Jim Toreson gets excited when he speaks of his vision for the future of Lincoln Estates, of his plans for a burgeoning community in the middle of the Nevada desert.
Cielo. That's what he plans on calling it. The beautiful town of Cielo. A word that refers to the sky and the Heavens. And for Toreson, a man who has owned 1000 acres in the area since the early 90s, Cielo would be a slice of Heaven.
For the seventy people (or sixty, depending on whom you ask) that live in the nearby town of Rachel, that slice of Heaven already exists.
"It's like living out of a hallmark card," resident Robert Nelson beams.
The people of Rachel are a diverse yet tight knit community. Coming from all over America, each resident has found the town's otherworldly charms and picturesque views too hard to pass up.
Most of the townspeople I speak to decided to move to Rachel after initially just passing through. They would stop in the town for a day or two, find themselves coming back again and again, and eventually realize they liked it so much they needed to call it home.
Despite its small population, Rachel is a destination for tourists from all over the world. Being the closest town to the mysterious Area 51, the town has built a name and a reputation for UFO sightings, military aircraft testing, and an alien counterculture. The Little Aleinn, the town's lone bar/gift shop/motel, is famous worldwide.
There's just one problem.
The town of Rachel and the dream of Cielo can't coexist.
In order to build Lincoln Estates from 1000 empty lots into a suburban town, Toreson needs an infrastructure that the town of Rachel can't provide. He needs a strip mall. He needs a hospital. He needs a police force.
The citizens of Rachel don't want a strip mall. They don't feel the need for a hospital. They shudder at the thought that their town would need a police force.
But with a brand new prison in town, they would certainly need a police force.
You see, in order to get the necessary infrastructure in place, Toreson needs a draw. He's found that draw in the form of the private prison business. A suburban dream scape is a tough sell when you're located right next to a town known for UFO culture. But a prison creates jobs. And jobs create residents. Residents create business.
If you build it, they will come.
The town of Rachel worries about the "they" in that sentence. They have chosen to live in a secluded area, and they take pride in not having to lock their doors at night. A prison will most certainly change that.
So instead of investigating matters of paranormal activity in Rachel, I find myself in a courthouse in Pioche, Nevada, where half the town has driven two hours to protest Toreson's bid to build a private prison five miles from Rachel. They come with a petition signed by all but five of the town's residents.
After a long presentation from an (depending on whom you ask) impartial third party candidate, Toreson begins a slideshow presentation on the impacts a prison would have on Lincoln county. When he glosses over tourism as a benefit of the prison, the room erupts in dismay.
After the presentation is over, resident after resident approaches the board to give an impassioned plea for the welfare of their town.
Prisoners are visited by convicts. How will we ever feel safe again?
I lived in Chino when they put in a prison; one escape changed the fabric of that town forever.
What will happen to our night sky?
What will happen to the environment?
Rachel won't be a tourist town; it will be a prison town.
Not in my backyard.
It is clear that many of these people do not care for Mr. Toreson. They see him as a selfish, arrogant man driven only by monetary gain. They loathe the idea that their way of life could be so dramatically altered by a man who doesn't even live in Nevada.
It is also clear that Toreson does not think highly of many of the townspeople. He sees them as shortsighted, uneducated, and hostile. He hates the idea that his investment could be squandered by a group of people that can't understand that with his business located right next to the prison, he has more to lose than anyone.
People hear the word prison and they panic.
I'm only doing what's best for the county.
Rachel doesn't resemble a small town, it resembles an inner city.
How could they not want a police force?
How could they not want progress?
Not with my business.
The board of commissioners decides to postpone a decision until another meeting is held to address the issues of the townspeople.
This appeases the protesters. They will do everything in their legal right to keep a prison out of their town. It can't happen if they don't let it happen.
Toreson is happy too. Logic is on his side, he reasons. The board has to approve his plan for economic development. Progress is inevitable.
Looking for an outside perspective, I go to Barry Mills, PhD. A newcomer to Rachel, and a man born in a foreign land, Barry has the ability to provide a slightly more detached perspective.
"The two groups could never coincide peacefully. You would have a large population living in suburban houses on a hill overlooking a small population residing primarily in rvs and trailer homes. The newcomers would not only metaphorically, but quite literally be looking down on the townspeople."
And so the battle rages on. One man's search for Heaven has become an entire town's Hell.
____________________________________________________________________
Another meeting has been set for next month. I have kept contact information with both sides and will make sure to keep you updated on the situation. In the meantime, if you wish to offer support, Jim Toreson and the owners of the Little Aleinn both keep websites with contact pages.
www.littlealeinn.com
www.lincolnestates.com
On a separate note, I will be at Burning Man for the next eight days and, as such, will likely have no cell phone or internet access. Consequently, I will be unable to blog for the next week. Fear not, for I promise that when I return to civilization I will have many tales of hedonism, debauchery, and acts of ironic stupidity. If you feel the need to pass the time until then, I highly recommend clicking on the link at the upper right hand of this blog and checking out my book.
Sorry, but I had to make one last stab at commercialism in case the hippies brainwash me.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Saturday, August 23, 2008
An Angry Raccoon
I wake up in a different Walmart parking lot, but am once again greeted by a man heading to Burning Man.
This man's name is David. He is fairly tall, with gray hair and a bright orange shirt. He is an ordained minister, a beekeeper, and a philosopher. He spends much of his time working on energy sources and various other technological undertakings.
David is currently walking to the nearby Radio Shack to purchase a rectifier for the wind generator he is using at Burning Man. I am unsure what a rectifier is, but I immediately think of the movie Deliverance.
I am not emotionally mature.
David, on the other hand, has spent a lot of time considering his emotions.
"When you think about it, 'Wake the fuck up' is a pretty great message."
"Regardless, I don't want someone writing it in big letters on the hood of my van while I'm sleeping. That made me pretty mad."
"Anger is an emotion that always come from a lack of control. Anytime you are angry, it's because you feel that control has been taken away from you."
David explains that he does his best to live from the inside out. He says that you can't control external circumstances, so the best way to deal with the world around you is to live within yourself.
"Really, you can only control two things: Your perception, and how you react to that perception. Once I started living from within, I found I was happy, and things just keep getting better."
David assures me that about ninety percent of Burning Man attendees are the good kind of crazy, which makes me feel better about the event. Two minutes later, during a conversation about dead animals with the Radio Shack manager, he casually mentions the raccoon skull he keeps in a jar in lye water.
This is less reassuring.
Still, David seems like a nice, interesting guy. Plus, it turns out he is pretty handy with a tool. In addition to his wind generator, he has brought with him a small electric car (think Power Wheels for adults). And, it turns out, he used to build BattleBots.
Battlebots.
Maybe Burning Man won't be so bad after all.
This man's name is David. He is fairly tall, with gray hair and a bright orange shirt. He is an ordained minister, a beekeeper, and a philosopher. He spends much of his time working on energy sources and various other technological undertakings.
David is currently walking to the nearby Radio Shack to purchase a rectifier for the wind generator he is using at Burning Man. I am unsure what a rectifier is, but I immediately think of the movie Deliverance.
I am not emotionally mature.
David, on the other hand, has spent a lot of time considering his emotions.
"When you think about it, 'Wake the fuck up' is a pretty great message."
"Regardless, I don't want someone writing it in big letters on the hood of my van while I'm sleeping. That made me pretty mad."
"Anger is an emotion that always come from a lack of control. Anytime you are angry, it's because you feel that control has been taken away from you."
David explains that he does his best to live from the inside out. He says that you can't control external circumstances, so the best way to deal with the world around you is to live within yourself.
"Really, you can only control two things: Your perception, and how you react to that perception. Once I started living from within, I found I was happy, and things just keep getting better."
David assures me that about ninety percent of Burning Man attendees are the good kind of crazy, which makes me feel better about the event. Two minutes later, during a conversation about dead animals with the Radio Shack manager, he casually mentions the raccoon skull he keeps in a jar in lye water.
This is less reassuring.
Still, David seems like a nice, interesting guy. Plus, it turns out he is pretty handy with a tool. In addition to his wind generator, he has brought with him a small electric car (think Power Wheels for adults). And, it turns out, he used to build BattleBots.
Battlebots.
Maybe Burning Man won't be so bad after all.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Sign My Van
In the wake of hippies writing unwelcome messages on my van, I thought it would be fitting today to celebrate some of my favorite signatures on the van. So without further ado, I bring you the first installment of "Sharpie Wisdom:"
You can never have too much Irish luck, especially when it comes via attractive women from Ireland.
Despite going through chemotherapy, Sharon has more life in her than I could ever hope to have.
I put this on here not just because it makes sense, but because a gigantic cop wrote it.
Ron, in dealing with the impending death of his father, wrote something particularly wise.
Still my favorite signature. My nine-year-old cousin, one of the first to sign my van, started to write his name, then abruptly stopped.
"Naw, I'm going to write it in cursive."
He proceeded to cross out his first attempt.
That's it for now, but these are just some of my favorites. I have dozens of signatures on the van and anticipate hundreds more in the future. So keep a look out for more "Sharpie Wisdom" in the coming weeks.
As always,
You can never have too much Irish luck, especially when it comes via attractive women from Ireland.
Despite going through chemotherapy, Sharon has more life in her than I could ever hope to have.
I put this on here not just because it makes sense, but because a gigantic cop wrote it.
Ron, in dealing with the impending death of his father, wrote something particularly wise.
Still my favorite signature. My nine-year-old cousin, one of the first to sign my van, started to write his name, then abruptly stopped.
"Naw, I'm going to write it in cursive."
He proceeded to cross out his first attempt.
That's it for now, but these are just some of my favorites. I have dozens of signatures on the van and anticipate hundreds more in the future. So keep a look out for more "Sharpie Wisdom" in the coming weeks.
As always,
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Hippies Don't Take Punches Well
My current "facebook" status reads as follows:
"Logan is hoping to overcome his fear of hippies by attending Burning Man next week.”
I hate it when “facebook” makes me write in third person.
While patiently waiting to attend this year's Burning Man, I have set up camp at a Walmart in Reno, Nevada, the big city closest to the event. Part of me is worried about attending Burning Man. The truth is, more often than not, hippies really annoy me.
Everyone has people they don't naturally click with. That doesn't mean that you can't learn to like and appreciate these people, just that it might take a little more work due to a natural aversion. I am no different.
Perhaps I don't like hippies because, though we share many of the same ideals, they have a tendency of taking these ideals too far with no appreciation for reality, thus giving said ideals a bad name. Then again, maybe it's just the smell.
This anti-hippie attitude is one of the main reasons I feel the need to attend Burning Man. I've found that generally the best way to gain an appreciation for a group of people is to immerse yourself in that culture and learn from them. Maybe I'm naive, but I still feel that most people have good intentions and that in the end, to know someone better is to like someone better.
