihuahua purse suffocation away from being lap dog enemy number one.

(I still have a lapdog, this time in the form of a Shih Tzu, but he is considerably more manly than most Mastiffs when you factor in his rugged state of mind, and I have made sure to protect his masculinity by naming him Sexbeerviolence, or "Wicket" for short.)

The point is, I'm worse at naming things than your average Zappa.

So I'm leaving this one to you, my millions and millions of readers (numbers are estimates) to help me name my beautiful vanpartment. Feel free to send any and all suggestions to Logan@projectmeaning.com. With any luck, this could be the greatest promotion since they decided to add a new M&M color.

Please be advised that the following suggestions will be given no consideration:

+ Little Lady.

+ Anything having to do with the New York Yankees, Dallas Cowboys, or Los Angeles Lakers.

+ Stupid Logan's Stupid Van. (This includes all similar insults or curse words designed to demean me as a human being. I'm looking at you, Mom.)


On a separate note, I will be heading to Canada tomorrow, so my cell phone service and internet may not be readily available for the coming week. I will try to continue to update this blog daily, but I can't promise anything, so I apologize in advance for any days missed.

It's not because I didn't want to blog, it's because I couldn't resist riding that moose after my 27th Labatt Blue.

Eido

As I pull into a parking lot in Everett, Washington, I spot a man emerging from an old blue camper van. He looks instantly intrigued by my autographed vandominium and approaches me after I park.

"Hey there. So do you have problems with the clutch on that thing?"

"No, it's automatic."

The man looks impressed. When I mention that the van is a 1992, he laughs.

"Yeah, mine's a 1979. But it looks like they're the same model."

It's oddly comforting to meet somebody else who lives in his van, especially an old van. The comparisons don't end there. He also has his website (www.poodlepublishing.com) advertised on his vanpartment, albeit less garishly than on mine.
The friendly stranger introduces himself as "Eido, you know, like Neato." He immediately verifies this as his full government name by showing me his license. He changed it from Floyd after living in Japan for seven years.

In Japanese, Floyd is pronounced with four syllables, the last two being ei-do. When the Japanese like someone, they shorten his name, so Floyd soon became known as Eido. A tireless and passionate artist, he would sign his paintings "Eido," but when somebody bought the art, the name on the check didn't vibe with the name on the painting, so he changed his name.

"So in essence," Eido grins, "Eido is short for Floyd."

The more I learn about Eido, the more I am intrigued by the unassuming artist. Like me, Eido is from Arizona, but we have taken different paths to our current situation.

After graduating from art college, Eido was offered a position teaching the bass guitar at a school in Japan. After seven years there, he began feeling burned out, so he moved back to the States. Deciding that it was important to pursue his two greatest passions, he eventually moved to Seattle, where he joined bands as both a bassist and a drummer and continued his work as an artist.

He became romantically linked to the lead singer of one of his bands and they moved in together. When the relationship took a turn for the worse, he found himself in a predicament. With an inherent need to create art, but a severe case of diabetes, he faced a future of settling.

"I would be in the trenches if I could," he tells me in regards to his love for the art world, but the last time he tried to immerse himself in that world he found it was a lifestyle his disease would not let him sustain. He felt sick all the time and wore himself down to 135 lbs.

So he now finds himself in Everett, living in his 1979 GMC van.

"I'm almost embarrassed to admit," he smiles, "but I just got this one recently, and its a lot nicer than the last one."

Eido works a ten-hour-a-day shift at the local printing press from Tuesday until Friday, then concentrates on his artwork on Saturday through Monday. The job is not particularly fun nor gratifying, but it allows him to keep producing art and paying for his insulin.

"Living in the van allows me to spend my money on cool things like concerts, and paint, and tattoos."

He rolls down his shirt sleeves to reveal his biceps, each displaying one of his favorite original paintings. It doesn't take long to develop an appreciation for Eido's work, and I am not alone in my admiration. One of the restaurants in the shopping center we've parked at features many of Eido's paintings throughout its showroom.

Eido agrees to do an interview for my documentary, but I am low on battery and he has to go to work, so we agree to do the interview at the printing press. Though Eido remains upbeat throughout the interview, it is not difficult to see that the job is a stifling necessity and nothing more.

When I show up at the office and explain to the woman at the front desk that I am there to speak to Eido, she nods to me politely, but fails to mask her indifference, then says under her breath in a condescending and slightly too loud manner to her coworker, "He's here for Neato."

Eido does the interview on his lunch break, but the situation seems rushed, so we plan to finish the interview in the morning as he finishes cooking his cup of chili.

I show him this website and the cover for my book, which makes him smile.

"The Hobo Diet, huh? I think I'm eating that right now. Hey, do you play chess?" he asks.

"Yes. Just not very well."

"Do you shoot hoops?"

We plan to meet at LA Fitness (Eido with a guest pass) after he's done with work. I will school him at basketball and afterward he will school me at chess. I look forward to the evening. It gets lonely on the road and I could use the company. Only when evening comes, Eido calls to cancel.

"Sorry, man," he says. "I'm just really tired."

"That's okay. I'm tired too and I did nothing all day."

When I meet him early the next morning, he apologizes. He was tired because of problems at work, where they have given him more responsibilities and work without the corresponding contractual pay increase. It saddens me to see such a talented and dedicated artist so marginalized as he tries to work through his struggles.

But it's hard to feel bad for Eido very long. He has a kind presence and an imaginative spirit. He's the good kind of hippie, and that means something coming from me.

He also has some companionship, in the form of his giant cat, ZenBhu (short for Zen Bhuddist). He picks up ZenBhu and pets her gently.

"I just recently found out that she's a he," Eido tells me laughing. "For years, I thought my cat was a girl, but he's not. He's a neutered boy."

I find this to be hilarious. ZenBhu is less amused.


Unfortunately, Eido found out his cat's true gender from a veterinarian, because ZenBhu has feline immunodeficiency virus, or what is commonly referred to as feline AIDS. He was scratched in the face once and Eido came home to find that ZenBhu's face had blown up like a balloon.

"The doctor asked if I wanted to put him down, so I asked what ZenBhu's chances were for survival. The doctor said he had a 50-50 chance to live..." He pauses to kiss ZenBhu on the forehead. "So there was no way I was going to let him go."

Other than his weight (he clearly needs to lay off the lasagna), ZenBhu is now the picture of feline health, and he seems perfectly content living in a van with his adoring owner.

"He's the best thing I have going right now," Eido says affectionately.

I have no doubt that will soon change.



To check out more of Eido's art, go to the following links:

poodlepublishing.com

artish.com/artist-Eido13.html

myspace.com/eido

Logan's Guide to Safe and Selective Homeless Walmarting

A friend recently pointed out that in trying to find the meaning of life, I also unwittingly embarked on a quest to visit every Walmart in existence.

Because of Walmart's liberal policies towards overnight parking, I have made the superstore my home in virtually every town I stop in. By my estimates, I have now slept outside somewhere between 15 and 3,457 Walmarts in the past few weeks. As is such, I feel it only fair to share my expertise to would be travelers who wish to stay at Wally World, "the happiest place on earth, so long as you don't mind the blatant exploitation and occasional death of a sacrificial puppy to the Gods of Low, Low Prices."

I present to you "Logan's Guide to Safe and Selective Homeless Walmarting." Don't bother stealing that name; I'm already in the process of copyrighting it. The following is an overview and ranking of three Walmarts located in different areas of the country as they pertain to safety, shopping, and transparency of evil.


Las Vegas Airport Walmart

Endearing Trait That Made Me Hate It:

It is located right next to McCarran International Airport. Literally, right next to the airport. As in, planes flew directly over my head while I was trying to sleep on a nightly basis. Why not stay at one of the 47 other Walmarts in Vegas, you may ask? That's why nobody likes you. You ask too many questions.

Safety Level:

Because of its proximity to the airport, this is the safest Walmart in the country. Airport employees searched me every time I entered or exited my van. The safety was nice, but it was annoying to take my shoes off every single time, and I thought the cavity searches were over-the-top. Come to think of it, that guy might not have worked at the airport.

Transparency of Evil:

There were very few obvious signs of evil at this location, most likely due to the gravitational pull of all things evil to the nearby casinos.

Low Low Price That Made Me Ignore the Evil:

You know those fuzzy dice you can hang over your car's rearview mirror? Three for $5.95.

Safe and Selective Homeless Walmarting Rating:

4.5 out of 5 Ruined Small Businesses






Sacramento Ghetto Walmart

Endearing Trait That Made Me Hate It:

Located in the very worst part of town, this Walmart comes complete with a really fun drinking game called, "Count the Police Sirens."