This theory is being tested heavily already, and Burning Man hasn't even started. I awake this morning in a Walmart parking lot with an overwhelming urge to pee. Opening my van doors, I step onto the asphalt in a daze.
"Good morning! Did you sleep alright?"
I ignore the call, assuming it is being addressed to someone else. I soon realize that the two men stepping out of a red car fifty yards away are speaking to me.
"Oh, hey," I say skeptically. "How are you doing?"
"You heading to Burning Man?" one man asks. He is small, with a limp handshake. The cheese in his beard distracts me.
"Yeah, I'm heading to Burning Man." Am I that transparent?
"Us too."
The man pauses. For a second I see fear in his eyes. Why? Have I been anything but warm? There is something off about the man. He can hold a reasonable conversation, but there is an empty shiftiness in his eyes. If body language did not exist, he would not seem odd, but given the circumstances, he comes across as sincerely creepy.
His friend is actually quite nice. He is also small, with long hair and a cheese-free mustache.
"Yeah, we checked out your website," he offers. "It looks very cool."
"Thanks," I say, looking for a way to exit. "Well, I've got to go to Starbucks and write a blog, so..."
"Yeah, we're pretty busy," says Creepy Guy. "I'm sure you are too."
I head into Walmart, make use of the restroom, then head back to my van. Feeling bad about judging the man I now refer to as Creepy Guy, I decide to offer an olive branch.
"Hey, you guys wanna sign my van?"
"Oh, we've already taken care of that," Creepy guy says in an ominous tone.
Uh-oh.
I breathe a sigh of relief as I glance down at a new signature that displays two stoner nicknames, the date and "Burning Man." A little creepy that it was done without my permission in a Walmart parking lot while I was sleeping inside? Sure. But at least it is small and tactful.
I head to the nearest gas station and start to fill up. Finding the experience I just had amusingly eerie, I phone my best friend and recall the story. As I do, I cross the front of the van.
"I'm just glad they didn't write anything..."
"Son of a ..."
Across the hood of my van, in giant letters from the same marker:
I am furious. The worst part is not that they graffitied my van, but that they did it knowing I was sleeping inside at the time. Against my friend's wishes, I walk back towards the Walmart to confront the disrespectful hippies. Seeing their car empty, I head into the store.
They are easy to find.
"Did you write 'Wake the F up' on the hood of my van?"
"Huh? No."
"You didn't? So it just happened to show up the same night as you wrote on it in the same marker?"
"We didn't write that. You saw the small one right?"
"Yeah. In the same marker. If you didn't write it, then who wrote it?"
"The other guy. Remember how I told you the other guy was there? We gave him the marker."
I do not remember him talking about the other guy.
"That is not cool with me."
It occurs to me that I am angry and that I tower over the men. They are clearly scared, but I do not care. I am standing to the side of their shopping cart and a couple feet away.
"I am not comfortable with this," Creepy Guy says. "This is not okay."
"I am not okay with what was written on my van."
"I have things to do."
"I'm not stopping you. I just think you should know that your actions have consequences."
"How much clearer do I have to be that I don't want him here?" Creepy Guy asks his friend in a whiny tone that makes me rue the fact that I am not a violent man.
I glare at them.
"I don't know," his friend responds. "I think I'd be mad too."
"I have things to do," Creepy Guy insists, his eyes once again betraying his confidence.
It is clear that he is beyond offering an apology.
I am beyond wanting one, so I walk away, shaking my head.
When I get to Starbucks to write my blog, I check my email. The first message I read comes from a friend, responding to my “facebook” status.
"Don't trust hippies. They'll make you think they're cute and cuddly, and just when you let your guard down, they'll inject you with their poison. It's true, hippies are poisonous. More so than spiders."
Burning Man looks less and less promising every day. But I feel I must give it a chance. Besides, based on my limited research, "Ministry of Alchemy" will be there, roaming the desert with his fellow hippies.
I don't wish him ill, but it would be nice to get an apology...and maybe some white-out.
"Logan is hoping to overcome his fear of hippies by attending Burning Man next week.”
I hate it when “facebook” makes me write in third person.
While patiently waiting to attend this year's Burning Man, I have set up camp at a Walmart in Reno, Nevada, the big city closest to the event. Part of me is worried about attending Burning Man. The truth is, more often than not, hippies really annoy me.
Everyone has people they don't naturally click with. That doesn't mean that you can't learn to like and appreciate these people, just that it might take a little more work due to a natural aversion. I am no different.
Perhaps I don't like hippies because, though we share many of the same ideals, they have a tendency of taking these ideals too far with no appreciation for reality, thus giving said ideals a bad name. Then again, maybe it's just the smell.
This anti-hippie attitude is one of the main reasons I feel the need to attend Burning Man. I've found that generally the best way to gain an appreciation for a group of people is to immerse yourself in that culture and learn from them. Maybe I'm naive, but I still feel that most people have good intentions and that in the end, to know someone better is to like someone better.
This theory is being tested heavily already, and Burning Man hasn't even started. I awake this morning in a Walmart parking lot with an overwhelming urge to pee. Opening my van doors, I step onto the asphalt in a daze.
"Good morning! Did you sleep alright?"
I ignore the call, assuming it is being addressed to someone else. I soon realize that the two men stepping out of a red car fifty yards away are speaking to me.
"Oh, hey," I say skeptically. "How are you doing?"
"You heading to Burning Man?" one man asks. He is small, with a limp handshake. The cheese in his beard distracts me.
"Yeah, I'm heading to Burning Man." Am I that transparent?
"Us too."
The man pauses. For a second I see fear in his eyes. Why? Have I been anything but warm? There is something off about the man. He can hold a reasonable conversation, but there is an empty shiftiness in his eyes. If body language did not exist, he would not seem odd, but given the circumstances, he comes across as sincerely creepy.
His friend is actually quite nice. He is also small, with long hair and a cheese-free mustache.
"Yeah, we checked out your website," he offers. "It looks very cool."
"Thanks," I say, looking for a way to exit. "Well, I've got to go to Starbucks and write a blog, so..."
"Yeah, we're pretty busy," says Creepy Guy. "I'm sure you are too."
I head into Walmart, make use of the restroom, then head back to my van. Feeling bad about judging the man I now refer to as Creepy Guy, I decide to offer an olive branch.
"Hey, you guys wanna sign my van?"
"Oh, we've already taken care of that," Creepy guy says in an ominous tone.
Uh-oh.
I breathe a sigh of relief as I glance down at a new signature that displays two stoner nicknames, the date and "Burning Man." A little creepy that it was done without my permission in a Walmart parking lot while I was sleeping inside? Sure. But at least it is small and tactful.
I head to the nearest gas station and start to fill up. Finding the experience I just had amusingly eerie, I phone my best friend and recall the story. As I do, I cross the front of the van.
"I'm just glad they didn't write anything..."
"Son of a ..."
Across the hood of my van, in giant letters from the same marker:
I am furious. The worst part is not that they graffitied my van, but that they did it knowing I was sleeping inside at the time. Against my friend's wishes, I walk back towards the Walmart to confront the disrespectful hippies. Seeing their car empty, I head into the store.
They are easy to find.
"Did you write 'Wake the F up' on the hood of my van?"
"Huh? No."
"You didn't? So it just happened to show up the same night as you wrote on it in the same marker?"
"We didn't write that. You saw the small one right?"
"Yeah. In the same marker. If you didn't write it, then who wrote it?"
"The other guy. Remember how I told you the other guy was there? We gave him the marker."
I do not remember him talking about the other guy.
"That is not cool with me."
It occurs to me that I am angry and that I tower over the men. They are clearly scared, but I do not care. I am standing to the side of their shopping cart and a couple feet away.
"I am not comfortable with this," Creepy Guy says. "This is not okay."
"I am not okay with what was written on my van."
"I have things to do."
"I'm not stopping you. I just think you should know that your actions have consequences."
"How much clearer do I have to be that I don't want him here?" Creepy Guy asks his friend in a whiny tone that makes me rue the fact that I am not a violent man.
I glare at them.
"I don't know," his friend responds. "I think I'd be mad too."
"I have things to do," Creepy Guy insists, his eyes once again betraying his confidence.
It is clear that he is beyond offering an apology.
I am beyond wanting one, so I walk away, shaking my head.
When I get to Starbucks to write my blog, I check my email. The first message I read comes from a friend, responding to my “facebook” status.
"Don't trust hippies. They'll make you think they're cute and cuddly, and just when you let your guard down, they'll inject you with their poison. It's true, hippies are poisonous. More so than spiders."
Burning Man looks less and less promising every day. But I feel I must give it a chance. Besides, based on my limited research, "Ministry of Alchemy" will be there, roaming the desert with his fellow hippies.
I don't wish him ill, but it would be nice to get an apology...and maybe some white-out.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
An Alien Encounter
Barry Mills has a PhD, but when I meet him he is washing dishes for seven dollars an hour.
Barry is...what's the word...different.
He stands out, even in a town noted for UFO enthusiasts. It could be his posh British accent. Or his unusually diverse vocabulary. Or his long lanky frame.
More than likely, it is because he has braided his beard so that several long straight patches of hair dangle from his chin.
"When I came here from Britain, I was an illegal alien. Now, you'll notice," he remarks as he flips his mop to the side and gestures to his Little Alienn shirt, apron, and trademark beard, "I've become a different type of alien altogether."
Rachel is hosting a "midnight marathon" where hundreds of people gather to run twenty-six miles in the darkness of the Nevada desert. In anticipation of the increased business, the staff of the Little Alienn are hustling around the kitchen in preparation.
Pat, the owner, is busy showing newcomer Barry how to flip the eggs in a skillet. Since she and her daughter were so nice as to comp me a room for two nights, I feel it only fair to offer my services. Barry asks how good I am at washing dishes.
"I'm reasonably competent."
"Great. Now you can practice on these and become brilliant at it."
I ask Barry why he finds himself in the small town of Rachel.
"I actually came here at night the first time. I drove past the town and set up camp further up the road. The next morning when I woke up, I swung the back doors of my van open, looked down upon Rachel, and said to myself, This...This is where I must live."
Barry is very entertaining to talk to. It is clear that Barry enjoys discussing everything from homelessness to the intricacies of French vocabulary, but before we are ever able to get too deep into a discussion, he makes sure to turn his focus back to the work at hand.
Looking at the pile of dishes I have stacked on the drying table, he grabs a bowl and turns it upside down.
"What might be more immediately apparent to the non-collegiate mind," he offers, "is that the bowls will dry much faster this way."
"That's the nicest way anyone has ever called me educated but stupid."
"Well, if you understood, I guess you couldn't be that stupid."
Before I leave Rachel, I ask Barry what he has found throughout his travels.
"I've found that eighty-five percent of the human race is selfish, loathsome and despicable; that they'll do anything to help themselves. But that the other fifteen percent are the exact opposite; absolutely wonderful and selfless. There is no middle ground."
"What else have you learned about life?"
"Never underestimate the importance of raspberries and custard."
This is what he writes on my van when his shift slows down. As he is doing so, I remark how much I respect his willingness to do work for scratch in the name of adventure. This leads to a discussion about his wife, who works as a lawyer.
"She's fifteen years younger than me, so she hasn't come around to the idea that spending her life behind a desk might not be the best use of her time."
He tells me that he and his wife get to spend about fifteen weeks a year together, but that hopefully that will increase in the future.
"She's come around a little to my style of living... mainly because she loves me. I should go, I think I just heard Pat take an order."
He rushes back into the bar. Before I head out, I give him my business card and thank him for his help.
"I should add one more thing," he notes. "If you ever come across one of the fifteen percent, hold on to that person."
"Oh, and check out BarryMillsPhD.com."
It turns out Barry and I aren't so different after all.
Barry is...what's the word...different.
He stands out, even in a town noted for UFO enthusiasts. It could be his posh British accent. Or his unusually diverse vocabulary. Or his long lanky frame.
More than likely, it is because he has braided his beard so that several long straight patches of hair dangle from his chin.
"When I came here from Britain, I was an illegal alien. Now, you'll notice," he remarks as he flips his mop to the side and gestures to his Little Alienn shirt, apron, and trademark beard, "I've become a different type of alien altogether."
Rachel is hosting a "midnight marathon" where hundreds of people gather to run twenty-six miles in the darkness of the Nevada desert. In anticipation of the increased business, the staff of the Little Alienn are hustling around the kitchen in preparation.
Pat, the owner, is busy showing newcomer Barry how to flip the eggs in a skillet. Since she and her daughter were so nice as to comp me a room for two nights, I feel it only fair to offer my services. Barry asks how good I am at washing dishes.
"I'm reasonably competent."
"Great. Now you can practice on these and become brilliant at it."
I ask Barry why he finds himself in the small town of Rachel.
"I actually came here at night the first time. I drove past the town and set up camp further up the road. The next morning when I woke up, I swung the back doors of my van open, looked down upon Rachel, and said to myself, This...This is where I must live."
Barry is very entertaining to talk to. It is clear that Barry enjoys discussing everything from homelessness to the intricacies of French vocabulary, but before we are ever able to get too deep into a discussion, he makes sure to turn his focus back to the work at hand.
Looking at the pile of dishes I have stacked on the drying table, he grabs a bowl and turns it upside down.
"What might be more immediately apparent to the non-collegiate mind," he offers, "is that the bowls will dry much faster this way."
"That's the nicest way anyone has ever called me educated but stupid."
"Well, if you understood, I guess you couldn't be that stupid."
Before I leave Rachel, I ask Barry what he has found throughout his travels.
"I've found that eighty-five percent of the human race is selfish, loathsome and despicable; that they'll do anything to help themselves. But that the other fifteen percent are the exact opposite; absolutely wonderful and selfless. There is no middle ground."
"What else have you learned about life?"
"Never underestimate the importance of raspberries and custard."
This is what he writes on my van when his shift slows down. As he is doing so, I remark how much I respect his willingness to do work for scratch in the name of adventure. This leads to a discussion about his wife, who works as a lawyer.
"She's fifteen years younger than me, so she hasn't come around to the idea that spending her life behind a desk might not be the best use of her time."
He tells me that he and his wife get to spend about fifteen weeks a year together, but that hopefully that will increase in the future.
"She's come around a little to my style of living... mainly because she loves me. I should go, I think I just heard Pat take an order."
He rushes back into the bar. Before I head out, I give him my business card and thank him for his help.
"I should add one more thing," he notes. "If you ever come across one of the fifteen percent, hold on to that person."
"Oh, and check out BarryMillsPhD.com."
It turns out Barry and I aren't so different after all.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Tourist Traps
Rachel, being the nearest town to the mysterious Area 51, has made sure to capitalize on its location. The Little Aleinn is otherworldy, and intentionally so. Tourists come from all over the planet (and arguably beyond) to visit the motel/gift shop/bar and revel in their own unique alien encounter.
Despite being located in the middle of the Nevada Desert, Rachel does a commendable job of bringing back repeat customers. At the bar I meet a couple from Connecticut that make a point to visit Rachel whenever possible.
Walter and Lizzie are not your average tourists. Walter is tall (maybe 6'4), wears camouflage pants, and looks suspiciously like Benicio Del Toro. Lizzie is short (maybe 5'4), wears denim shorts and sunglasses, and bears no resemblance to anyone in the cast of Snatch. Walter is an electrician and Lizzie a bus driver, and they both frequent their local yacht club, which they assure me does not possess the affectations one immediately associates with your typical yacht club.
I will never run into Walter and Lizzie at Disneyland. Their opinion of a good time is driving through the desert, searching for the type of thrill you can't get in Anaheim. Walter's most recent passion is hunting down crashed jets. There are plenty of locations in the area where high tech experimental aircrafts have met their demise. Walter, a man filled with more information on jets than one could possibly imagine, has seen some amazing views by pursuing crash sites.
This sounds like a potentially interesting venture, so when the couple offers to bring me along for their latest trip, I jump at the opportunity. Our first destination is the closed tungsten mine that Rachel was founded upon. Walter has heard about a site where a plane has crashed nearby the mine, so we head down the dirt road that circles the area.
The mine is surrounded by barbed wire and no trespassing signs and, given my fundamental lack of knowledge on tungsten, I decide not to press my luck by exploring further. I turn my attention to scanning the sides of the road for shiny metallic objects.
"Sometimes they are hard to see. You could easily drive right by the crash if you're not looking," Walter warns. "Scavengers tend to pick the sites clean to sell the jet parts on ebay."
Unfortunately, the only shiny object we see is the remains of a tent, not a jet. As we head past the mine and closer to the main road (if you can call it that) I turn my attention to the thinnest cow I have ever seen. The thing is so lean it looks like it works out, but judging by the overwhelming amount of insects circling it, that might not be a good trait in a bovine.
Before I can contemplate the intricacies of heifer health, I am startled by a loud popping noise and a sudden jolt of the car. The desert is not a great place to blow a tire.
"Whoohoo! Yes! That's what I'm talking about!"
Walter throws his hands up in the air, laughs aloud, and exuberantly hops out of the car.
Maybe I should quit jumping into the cars of strangers.
Lizzie looks similarly concerned.
"Did we just blow a tire?" she asks under her breath.
Walter laughs again.
"No. That was it. A sonic boom."
I look up to see a jet in the distance. It turns out many of the jets in the area are capable of breaking the sound barrier, resulting in loud thunder-like eruptions of sound.
“That was nothing. When they get real close the sonic booms can blow you away.”
I am very excited about the sonic boom, not only because it is a new experience, but also because it explains Walter’s reaction and I am no longer worried about the car’s trunk space.
Our next destination is the front gate of Area 51. To get there, we pass what I’m told is the world’s most photographed and possibly most famous mailbox. It is owned by a nearby rancher and is noted as the spot of numerous UFO sightings. To many, it is a symbol of wonder and excitement, a gateway to another existence.
To me, it is a mailbox.
After eight miles of Joshua trees, we come upon the entrance to Area 51 (incidentally the site of top secret military activity). At the entrance is a privately contracted security vehicle and a sign warning against photography. The sign looks like this:
We wait by the entrance for a couple minutes, then turn around. I later relish this decision when I read the consequences of passing the sign.
+ Your vehicle is impounded.
+ You are taken to the nearest jail (a two hour drive ) and fined several hundred dollars.
+ Security is lawfully authorized to shoot.
Instead, we decide to head to beautiful Coyote Summit, hike to the top, and watch the Red-Flag jets fly by. This experience includes picturesque views, state of the art jets, and very little chance of getting shot.
Now that’s what I call a good idea.
Despite being located in the middle of the Nevada Desert, Rachel does a commendable job of bringing back repeat customers. At the bar I meet a couple from Connecticut that make a point to visit Rachel whenever possible.
Walter and Lizzie are not your average tourists. Walter is tall (maybe 6'4), wears camouflage pants, and looks suspiciously like Benicio Del Toro. Lizzie is short (maybe 5'4), wears denim shorts and sunglasses, and bears no resemblance to anyone in the cast of Snatch. Walter is an electrician and Lizzie a bus driver, and they both frequent their local yacht club, which they assure me does not possess the affectations one immediately associates with your typical yacht club.
I will never run into Walter and Lizzie at Disneyland. Their opinion of a good time is driving through the desert, searching for the type of thrill you can't get in Anaheim. Walter's most recent passion is hunting down crashed jets. There are plenty of locations in the area where high tech experimental aircrafts have met their demise. Walter, a man filled with more information on jets than one could possibly imagine, has seen some amazing views by pursuing crash sites.
This sounds like a potentially interesting venture, so when the couple offers to bring me along for their latest trip, I jump at the opportunity. Our first destination is the closed tungsten mine that Rachel was founded upon. Walter has heard about a site where a plane has crashed nearby the mine, so we head down the dirt road that circles the area.
The mine is surrounded by barbed wire and no trespassing signs and, given my fundamental lack of knowledge on tungsten, I decide not to press my luck by exploring further. I turn my attention to scanning the sides of the road for shiny metallic objects.
"Sometimes they are hard to see. You could easily drive right by the crash if you're not looking," Walter warns. "Scavengers tend to pick the sites clean to sell the jet parts on ebay."
Unfortunately, the only shiny object we see is the remains of a tent, not a jet. As we head past the mine and closer to the main road (if you can call it that) I turn my attention to the thinnest cow I have ever seen. The thing is so lean it looks like it works out, but judging by the overwhelming amount of insects circling it, that might not be a good trait in a bovine.
Before I can contemplate the intricacies of heifer health, I am startled by a loud popping noise and a sudden jolt of the car. The desert is not a great place to blow a tire.
"Whoohoo! Yes! That's what I'm talking about!"
Walter throws his hands up in the air, laughs aloud, and exuberantly hops out of the car.
Maybe I should quit jumping into the cars of strangers.
Lizzie looks similarly concerned.
"Did we just blow a tire?" she asks under her breath.
Walter laughs again.
"No. That was it. A sonic boom."
I look up to see a jet in the distance. It turns out many of the jets in the area are capable of breaking the sound barrier, resulting in loud thunder-like eruptions of sound.
“That was nothing. When they get real close the sonic booms can blow you away.”