Safety Level:

The best thing I can say for it is that I am still alive. Of course, I only stayed there two nights.

Transparency of Evil:

Women employees here are forced to wear company shirts that say, "Ask me why I make less than my male peers" on the front and "Because my husband told me to" on the back. All three panhandlers who sleep by the dumpster out back used to have successful businesses where the Walmart now stands, but rarely get to stay there due to numerous arrests for "potential shopping cart thefts." The severed head of a union president is impaled on a stick outside customer service to ward off future "team member complaints."

Other than that, the evil is pretty well hidden.

Low Low Price That Made Me Ignore the Evil:

They sell Arnold Schwarzenegger bobblehead dolls at cost.

Safe and Selective Homeless Walmarting Rating:

2 out of 5 Glocks






Renton Freeway Walmart

Endearing Trait That Made Me Hate It:

This Walmart is located in northern Washington at the confluence of three major freeways. It is therefore always ridiculously crowded and ridiculously wet.

Safety Level:

It rained so much that my van floated into the Pacific Ocean. Thanks to the crowds, this did not cause me to lose my spot in line. There are lifeguards present, but most of them end up getting trampled by the neverending mosh pits in the "Young Men's" department.

Transparency of Evil:

Three members of congress shop here regularly. So yeah...pretty evil.

Low Low Price That Made Me Ignore the Evil:

The flash floods are a good thing when you consider that Kawasaki Jet Skis sell for $23.95 plus tax.

Safe and Selective Homeless Walmarting Rating:

3.5 out of 5 Disenfranchised Women







Once again, I'd like to thank you, Walmart, for your gracious hospitality. You're like a bad parent to the teenager inside me; I don't respect you, but I refuse to rebel from you entirely because your lax policies make my life slightly more convenient.

And that makes you sorta family.

So there you have it. If you ever find yourself living in a van, traveling across the country, and searching for an easy place to stay that only slightly increases your chances of going to Hell when you die, make sure to set up camp at Wally World.

You won't regret it.

Unless, of course, you will.

Finding Meaning by Process of Elimination

I've now been on the road for about two and a half months. I've had some great experiences, met some amazing people, and perfected the art of vague cliches. I think I'm closer to finding the meaning of life than I was three months ago, but not close enough.

It turns out existential quandaries are more difficult to solve than I thought.

So I've decided to start approaching the issue from new perspectives. One such tactic debuts here, as I try to find the meaning of life by process of elimination. I will scientifically (depending on your definition of "science") break down the items, theories, and aspects of life I am one hundred percent certain have no relevance to ultimate truth.

Before a subject can be featured in a "Process of Elimination" blog, I must be as resolute in its irrelevance as Kirk Cameron is in the fallacy of evolution. (By the way, if you've never been to wayofthemaster.com, I highly recommend it. By simply clicking on the first link after the intro, you can listen to the kid from "Growing Pains" give you ten reasons you're going to burn in Hell for eternity! You know...unless you buy his stuff.)

I thought long and hard about the first item I could eliminate in my search. It had to be foolproof in its existential irrelevance, something so unimportant and ridiculous that not even Alan Thicke could defend it (take that, Kirk!), and I I've found the perfect candidate.

I am wholly, unequivocally, irrevocably convinced that when I look onto the horizon and the clouds form into the image of Mufasa from The Lion King, his sharp insights and otherworldly lion wisdom will in no way, under any circumstances, involve...

Pogs.

Pogs are not the meaning of life.


There was a short time in my life when I could be convinced otherwise. For a brief period of months in the mid-nineties, I thought pogs were the epitome of cool. Wikipedia calls this era the "Pog Wash." Seriously, this is what it says:

"Pogs is a children's game that was popular from the early to late 1990s in what was known as the Pog Wash."

I do not recall it once being referred to as that, though a particularly nerdy friend once referenced it as "The Great Pog Invasion of 1995." Still, I am not willing to rule out Wikipedia as the meaning of life just yet, so I'll roll with "Pog Wash."

In my pre-teens, pogs replaced basketball cards as my overpriced cardboard-related hobby of choice. While basketball cards encouraged physical activity and kept me running in my pursuit of NBA superstardom, pogs encouraged more video gameplay so that I could keep my thumbs strong and "slammer-ready."