I am very excited about the sonic boom, not only because it is a new experience, but also because it explains Walter’s reaction and I am no longer worried about the car’s trunk space.
Our next destination is the front gate of Area 51. To get there, we pass what I’m told is the world’s most photographed and possibly most famous mailbox. It is owned by a nearby rancher and is noted as the spot of numerous UFO sightings. To many, it is a symbol of wonder and excitement, a gateway to another existence.
To me, it is a mailbox.
After eight miles of Joshua trees, we come upon the entrance to Area 51 (incidentally the site of top secret military activity). At the entrance is a privately contracted security vehicle and a sign warning against photography. The sign looks like this:
We wait by the entrance for a couple minutes, then turn around. I later relish this decision when I read the consequences of passing the sign.
+ Your vehicle is impounded.
+ You are taken to the nearest jail (a two hour drive ) and fined several hundred dollars.
+ Security is lawfully authorized to shoot.
Instead, we decide to head to beautiful Coyote Summit, hike to the top, and watch the Red-Flag jets fly by. This experience includes picturesque views, state of the art jets, and very little chance of getting shot.
Now that’s what I call a good idea.
Monday, August 18, 2008
As the French Would Say, "My Bad"
Two flies just consummated their love on my laptop.
I am unsure whether or not they were fruit flies.
I share this information with you because I realize that I have not been effective in communicating my thoughts the past few days. My goal for this blog was to post every single day. Unfortunately, I failed to factor in the reality that the internet can not be easily accessed from every part of the country. The same rings true for cell phone use.
It occurred to me once I got back within cell phone range that I wrote a fairly ominous blog and then disappeared from contact for three days. I sincerely apologize to anyone who worried over this.
The truth is that I was out in the middle of the Nevada desert, in the beautiful town of Rachel. Rachel is home to the world famous Little Aleinn and is the closest town to Area 51. I had a wonderful time and plenty of great experiences out there, but the area was not conducive to blogging or, for that matter, consistent contact with the outside world.
Notice the conspicuous lack of cell towers.
I am unsure whether or not they were fruit flies.
I share this information with you because I realize that I have not been effective in communicating my thoughts the past few days. My goal for this blog was to post every single day. Unfortunately, I failed to factor in the reality that the internet can not be easily accessed from every part of the country. The same rings true for cell phone use.
It occurred to me once I got back within cell phone range that I wrote a fairly ominous blog and then disappeared from contact for three days. I sincerely apologize to anyone who worried over this.
The truth is that I was out in the middle of the Nevada desert, in the beautiful town of Rachel. Rachel is home to the world famous Little Aleinn and is the closest town to Area 51. I had a wonderful time and plenty of great experiences out there, but the area was not conducive to blogging or, for that matter, consistent contact with the outside world.
Notice the conspicuous lack of cell towers.
I will be detailing my adventures in Rachel over the next couple of days while I patiently wait for the good people of Burning Man to reply to my request to film the event. In the meantime, I'm going to go clean my laptop.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Wayne
At the base of the Nevada desert, just off the shores of Lake Mead, there lives a true American patriot.
He's not your traditional hero. Nobody will ever mistake him for General Patton. But he is steadfastly committed to the American cause.
You'll find Wayne living his life outdoors, close to nature. That's the only way he wants it. But he says that he's there for a more important cause.
"I bet you didn't even notice when you drove in here," he says with a big grin. "Nobody ever notices when they come by. But I'll show you something that'll blow your mind. "
On top of Wayne's bright yellow trailer, connected to his bright yellow pickup truck, is a message. It's a message for the military, letting them know his location at all times.
"All the jetliners know about me. This roof stands out up there."
Wayne tells me all about his connection to Washington; how he petitioned over and over with hundreds of briefcases to design the roof; how he is assigned to various locations throughout the Southwest for search and rescue; how he has seen some absolutely unspeakable acts but has been told by the government to keep quiet.
"I could tell you more. But some of these things you just simply wouldn't be able to understand."
Aiding Wayne in his mission are his three bloodhounds.
"They're worth a lot of money. I got Sleuth, he's five, for $7000. The other two, Redbone and Junior, are eight months; I got them for $2500 apiece. They're my family."
The dogs are big and seem vicious. They howl at any vehicle that dares to pass by the campground. But Wayne insists they are friendly.
"Pet Sleuth," he insists.
"She won't hurt you. I promise."
Wayne, for all his charms and good nature, has many of the eccentricities you would expect from someone who has spent the vast majority of his time living outside.
Sleuth, for all his charms and good nature, just snarled at me.
"I don't know. Are you sure he..."
"Just pet him. He won't bite."
So I do.
And he doesn't.
Actually, the dogs are quite friendly. Still, I no longer take my hand for granted.
The man who interrupts our interview is not as friendly. He is about six feet tall, deeply tanned with a well-trimmed gray beard and a mesh hat. He has pulled up to ask Wayne to go fishing. I approach him and extend my hand out to greet him. He looks at me like I just spit in his face.
"Someone puts their hand out to me, I expect they want something."
"Nope. Just wanted to say hi."
"Don't film me. I don't want to be filmed."
He stares at the video camera I am holding. It is turned off and rested at my side.
"Don't worry. I have no interest in filming anyone who doesn't want to be on camera."
"You better not film me."
I back off, giving the old man his space. As he continues to talk with Wayne, he looks at me and raises his voice.
"This guy right here is making me nervous."
I laugh. I can't help myself.
"Don't laugh. I'm not the type of guy you want to make nervous."
I don't ask him to sign my van.
"Don't worry about him," Wayne says after the old man leaves. "He's just mad I'm hanging with you. He wants me to go fishing in his boat and he knows I don't want to leave my dogs."
Wayne is pretty fun to hang out with. I think he enjoys the company. It has to be lonely out there. We listen to his favorite morning talk station and he insists I call in.
"Flip up or flip out?" I hear the talk show host say on the other end of my phone.
"Flip up."
I pause, not quite sure how this type of thing works.
"Yes?"
"Flip up the kindness of strangers," I say. Before I can elaborate, my cell drops the call.
Wayne turns up the volume on the radio so we can hear my call. The radio hosts laugh.
"That's one of the best calls we've ever gotten," he says.
I think he's joking.
I hope he's joking.
Wayne calls in twice. The second time the hosts yell back.
"That's Wayne again. Wayne, only call once!"
Wayne laughs as he plays this back on the radio. I get the feeling the hosts would like to "flip out" Wayne.
I head into town to write a blog and return later that day with a twelve pack of beer and two blocks of ice. Wayne lays down a blanket in the shade of his pickup and we sit down a few feet from the bloodhounds. I take a swig of beer and stare out onto the lake as Wayne tells me one unbelievable story after another.
There are not a lot of situations that compare with sitting in the middle of nowhere, drinking with a stranger; especially with a stranger like Wayne. In this instance, it is a surprisingly peaceful feeling. It seems to fit.
After all, it’s not every day that you get to toast a true American patriot.
He's not your traditional hero. Nobody will ever mistake him for General Patton. But he is steadfastly committed to the American cause.
You'll find Wayne living his life outdoors, close to nature. That's the only way he wants it. But he says that he's there for a more important cause.
"I bet you didn't even notice when you drove in here," he says with a big grin. "Nobody ever notices when they come by. But I'll show you something that'll blow your mind. "
On top of Wayne's bright yellow trailer, connected to his bright yellow pickup truck, is a message. It's a message for the military, letting them know his location at all times.
"All the jetliners know about me. This roof stands out up there."
Wayne tells me all about his connection to Washington; how he petitioned over and over with hundreds of briefcases to design the roof; how he is assigned to various locations throughout the Southwest for search and rescue; how he has seen some absolutely unspeakable acts but has been told by the government to keep quiet.
"I could tell you more. But some of these things you just simply wouldn't be able to understand."
Aiding Wayne in his mission are his three bloodhounds.
"They're worth a lot of money. I got Sleuth, he's five, for $7000. The other two, Redbone and Junior, are eight months; I got them for $2500 apiece. They're my family."
The dogs are big and seem vicious. They howl at any vehicle that dares to pass by the campground. But Wayne insists they are friendly."Pet Sleuth," he insists.
"She won't hurt you. I promise."
Wayne, for all his charms and good nature, has many of the eccentricities you would expect from someone who has spent the vast majority of his time living outside.
Sleuth, for all his charms and good nature, just snarled at me.
"I don't know. Are you sure he..."
"Just pet him. He won't bite."
So I do.
And he doesn't.
Actually, the dogs are quite friendly. Still, I no longer take my hand for granted.
The man who interrupts our interview is not as friendly. He is about six feet tall, deeply tanned with a well-trimmed gray beard and a mesh hat. He has pulled up to ask Wayne to go fishing. I approach him and extend my hand out to greet him. He looks at me like I just spit in his face.
"Someone puts their hand out to me, I expect they want something."
"Nope. Just wanted to say hi."
"Don't film me. I don't want to be filmed."
He stares at the video camera I am holding. It is turned off and rested at my side.
"Don't worry. I have no interest in filming anyone who doesn't want to be on camera."
"You better not film me."
I back off, giving the old man his space. As he continues to talk with Wayne, he looks at me and raises his voice.
"This guy right here is making me nervous."
I laugh. I can't help myself.
"Don't laugh. I'm not the type of guy you want to make nervous."
I don't ask him to sign my van.
"Don't worry about him," Wayne says after the old man leaves. "He's just mad I'm hanging with you. He wants me to go fishing in his boat and he knows I don't want to leave my dogs."
Wayne is pretty fun to hang out with. I think he enjoys the company. It has to be lonely out there. We listen to his favorite morning talk station and he insists I call in.
"Flip up or flip out?" I hear the talk show host say on the other end of my phone."Flip up."
I pause, not quite sure how this type of thing works.
"Yes?"
"Flip up the kindness of strangers," I say. Before I can elaborate, my cell drops the call.
Wayne turns up the volume on the radio so we can hear my call. The radio hosts laugh.
"That's one of the best calls we've ever gotten," he says.
I think he's joking.
I hope he's joking.
Wayne calls in twice. The second time the hosts yell back.
"That's Wayne again. Wayne, only call once!"
Wayne laughs as he plays this back on the radio. I get the feeling the hosts would like to "flip out" Wayne.
I head into town to write a blog and return later that day with a twelve pack of beer and two blocks of ice. Wayne lays down a blanket in the shade of his pickup and we sit down a few feet from the bloodhounds. I take a swig of beer and stare out onto the lake as Wayne tells me one unbelievable story after another.
There are not a lot of situations that compare with sitting in the middle of nowhere, drinking with a stranger; especially with a stranger like Wayne. In this instance, it is a surprisingly peaceful feeling. It seems to fit.
After all, it’s not every day that you get to toast a true American patriot.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Night Rider
There is free camping at Stewart’s Point, a secluded area on the North shore of Lake Mead. I’m able to pull the van all the way down to the beach, right by the water. The view is picturesque, but fairly isolated, so I sit down to read a good book and relax for the night.
As I open the book, I hear a voice. Hopping out of the van, I spot a small Filipino and a shirtless Caucasian man with a red bandana and a tan that would make George Hamilton envious.
"Can you give me a jump?" asks the Filipino, who introduces himself as Manny.
The other man, who introduces himself as Wayne, has jumper cables, but can't easily unhook his truck from his trailer because of his three bloodhounds. Manny has lost battery power on his boat.
"Where is your boat located?"
He points across the lake into the far horizon. I look at my van and then back at the rugged terrain. He's got to be kidding.
We decide that the best plan of action is for Manny to paddle the boat to the closest shore. I ask if he needs help, but his wife is waiting in the boat, and Manny decides that three would be too crowded.
Wayne and I each give Manny our cell phone numbers and wait for his arrival on shore. Wayne is extremely helpful, which makes sense when I discover that he works search and rescue for the lake. (More on Wayne, an extremely colorful character, to come in tomorrow's blog.)
When Manny and his wife reach shore it is nearly dark outside. Still, I accept his request to drive him to Echo Bay, a marina about fifteen miles away, so he and his wife have a vehicle to sleep in for the night.
I can not recommend driving in a secluded desert at nighttime highly enough. There's nothing like driving in pitch black surroundings on unpaved roads filled with sudden cliffs and drop-offs. Although, I must admit, Manny seems like a really nice guy.
He has dealt with too much death in his life. His first wife died at the tender age of 49. His oldest son passed in his sleep before reaching his forties. I shake my head, struggling for words of consolation.
"Sometimes life just isn't fair."
"No. Sometimes it really isn't."
Manny met his current wife in 1992 and just recently moved to Vegas. After working as an auditor for many years, he is now retired and enjoys boating in the lake when he can.
"After I retired, my blood suger went down a lot." He smiles. "I'm very happy now."
I'm happy when we finally find the campsite. I don't wish to find the meaning of life trapped in a van at the bottom of Lake Mead.
As I open the book, I hear a voice. Hopping out of the van, I spot a small Filipino and a shirtless Caucasian man with a red bandana and a tan that would make George Hamilton envious.
"Can you give me a jump?" asks the Filipino, who introduces himself as Manny.
The other man, who introduces himself as Wayne, has jumper cables, but can't easily unhook his truck from his trailer because of his three bloodhounds. Manny has lost battery power on his boat.
"Where is your boat located?"
He points across the lake into the far horizon. I look at my van and then back at the rugged terrain. He's got to be kidding.
We decide that the best plan of action is for Manny to paddle the boat to the closest shore. I ask if he needs help, but his wife is waiting in the boat, and Manny decides that three would be too crowded.
Wayne and I each give Manny our cell phone numbers and wait for his arrival on shore. Wayne is extremely helpful, which makes sense when I discover that he works search and rescue for the lake. (More on Wayne, an extremely colorful character, to come in tomorrow's blog.)
When Manny and his wife reach shore it is nearly dark outside. Still, I accept his request to drive him to Echo Bay, a marina about fifteen miles away, so he and his wife have a vehicle to sleep in for the night.
I can not recommend driving in a secluded desert at nighttime highly enough. There's nothing like driving in pitch black surroundings on unpaved roads filled with sudden cliffs and drop-offs. Although, I must admit, Manny seems like a really nice guy.
He has dealt with too much death in his life. His first wife died at the tender age of 49. His oldest son passed in his sleep before reaching his forties. I shake my head, struggling for words of consolation.
"Sometimes life just isn't fair."
"No. Sometimes it really isn't."
Manny met his current wife in 1992 and just recently moved to Vegas. After working as an auditor for many years, he is now retired and enjoys boating in the lake when he can.
"After I retired, my blood suger went down a lot." He smiles. "I'm very happy now."
I'm happy when we finally find the campsite. I don't wish to find the meaning of life trapped in a van at the bottom of Lake Mead.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
A Smashing Good Time
While transitioning from Vegas to Lake Mead, I stop in the middle of the desert to admire a breathtaking red stone formation. After setting up the camera, I spot a group of tourists by a large gold van, worried looks on their faces.
"Is everything alright?" I ask.
"Not really," responds a woman in a proper British accent. "We've locked the keys in our van."
There are five of them, visiting the United States from Andover in Great Britain. They are comprised of two school teachers and their combined three teenage to college-age sons.
"We're so lucky you're here. I thought we were going to die out here in the middle of nowhere."
Hey, if you're going to get locked out of your car in the desert, it doesn't hurt to run into a guy with a house on wheels. After all, I have the tools to...to...What can we do?
"I could smash a window," one of them suggests.
"Yeah, but then you'd have a smashed window."
"Well, it's a rental."
"Did you get the insurance?"
"We did."
"What are you waiting for then?"
Thanks to my high-tech innovations, we pass on rocks and pick my car jack as the tool of choice. There is something particularly enjoyable about watching someone with a proper British accent smash something. It is decidedly entertaining.
I make sure to get the window smashing on camera.
Afterwards, we clean up the glass with a small broom and dust handle I keep in the back. It is not a particularly pleasant clean-up, but necessary. Lake Mead has many signs posted that say:
"No littering. Maximum penalty $5000 fine and/or up to six months in prison."
I bet "I'm a litterbug" would be an unacceptable response to the "why are you here" question in the joint, especially nowadays when even convicts pride themselves on being "green."
I get an interview with the Brits. They are a lighthearted, enjoyable bunch, and they are happy to have a chance to be on film.
"And to think," says one of the boys, "I thought today was going to be boring."
"I thought today was boring," offers his friend.
Nothing like car troubles to brighten your day. I thank the Brits and send them on their way. Smiling, I pack my van back up, hop into the driver's seat, pop the keys into the ignition and...
Nothing.
I'm really getting tired of my van breaking down in the worst possible situations.
Shaking my head and wiping the sweat from my brow, I resign myself to waiting in the middle of the desert until my van decides to start working again.
If it decides to start working again.
"Is everything alright?" I ask.
"Not really," responds a woman in a proper British accent. "We've locked the keys in our van."
There are five of them, visiting the United States from Andover in Great Britain. They are comprised of two school teachers and their combined three teenage to college-age sons.
"We're so lucky you're here. I thought we were going to die out here in the middle of nowhere."
Hey, if you're going to get locked out of your car in the desert, it doesn't hurt to run into a guy with a house on wheels. After all, I have the tools to...to...What can we do?
"I could smash a window," one of them suggests.
"Yeah, but then you'd have a smashed window."
"Well, it's a rental."
"Did you get the insurance?"
"We did."
"What are you waiting for then?"
Thanks to my high-tech innovations, we pass on rocks and pick my car jack as the tool of choice. There is something particularly enjoyable about watching someone with a proper British accent smash something. It is decidedly entertaining.
I make sure to get the window smashing on camera.
Afterwards, we clean up the glass with a small broom and dust handle I keep in the back. It is not a particularly pleasant clean-up, but necessary. Lake Mead has many signs posted that say:
"No littering. Maximum penalty $5000 fine and/or up to six months in prison."
I bet "I'm a litterbug" would be an unacceptable response to the "why are you here" question in the joint, especially nowadays when even convicts pride themselves on being "green."
I get an interview with the Brits. They are a lighthearted, enjoyable bunch, and they are happy to have a chance to be on film.
"And to think," says one of the boys, "I thought today was going to be boring."
"I thought today was boring," offers his friend.
Nothing like car troubles to brighten your day. I thank the Brits and send them on their way. Smiling, I pack my van back up, hop into the driver's seat, pop the keys into the ignition and...
Nothing.
I'm really getting tired of my van breaking down in the worst possible situations.
Shaking my head and wiping the sweat from my brow, I resign myself to waiting in the middle of the desert until my van decides to start working again.
If it decides to start working again.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Putting Things in Perspective
The whole point of this blog is to try to find the meaning of life. In this spirit, I share with you an eye-opening email I just received from a regular reader:
"Logan, I think I can help in your quest. On Tuesday, ironically the day I sent out your site to half of the bank I work at and literally just minutes before I got your email thanking me for the enthusiasm, I was in a bank that was "taken down." If you do not know what this means, it’s when a branch is robbed by force.
There were three assailants that ran into the branch with guns. After the first two ran in I told the banker I was standing next to, "hit the button; we are being taken down". The third individual, who was covered from head to toe, held a shotgun to my head and made me get on the ground.
Noticing my laptop at my side and car keys in my hand, he decided to take them both. When I next looked up all I could hear was fear. During the robbery, I didn’t even notice, but I was the only male in the branch besides a 70s plus customer. Crying, screaming, and just the sound of breathing was something that could have been the scariest scene in the bloodiest horror film.
I didn’t feel the fear at the time in myself though; all I felt was rage. A lot of rage. I watched the three men who took what they didn’t earn drive off in their stolen green Hyundai Santa Fe. That's when I realized what the most important things in life are... family, friends, and experiences. You seem to be making all of these in your travels. Good luck. I hope my experience provides you, like it has me, a new perspective on the world."
"Logan, I think I can help in your quest. On Tuesday, ironically the day I sent out your site to half of the bank I work at and literally just minutes before I got your email thanking me for the enthusiasm, I was in a bank that was "taken down." If you do not know what this means, it’s when a branch is robbed by force.
There were three assailants that ran into the branch with guns. After the first two ran in I told the banker I was standing next to, "hit the button; we are being taken down". The third individual, who was covered from head to toe, held a shotgun to my head and made me get on the ground.
Noticing my laptop at my side and car keys in my hand, he decided to take them both. When I next looked up all I could hear was fear. During the robbery, I didn’t even notice, but I was the only male in the branch besides a 70s plus customer. Crying, screaming, and just the sound of breathing was something that could have been the scariest scene in the bloodiest horror film.
I didn’t feel the fear at the time in myself though; all I felt was rage. A lot of rage. I watched the three men who took what they didn’t earn drive off in their stolen green Hyundai Santa Fe. That's when I realized what the most important things in life are... family, friends, and experiences. You seem to be making all of these in your travels. Good luck. I hope my experience provides you, like it has me, a new perspective on the world."
Sin Citizens
"Hey Camera Man. Come on down to The Hood."
I'm excited to see "The Hood." It can't be any worse than North Vegas, where most of the city's homeless hang out. I stopped by my earlier stomping grounds a few days ago and was shocked by the depressing nature of the area. The downtrodden men patrolling the sidewalks looked empty, almost soulless, with no expression in their eyes. The smell was worse than I remembered.