I still remember the first time I was introduced to pogs. It was right before the "Pog Wash," and I was hanging out with a few of my middle school friends. An older kid from high school came by and, sharing it discreetly as if it were some kind of dangerous narcotic, pulled out his green tube of circular fun and regaled us naive youngsters with his stories from the magical world of pogs.

The high school kid, who I was immediately convinced was the coolest guy to grace the planet since The Fonze, was so excited by the new trend that my friends and I couldn't help but be excited too. We were anxiously anticipating this moment as our transition into adulthood, as if the mysterious high school kid's coolness might rub off on us in some sort of cool osmosis.

Not only did this guy have wisdom of the dangerously mature world of pogs, but he also introduced us to another cool game that none of us had ever heard of before. It didn't seem like fun, but this guy was in high school; if he said this game had street cred, who was I to argue?

It remains to this day my only experience playing Dungeons and Dragons.

Come to think of it, that guy probably wasn't very cool at all.

He definitely had more pogs than anyone else I've ever met combined, and he was stuck playing dungeons and dragons with a bunch of middle schoolers, which mathematically proves (depending on your definition of the word "math") that pogs have absolutely no correlation to the meaning of life.

So I'm that much closer to nirvana, and you are as well for having read this entry. The meaning of life is not pogs.

You're welcome.

How Many 747s Have You Built?

While cruising the wet, wet streets of Renton, Washington, a city located just south of Seattle, I come across an area filled with protesters on every block. For the past few weeks, the machinists union has been on strike against Boeing, the airplane giant.

As I pass a group of spirited picketers, I lean on my horn in support, only to discover that my 1992 Vandura no longer has a working horn. The various surprises that come with owning a sixteen-year-old vehicle keep coming, but the lack of a horn shouldn't be too big an issue as long as I have two healthy middle fingers.

Every other horn in Renton seems to be working however, as driver after driver expresses support for the workers. As I begin talking to the protesters about their concerns, a few themes emerge.

+ Boeing has been incredibly successful financially due in large part to the work of the machinists, many of whom are highly trained and skilled workers, but that success has not translated properly from the company to its employees.

+ The most recently proposed contract includes a small raise and bonus that looks good on paper, but most of the workers I talk to feel it would cost them in the long run due to the built-in scaling back of health insurance, particularly a reduction on most employees' coverage for prescription pills.

+ Job security is a major area of concern. The American machinists want the ability to bid for jobs before work is outsourced to countries with cheap labor, but are not being given that opportunity. Boeing has shown a trend of outsourcing much of its labor, and the shoddy work done on machinery has caused a headache for many of the domestic workers once the poorly built parts reach the plant.

I leave my card with the protesters and soon get a call from Matt Moeller, a higher level employee with some issues on his mind. Matt is happy to speak to me because, like many of his coworkers, he feels the media has presented the union's views unfairly.

This opposition manifests itself early in my interview with Matt, as a driver speeding by honks his horn and yells at Matt and his fellow picketers in disgust.

"The country is in a financial crisis as it is. Shut the fuck up and get back to work!"

Matt seems unfazed by this. He is cool and even-keeled, careful to protect his image as a thinking working man.

"It seems the media always gravitates to the striker who looks like he just woke up in the dumpster out back. You know, the big guy with the ZZ Top beard. It's nice to have the opportunity to speak; guys like me don't always get that chance."

Matt is dismayed that a company that has shown so much disrespect to its employees and such an affinity for outsourcing is able to get so much funding and defense contracts from the American government. He says that Boeing lost more money in the first two-and-a-half days than it would have cost them to agree to the union's requests in the first place.

He's not that upset to be on strike, because it gives him a chance to spend more time with his family, but he is bitter that corporate greed in America has made it so hard for the average family to prosper.

Back at the local union headquarters, I talk to a few machinists who are veterans of strikes. It appears this is not the first time Boeing's employees have felt they have been treated unfairly. Nobody seems worried that talks have been stalled, citing that previous strikes all ended when it seemed there was no end in sight.

Hernandez, a self-proclaimed "thirty-year-guy" stops by in a van to deliver snacks and drinks to his fellow strikers. Hernandez works in the tool division. He is set to retire soon, and the strike has put that into question, but he remains steadfast in his commitment to the cause.

"Obviously, it's affected me financially, but we were ready for this."

We'll find out in the coming days if the corporate giant has the same resolve.

Expensive Water, Fortuitous Accidents, and Appreciation for the Secret Service

Time for some more unoriginal thoughts as I inch my way towards the Canadian border.