"The Hood," on the other hand, is pitched to me as a magical place where camaraderie and spirit trump economic depression and violence. I imagine a much tougher version of Disneyland; you know, with less animatronics.
The person inviting me to "The Hood" is JB, a young man I met earlier in the week while playing pick-up basketball. He is 26, but looks much younger. Despite coming from economic hardship and becoming a father at the tender age of 15, he finds himself to be financially prosperous. He is married with two kids, owns a car business, various property, and is working on becoming a music producer.
He invites me to one of his group's recording sessions at midnight. The studio advertises on its website that it has provided recording for various celebrities, including but not limited to Missy Elliott, Kanye West, and Britney Spears. I am greeted by a group of rappers (talented rappers, based on what I heard) and various hangers-on.
I am there to interview JB, but the interview is an afterthought for the rest of the group and the music overpowers the audio. I wait to film the group recording material, but after three hours of bickering (I knew inviting Yoko was a mistake) that results in very little productivity, JB directs me to follow him out the door.
The next day JB tells me to come down to "The Hood." When I get there, I stop for gas at what may be the seediest looking gas station I've ever seen. The credit card machine doesn't work, so I head inside to pay. After filling up, I pop the keys in the ignition and...
Nothing.
I try again.
Nothing.
I'm pretty sure my van is trying to kill me.
It has stopped working twice now: once, on top of a mountain; the other, as soon as I enter "The Hood."
The van eventually starts and I head to the house JB has grown up in. It's pretty nice, with furniture from the 1960's and a striking collage of African American history that JB's cousin made in college. The neighborhood actually reminds me a little of home. It turns out my skiddish van had no reason to worry.
Unfortunately, JB's childhood home has no camera locations that fit his desired image, so we reschedule for later.
He never returned my calls.
The following are the other people I met in Vegas that had an impact on my stay, but whom I have not had an opportunity to film and never mentioned in this blog:
+ Steve and Michelle. This couple stopped by my van on one of my first nights in Vegas. They were warm, inviting, and helpful. Their open friendly nature provided an early pick-me-up and reminded me one of the main reasons why I am out here: to meet and learn from the genuine and interesting people that comprise this great country. (Wow. I just read that last sentence and, though it was sincere, I now feel the need to assure you that I will not be running for political office in the near future.)
The only thing that bothers me about my encounter with Steve and Michelle is their joking offer to pay me to take their 19-year-old daughter on the road and teach her what is important in life.
A complete stranger, admittedly living in a van, and I'm still the nice, "safe" guy that parents trust their daughters with. Jack Kerouac I am not.
Steve has actually kept in touch so far. If the people in Vegas are this nice, the folks in the Midwest probably come with cupcakes.
+ Desiree. This is another person who has kept in touch so far. An attractive woman in her early thirties, she has encountered rough times due to health and financial issues. She recently was evicted from her apartment and it has (justifiably so) made her bitter towards Vegas.
"The only good thing about this town," she nods towards a young man sitting next to her, "is him."
+ Daryl and Tara. I give money to a young woman panhandling, which prompts her to remark how much she likes the signatures on my van. So I pull over to let her and her husband sign it. Not wanting to interrupt their "work," I schedule a time to do a camera interview.
"It's not going to be a pretty interview," she says excitedly. "But it will be real. Damn real."
I never found nor heard back from them.
+ Mike "The Plumber Man." (No relation to the guy from "Desperate Housewives.") I am approached by a relatively young clean-cut man curious about my project. I soon find out that he too is living out of his vehicle. After working as a trucker for a few years, he decided that long hours and tiring manual labor was not the "meaning of life" and quit his job. Despite a positive mentality ("God has a plan for me.") and a strong spirit, he has not been able to land on his feet recently.
A prize fighter, Mike is looking for the right promoter to put his fighting career back on track. Should anyone reading this have any connections in the boxing world, email me at Logan@projectmeaning.com and I'll put you in touch with a great guy with a good story who needs a change of luck.
I'm excited to see "The Hood." It can't be any worse than North Vegas, where most of the city's homeless hang out. I stopped by my earlier stomping grounds a few days ago and was shocked by the depressing nature of the area. The downtrodden men patrolling the sidewalks looked empty, almost soulless, with no expression in their eyes. The smell was worse than I remembered.
"The Hood," on the other hand, is pitched to me as a magical place where camaraderie and spirit trump economic depression and violence. I imagine a much tougher version of Disneyland; you know, with less animatronics.
The person inviting me to "The Hood" is JB, a young man I met earlier in the week while playing pick-up basketball. He is 26, but looks much younger. Despite coming from economic hardship and becoming a father at the tender age of 15, he finds himself to be financially prosperous. He is married with two kids, owns a car business, various property, and is working on becoming a music producer.
He invites me to one of his group's recording sessions at midnight. The studio advertises on its website that it has provided recording for various celebrities, including but not limited to Missy Elliott, Kanye West, and Britney Spears. I am greeted by a group of rappers (talented rappers, based on what I heard) and various hangers-on.
I am there to interview JB, but the interview is an afterthought for the rest of the group and the music overpowers the audio. I wait to film the group recording material, but after three hours of bickering (I knew inviting Yoko was a mistake) that results in very little productivity, JB directs me to follow him out the door.
The next day JB tells me to come down to "The Hood." When I get there, I stop for gas at what may be the seediest looking gas station I've ever seen. The credit card machine doesn't work, so I head inside to pay. After filling up, I pop the keys in the ignition and...
Nothing.
I try again.
Nothing.
I'm pretty sure my van is trying to kill me.
It has stopped working twice now: once, on top of a mountain; the other, as soon as I enter "The Hood."
The van eventually starts and I head to the house JB has grown up in. It's pretty nice, with furniture from the 1960's and a striking collage of African American history that JB's cousin made in college. The neighborhood actually reminds me a little of home. It turns out my skiddish van had no reason to worry.
Unfortunately, JB's childhood home has no camera locations that fit his desired image, so we reschedule for later.
He never returned my calls.
The following are the other people I met in Vegas that had an impact on my stay, but whom I have not had an opportunity to film and never mentioned in this blog:
+ Steve and Michelle. This couple stopped by my van on one of my first nights in Vegas. They were warm, inviting, and helpful. Their open friendly nature provided an early pick-me-up and reminded me one of the main reasons why I am out here: to meet and learn from the genuine and interesting people that comprise this great country. (Wow. I just read that last sentence and, though it was sincere, I now feel the need to assure you that I will not be running for political office in the near future.)
The only thing that bothers me about my encounter with Steve and Michelle is their joking offer to pay me to take their 19-year-old daughter on the road and teach her what is important in life.
A complete stranger, admittedly living in a van, and I'm still the nice, "safe" guy that parents trust their daughters with. Jack Kerouac I am not.
Steve has actually kept in touch so far. If the people in Vegas are this nice, the folks in the Midwest probably come with cupcakes.
+ Desiree. This is another person who has kept in touch so far. An attractive woman in her early thirties, she has encountered rough times due to health and financial issues. She recently was evicted from her apartment and it has (justifiably so) made her bitter towards Vegas.
"The only good thing about this town," she nods towards a young man sitting next to her, "is him."
+ Daryl and Tara. I give money to a young woman panhandling, which prompts her to remark how much she likes the signatures on my van. So I pull over to let her and her husband sign it. Not wanting to interrupt their "work," I schedule a time to do a camera interview.
"It's not going to be a pretty interview," she says excitedly. "But it will be real. Damn real."
I never found nor heard back from them.
+ Mike "The Plumber Man." (No relation to the guy from "Desperate Housewives.") I am approached by a relatively young clean-cut man curious about my project. I soon find out that he too is living out of his vehicle. After working as a trucker for a few years, he decided that long hours and tiring manual labor was not the "meaning of life" and quit his job. Despite a positive mentality ("God has a plan for me.") and a strong spirit, he has not been able to land on his feet recently.
A prize fighter, Mike is looking for the right promoter to put his fighting career back on track. Should anyone reading this have any connections in the boxing world, email me at Logan@projectmeaning.com and I'll put you in touch with a great guy with a good story who needs a change of luck.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Shaken, Not Stirred
"Hey, what's your name?"
"Lacey."
"Oh. Hey, what's your name?"
"Ryan."
"Oh. Oh, hey, what's your name?"
"Still Lacey."
"I like Lace. Hey, what's your name?"
"Ryan."
The man across the table from me is about as drunk as anyone I've ever come across, and I've been homeless and in college. He slurs his words and makes quick sudden gestures. He looks and acts like an aging frat boy, and I'm reasonably certain he could get violent at any moment.
My best friend Ryan has come to Vegas for the weekend (the only reason I'm still here) and has brought along his girlfriend and her mother. This means the following things for me:
+ free air-conditioned floor to sleep on for the night and two, count them, two showers with real water pressure.
+ good company.
+ reason to watch the "ultimate fighting" pay-per-view the hotel is showing for free in a large conference room.
The problem with watching "ultimate fighting" in a room full of strangers is that said room of strangers consists of people who enjoy watching other people beat the living Hell out of each other for sport. I, admittedly, am one of these people, but I also recognize that sometimes adding alcohol to such a room can produce mixed results.
I shake my head as I try to look past the drunk and at the big screen. I know that this man could possibly ruin what has so far been a very enjoyable break from the van. Highlights of the day have included:
+ being treated to the buffet at Texas Station Hotel and Casino, the first place I ate after being homeless for five weeks; it tasted better then.
+ using the restroom, only to find what I am reasonably certain were cup holders attached to the urinal walls. They couldn't have been cup holders though, right? Downing a beer while you're peeing is a step past alcoholism, isn't it?
+ walking around the casino and noticing an attractive cocktail waitress offering drinks in a particularly interesting fashion. "COCKtail!" she yelled knowingly. "Can I interest anyone in a COCKtail!?" I started to tip her before realizing I never ordered a drink.
A good day, all told, now in serious jeopardy because this man can not hold his liquor. The man sitting next to me assures the drunk would be easy to "take out," but he also suggests he could "take" Brock Lesnar, the hulking beast of a man on the big screen who has just demonstrated an astounding proficiency for punching people in the face.
Luckily, the drunk man has gotten into an argument with someone else in the crowd while heading for another beer. A security guard approaches us. He looks at me, assuming I am with the drunk.
"I'm going to have to get him out of here."
"Good. Please do. I would like nothing more than for you to get him out of here."
The security guard walks up to the drunk and... walks away.
Thanks for the help.
The man next to me is furious. I can tell he is about two minutes from starting an altercation. Meanwhile, I eye the drunk, half watching the screen, half poised to strike in case things take a wrong turn.
"I'm getting out of here. It was good to meet you guys," the drunk stammers.
And with that it is over.
"Boy, I'm glad that didn't head where I thought it was heading," I say to the man next to me, who has turned a new shade of red.
"Yeah. The nerve of that guy. Some people just have no sense of..."
The crowd erupts, drowning out the last part of the sentence. I join in as the packed room cheers and hollers at the big screen. One of the fighters has just been choked into unconsciousness.
"I missed that last part. Some people have no sense of what?"
"Of decency. Some people have no sense of decency."
I nod.
"Lacey."
"Oh. Hey, what's your name?"
"Ryan."
"Oh. Oh, hey, what's your name?"
"Still Lacey."
"I like Lace. Hey, what's your name?"
"Ryan."
The man across the table from me is about as drunk as anyone I've ever come across, and I've been homeless and in college. He slurs his words and makes quick sudden gestures. He looks and acts like an aging frat boy, and I'm reasonably certain he could get violent at any moment.
My best friend Ryan has come to Vegas for the weekend (the only reason I'm still here) and has brought along his girlfriend and her mother. This means the following things for me:
+ free air-conditioned floor to sleep on for the night and two, count them, two showers with real water pressure.
+ good company.
+ reason to watch the "ultimate fighting" pay-per-view the hotel is showing for free in a large conference room.
The problem with watching "ultimate fighting" in a room full of strangers is that said room of strangers consists of people who enjoy watching other people beat the living Hell out of each other for sport. I, admittedly, am one of these people, but I also recognize that sometimes adding alcohol to such a room can produce mixed results.
I shake my head as I try to look past the drunk and at the big screen. I know that this man could possibly ruin what has so far been a very enjoyable break from the van. Highlights of the day have included:
+ being treated to the buffet at Texas Station Hotel and Casino, the first place I ate after being homeless for five weeks; it tasted better then.
+ using the restroom, only to find what I am reasonably certain were cup holders attached to the urinal walls. They couldn't have been cup holders though, right? Downing a beer while you're peeing is a step past alcoholism, isn't it?
+ walking around the casino and noticing an attractive cocktail waitress offering drinks in a particularly interesting fashion. "COCKtail!" she yelled knowingly. "Can I interest anyone in a COCKtail!?" I started to tip her before realizing I never ordered a drink.
A good day, all told, now in serious jeopardy because this man can not hold his liquor. The man sitting next to me assures the drunk would be easy to "take out," but he also suggests he could "take" Brock Lesnar, the hulking beast of a man on the big screen who has just demonstrated an astounding proficiency for punching people in the face.
Luckily, the drunk man has gotten into an argument with someone else in the crowd while heading for another beer. A security guard approaches us. He looks at me, assuming I am with the drunk.
"I'm going to have to get him out of here."
"Good. Please do. I would like nothing more than for you to get him out of here."
The security guard walks up to the drunk and... walks away.
Thanks for the help.
The man next to me is furious. I can tell he is about two minutes from starting an altercation. Meanwhile, I eye the drunk, half watching the screen, half poised to strike in case things take a wrong turn.
"I'm getting out of here. It was good to meet you guys," the drunk stammers.
And with that it is over.
"Boy, I'm glad that didn't head where I thought it was heading," I say to the man next to me, who has turned a new shade of red.
"Yeah. The nerve of that guy. Some people just have no sense of..."
The crowd erupts, drowning out the last part of the sentence. I join in as the packed room cheers and hollers at the big screen. One of the fighters has just been choked into unconsciousness.
"I missed that last part. Some people have no sense of what?"
"Of decency. Some people have no sense of decency."
I nod.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
You Should See His Roundhouse Kick
The walls of my childhood bedroom were adorned with posters of NBA superstars. Magic Johnson flashed his trademark smile right above my desk while Shaquille O'Neal stared down menacingly from the ceiling. When I opened my closet door, Grant Hill was always there to remind me of the virtues of drinking Sprite.
My favorite poster featured one of the NBA's all-time imposing defenders, Dikembe Mutombo, or as the poster read, "Dikembe Mutombo Mpolondo Mukamba Jean-Jacques Wamutombo." It dubbed the shot-blocking phenom "Master of the House," and Mutombo's intense stare more than sold that title. I'm not sure why I chose to hang that particular poster right next to my bed (maybe I liked the poster design, maybe I was subconsciously choosing Mutombo to watch over and protect me as he has protected the rim for so many years, maybe reading Dikembe's full name was cheaper than buying hooked-on-phonics), but for most of my formative years Dikembe Mutombo's face was the last thing I saw before I fell asleep and the first thing I saw when I woke up.
So it's no surprise that I grew up viewing Mutombo as a larger than life figure. The thing is, unlike most childhood sports icons, Mutombo actually deserves to be viewed as superhuman. He is uniquely remarkable in his achievements as an athlete and a person and to compare him to othe
r Georgetown legends such as Patrick Ewing and Alonzo Mourning or even NBA greats such as Bill Russell and Wilt Chamberlain does a disservice to Mutombo's off-the-court feats.
No, the only comparison that seems apt for Dikembe is to a fictional character, the legendary Bill Brasky. Brasky gained fame on Saturday Night Live as friends and acquaintances alike would gather in bars, airports, and Holiday Inns to regale each other with tales of Brasky's bizarre and fantastic triumphs, among them breastfeeding John Madden, driving an ice cream truck covered in human skulls, and using his foreskin as a tarp for Yankee Stadium. Bill Brasky.
Unfortunately, thanks to a clever internet campaign, Chuck Norris has taken the reins as the Bill Brasky of a new generation. I suggest that the wrong man was crowned and humbly submit to you Mutombo's unrivaled resume:
+ He stands over seven feet tall, hails from the Democratic Republic of the Congo, and sounds exactly like the Cookie Monster when he talks.
+ Dikembe is multilingual, speaking fluent Luba, Lingala, French, and English as well as dabbling in Spanish, Portuguese, and three more African languages. AND HE SOUNDS EXACTLY LIKE THE COOKIE MONSTER WHEN HE TALKS!
+ Not only did President Bush mention Mutombo in his 2007 State of the Union Address, but he even pronounced his name correctly.
+ Mutombo's vicious elbows are legendary for hurting players throughout the league, including those on his own team! Quotes from Houston Rockets teammates after a Dikembe elbow gave teammate Tracy McGrady a concussion and broken eye socket:
"Deke's like a tornado. He sets a destructive path." -Former Coach Jeff Van Gundy
"It's a very impressive list (of victims). I think Deke sits in the locker room and sharpens them (his elbows) up." -McGrady
"I need to talk to Coach to have Dikembe held out of practice, because if he hits somebody in practice, it's our teammate. At least in the games, it's 50/50." -Yao Ming
+ Video Game Dikembe Mutombo is by far the most entertaining player to control when playing a buddy in NBA 2K8. Sure, he's incredibly slow, but he can still block shots, and every time Video Game Mutombo makes a good play, you can effectively taunt your friend by loudly yelling, "Dikembe Mutombo Mpolondo Mukamba Jean-Jacques Wamutombo!" a move guaranteed to fluster even the most seasoned video game veteran. This taunt is second only to…
+ The Mutombo Finger Wag. After each block, Mutombo wags his finger at his opponent as if to say, "you are inferior to me," which the opponent undoubtedly is.
+ In the midst of a winning streak, the Houston Rockets lost All-Star Center Yao Ming for the season to injury. They replaced him with The Congolese Cookie Monster (I'm petitioning David Stern to make this his official nickname) and not only did they not miss a beat, they went on to amass the second longest winning streak in NBA history.
+ Mutombo is a legitimate humanitarian, working tirelessly to improve conditions in his native land and spearheading the construction of a 29 million dollar hospital (much of it funded by Dikembe himself) near his hometown of Kinshasa.
What was Chuck Norris doing at the same time?
Campaigning for Mike Huckabee.
I rest my case.
Friday, August 8, 2008
Thou Shalt Not Steal.
Reveling in my backyard of convenience, I head into Walmart to get a much needed economy sized bag of tube socks for two dollars. Two dollars is a small price to pay for 347 pairs of socks; you know, unless you factor in the dwindling number of folksy small towns I'll be able to visit as I head across the country.
As I'm leaving, I notice the Walmart "greeter" yelling after a man who has just rushed out of the store. She seems adamant about getting the man's attention, so I run after him.
"Excuse me, Sir!" I motion after the small slinking man 200 feet ahead of me. "Sir!"
He looks back.
"Sir, that woman was trying to get a hold of you."
He hunches over, glancing down at the bag concealed in his hand , then up at me. We lock eyes.
"Oh!" I yell out stupidly. "You stole that, didn't you?"
The man stammers an incoherent excuse and turns to run, but I do not chase.
I think about chasing after him. My instinct is to chase after him. As a large man with a limited experience with suffering, I have an unhealthy "invincibility complex" shared by many people my age. My safety is not a concern and does not factor into my decision not to chase him.
Rather, I find myself torn on who's side to take. The man is stealing, which I see as a clear violation of the "social contract" and as such a moral wrong. But he has put no one in danger with his act of thievery. He has not stolen from an individual, nor from any entity that would suffer from his actions. Walmart factors thefts such as these into their budget.
Does that make it okay to steal from big corporations? I would argue no, but would certainly concede that it is on a different level of wrong than say, stealing a purse from an old woman. Should I turn the man in, he likely would face punishment, and if he's desperate enough to steal, who am I to make his life any worse when nobody got hurt?
In that moment, I decide to let the man go unabated. I do not regret the decision.
Talking to some friends, it seems I may be in the minority in my opinion, so I am interested to hear some more thoughts.
Should I have made myself Robin Hood in reverse?
As I'm leaving, I notice the Walmart "greeter" yelling after a man who has just rushed out of the store. She seems adamant about getting the man's attention, so I run after him.
"Excuse me, Sir!" I motion after the small slinking man 200 feet ahead of me. "Sir!"
He looks back.
"Sir, that woman was trying to get a hold of you."
He hunches over, glancing down at the bag concealed in his hand , then up at me. We lock eyes.
"Oh!" I yell out stupidly. "You stole that, didn't you?"
The man stammers an incoherent excuse and turns to run, but I do not chase.
I think about chasing after him. My instinct is to chase after him. As a large man with a limited experience with suffering, I have an unhealthy "invincibility complex" shared by many people my age. My safety is not a concern and does not factor into my decision not to chase him.
Rather, I find myself torn on who's side to take. The man is stealing, which I see as a clear violation of the "social contract" and as such a moral wrong. But he has put no one in danger with his act of thievery. He has not stolen from an individual, nor from any entity that would suffer from his actions. Walmart factors thefts such as these into their budget.