+ Spots, the train-hopping teenager I drove through California, tipped me off to a really great Starbucks secret. Strawberry water is a coffeehouse concoction that simply mixes a strawberry mix-in with ice water. The drink is delicious, and costs 33 cents after tax.

I quickly became addicted to strawberry water. For a chain known for overcharging, I had to hand it to Starbucks for providing an underground drink that was affordable for a less affluent crowd.

Apparently, Starbucks is not as cool as I thought. The new corporate edict is that strawberry water is now to be considered a juice, raising the price to a much less accessible $2.77.

So much for that.

+ After taking an afternoon nap on a particularly gloomy Washington day, I discover that I left my headlights on for an inordinate amount of time, draining my battery and leaving me stranded in a fairly empty parking lot.

As if by cue, a nearby accident causes the traffic from a busy street to redirect straight through my parking lot, making it incredibly easy to get a jump. I may be stupid, but nobody can say I don't have good timing.

+ "When the stock market crashed, Franklin Roosevelt got on the television and didn't just talk about the princes of greed."
- Joe Biden

I don't even know where to start mocking that sentence. And this is the VP candidate people aren't worried about for tonight's debate.

Saturday Night Live, in spoofing the Sarah Palin interview with Katie Couric, used many of Palin's actual quotes to satirize the candidate. They didn't have to make anything up because the reality was so absurd.

Needless to say, I'm very excited for tonight's VP debate. If only Dan Quayle could be involved somehow.

I Slept Fine in Seattle

As a proud American, I watch a lot of television. This has always been the case. As is such, I often base my impression of cities I have never been to on what I have learned about them from television.

In my mind, Philadelphia is the streetwise city that allowed the Fresh Prince to maintain street credit even after "Parents Just Don't Understand," San Francisco is the wholesome bastion of family values that allowed single parent Danny Tanner to raise three delightful young women, and every town named Springfield is built around a nuclear power plant that has made most of its citizens dumb, yellow, and eight-fingered.

So you can imagine my disappointment when I found out that not only does Frasier Crane not actually live in Seattle, but that he's also a fictional character played by Kelsey Grammer. This disillusioned me so much that I refused to drink wine, speak with polysyllabic words, or even listen to talk radio for three days.

After getting over my initial shock, I was able to appreciate the beautiful city of Seattle. Somehow, I managed to visit during the one week it wasn't raining. Consequently, I felt the need to document this rare occurrence with pictures.

The first things I see upon entering Seattle are Safeco Field and Qwest Field, the homes of the Seattle Mariners and the Seattle Seahawks. I immediately lost a game I wasn't even playing.

As bad as those teams have played recently, they are better off than the Supersonics, a basketball team that was unceremoniously ripped away from Seattle because the city refused to pay for a new stadium.

Seattle introducing new visitors with their sports stadiums is the equivalent to Phoenix posting a giant thermometer at the edge of town to greet summer tourists.


Fortunately, the view soon becomes more promising. Seattle wraps around Elliott Bay, providing the cultured area with a great deal of waterfront residents. Pretty much anyone living in the crowded city is treated to a scenic view, which I'm sure is a necessary complement to spending nine months of the year enveloped in rain.

As a big admirer of the Eiffel Tower, I thought I would be a big fan of the Space Needle, but it turns out the French are much better at constructing World's Fair towers. Most pictures show the Space Needle towering over Seattle's skyline, but it is actually located a few miles away from the city's skyscrapers and is no more physically imposing than, say, the Stratosphere in Las Vegas. Parking was expensive, so I took pictures from a McDonald's located about 100 feet from the base of the tower. Needless to say, it was a magical experience.

My favorite place in Seattle is the Pike Place Market. The market is a shopping experience in every sense of the word. Energetic fishmongers toss giant fish around and yell out bad jokes about getting crabs. Street performers line the streets, providing entertainment to the steady stream of passersby. A Venezuelan band is followed by an a capella gospel group, which is followed by an electric guitar player.

The market is home to a seemingly endless line of quirky shops representing virtually every culture in Seattle. It is beyond my grasp how some of these hidden specialty shops stay in business, but it is definitely fun to peruse the coin collection store, admire the thousands of posters in the print shop, and laugh at the taxidermy bat staring at me through the window of a gift shop.
Best of all, it's a place Frasier Crane wouldn't be caught dead in.