Does that make it okay to steal from big corporations? I would argue no, but would certainly concede that it is on a different level of wrong than say, stealing a purse from an old woman. Should I turn the man in, he likely would face punishment, and if he's desperate enough to steal, who am I to make his life any worse when nobody got hurt?
In that moment, I decide to let the man go unabated. I do not regret the decision.
Talking to some friends, it seems I may be in the minority in my opinion, so I am interested to hear some more thoughts.
Should I have made myself Robin Hood in reverse?
Thursday, August 7, 2008
What if God Was One of Us?
Hoping to escape the heat, I head to a local theater to catch a matinée showing of Jumper. When I get back to my van, I find that someone has graffitied one of the windows with blue paint.
This is disappointing, not because I haven't anticipated graffiti (having people sign my van like it is a broken arm practically invites defacing), but because said graffiti lacked any imagination.
"See you later," it calls out in sloppy thick blue chunks.
No jokes?
No threats?
Not even a curse word?
How insulting.
Shaking my head, I do my best to wipe off the graffiti and am pleasantly surprised by how easy it is to erase. As I finish wiping it off, I am approached by a young couple and their four-year-old son.
"Hey, what's this project all about?" the man asks. (I say "man," but he can't be a day over twenty.
"I'm traveling across the country in this van, searching for the meaning of life."
He looks at me skeptically as he starts to roll a joint.
"I search for the meaning of life every day. I just don't need a van to do it."
Touche.
"Do you smoke?" he asks.
I shake my head no, thinking that if I ever were to start, it would probably not be in a parking lot and would definitely not be in front of a four-year-old.
"If I were doing what you are doing, I would smoke A LOT." He laughs.
So what is the meaning of life?
"Go to reluctant-messenger.com. It talks about how Jesus preaches reincarnation."
I refuse to nod, not only because it doesn't make sense, but also because the man saying it is not a gigantic cop.
Although I must say, if everyone went around thinking about Jesus being reincarnated, I suggest we would have a much nicer world.
Guy cuts you off in traffic? Smile and wave. He could be Jesus.
Mosquito bites you? Thank it and gently send it on its way. Could be Jesus.
Telemarketer calls? Tell him to quit bothering you and hang up. Jesus would never be a telemarketer.
P.S. I went to that website. It hurt my head. Let me know if you think it's something I should give another try.
This is disappointing, not because I haven't anticipated graffiti (having people sign my van like it is a broken arm practically invites defacing), but because said graffiti lacked any imagination.
"See you later," it calls out in sloppy thick blue chunks.
No jokes?
No threats?
Not even a curse word?
How insulting.
Shaking my head, I do my best to wipe off the graffiti and am pleasantly surprised by how easy it is to erase. As I finish wiping it off, I am approached by a young couple and their four-year-old son.
"Hey, what's this project all about?" the man asks. (I say "man," but he can't be a day over twenty.
"I'm traveling across the country in this van, searching for the meaning of life."
He looks at me skeptically as he starts to roll a joint.
"I search for the meaning of life every day. I just don't need a van to do it."
Touche.
"Do you smoke?" he asks.
I shake my head no, thinking that if I ever were to start, it would probably not be in a parking lot and would definitely not be in front of a four-year-old.
"If I were doing what you are doing, I would smoke A LOT." He laughs.
So what is the meaning of life?
"Go to reluctant-messenger.com. It talks about how Jesus preaches reincarnation."
I refuse to nod, not only because it doesn't make sense, but also because the man saying it is not a gigantic cop.
Although I must say, if everyone went around thinking about Jesus being reincarnated, I suggest we would have a much nicer world.
Guy cuts you off in traffic? Smile and wave. He could be Jesus.
Mosquito bites you? Thank it and gently send it on its way. Could be Jesus.
Telemarketer calls? Tell him to quit bothering you and hang up. Jesus would never be a telemarketer.
P.S. I went to that website. It hurt my head. Let me know if you think it's something I should give another try.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Hobo Envy
Among the benefits of this project is my newfound opportunity to read some of the amazing books that have been sitting on my shelves gathering dust over the years. Because great literature holds as many answers and wisdom as even the best reality television shows (I'm looking at you, Celebrity Circus), I feel it would be constructive to share with you any books I come across that have a significant impact on the way I view life.
One of my favorite college professors (the quirky and intimidatingly brilliant Anthony DiRenzo), after reading a rough draft of my book, sent me a copy of George Orwell's Down and Out in Paris and London. I was blown away by how insightful it was when it came to poverty, social constructions, and human interaction.
Though written as a fictional narrative, the book is largely based on Orwell's personal experiences living among the working poor in France and tramping with vagrants in London. In typical Orwell fashion, the book cuts straight through to the heart of some mind-blowing universal truths.
Despite being written seventy-five years ago and taking place on a different continent, I found myself nodding in appreciation of experiences Orwell and I shared. Some examples of his insight:
"It is a feeling of relief, almost of pleasure, at knowing yourself at last genuinely down and out. You have talked so often of going to the dogs -- and well, here are the dogs, and you have reached them, and you can stand it. It takes off a lot of anxiety."
"Fear of the mob is a superstitious fear. It is based on the idea that there is some mysterious, fundamental difference between rich and poor...But in reality there is no such difference. The mass of rich and poor are differentiated by their incomes and nothing else, and the average millionaire is only the average dishwasher dressed in a new suit...Everyone who has mixed on equal terms with the poor knows this quite well. But the trouble is that intelligent, cultivated people, the very people who might be expected to have liberal opinions, never do mix with the poor. For what do the majority of educated people know of poverty?"
"Indeed, if one remembers that a tramp is only an Englishman out of work, forced by law to live as a vagabond, then the tramp-monster vanishes. I am not saying, of course, that most tramps are ideal characters; I am only saying that they are ordinary human beings, and that if they are worse than other people it is the result and not the cause of their way of life."
Trust me when I say there's a reason they made this man's name into an adjective. (If that isn't the ultimate sign of respect, I don't know what is. If I had one wish in life, it would be to hear this conversation: "That was positively Orwellian." "I disagree, sir, I would argue that it was more Loganic.")
If you read one book about poverty this year, read The Hobo Diet. (Hey, I'm no Orwell, but a man's got to make a living.)
If you read two, you can do no better than Down and Out in Paris and London.
One of my favorite college professors (the quirky and intimidatingly brilliant Anthony DiRenzo), after reading a rough draft of my book, sent me a copy of George Orwell's Down and Out in Paris and London. I was blown away by how insightful it was when it came to poverty, social constructions, and human interaction.
Though written as a fictional narrative, the book is largely based on Orwell's personal experiences living among the working poor in France and tramping with vagrants in London. In typical Orwell fashion, the book cuts straight through to the heart of some mind-blowing universal truths.
Despite being written seventy-five years ago and taking place on a different continent, I found myself nodding in appreciation of experiences Orwell and I shared. Some examples of his insight:
"It is a feeling of relief, almost of pleasure, at knowing yourself at last genuinely down and out. You have talked so often of going to the dogs -- and well, here are the dogs, and you have reached them, and you can stand it. It takes off a lot of anxiety."
"Fear of the mob is a superstitious fear. It is based on the idea that there is some mysterious, fundamental difference between rich and poor...But in reality there is no such difference. The mass of rich and poor are differentiated by their incomes and nothing else, and the average millionaire is only the average dishwasher dressed in a new suit...Everyone who has mixed on equal terms with the poor knows this quite well. But the trouble is that intelligent, cultivated people, the very people who might be expected to have liberal opinions, never do mix with the poor. For what do the majority of educated people know of poverty?"
"Indeed, if one remembers that a tramp is only an Englishman out of work, forced by law to live as a vagabond, then the tramp-monster vanishes. I am not saying, of course, that most tramps are ideal characters; I am only saying that they are ordinary human beings, and that if they are worse than other people it is the result and not the cause of their way of life."
Trust me when I say there's a reason they made this man's name into an adjective. (If that isn't the ultimate sign of respect, I don't know what is. If I had one wish in life, it would be to hear this conversation: "That was positively Orwellian." "I disagree, sir, I would argue that it was more Loganic.")
If you read one book about poverty this year, read The Hobo Diet. (Hey, I'm no Orwell, but a man's got to make a living.)
If you read two, you can do no better than Down and Out in Paris and London.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Van Boy, Van Boy, Whatcha Gonna Do?
"The day my son was born, it all made sense."
I nod in appreciation, not only because the statement makes sense, but also because the man saying it is a gigantic cop.
I find it best not to disagree with gigantic cops.
It's late at night and I'm hanging out in a parking lot with my van doors open. I'm on the phone with projectmeaning.com's web designer (the incomparable Brian Rayman of XM WebDesign) talking about changes to the site. Halfway through our conversation, a police car pulls up alongside the van. The officer inside motions to me.
"I'm going to have to call you back. I think I'm about to get arrested."
The police officer is a giant man. I'm almost 6'5 and about 275 lbs. and he is definitely bigger than I am. Muscular with blonde hair trimmed army style, I'm happy to notice he is smiling.
"Just a friendly visit," he assures me.
My testicles drop back down.
The officer is just curious about my project. In fact, not only does he not arrest me, he actually engages me in a long, interesting conversation with topics spanning from war to religion to conspiracy theorists to schizophrenia and its effects on homelessness.
We talk about "affluenza," the sense of entitlement people feel and the suburbanites' need to spend beyond their means.
We talk about the effect gangster glorification has had on the streets, and about how the perception that it is "cool to kill people" has made his job much harder.
We talk about a lot of things you don't expect to talk about with an on-duty police officer and though he passes on speaking on camera (the force is very controlling about the image they present) it is nice to reaffirm that some cops are normal good guys who just want to protect and serve.
"The cool thing about being a police officer is you are often the only line of defense. When someone needs help, you're the person that cares and has the resources to do something about it."
He tells me about an accident that happened the other night. An eighteen-year-old German girl was visiting the States and got hit by a car.
"This poor girl was lying there in the middle of Las Vegas Boulevard and nobody stopped to help her."
Not only was the officer able to help, but he happened to speak German.
"I was able to talk to her, to let her know everything was alright and that there were people there to help her. Being able to tell her mother later that night that she was okay was part of what makes this job great."
"You have to sign my van."
Drive Safe.
Don't Speed.
It'll be there.
If not, it wasn't worth going.
I nod in appreciation, not only because the statement makes sense, but also because the man writing it is a gigantic cop.
I nod in appreciation, not only because the statement makes sense, but also because the man saying it is a gigantic cop.
I find it best not to disagree with gigantic cops.
It's late at night and I'm hanging out in a parking lot with my van doors open. I'm on the phone with projectmeaning.com's web designer (the incomparable Brian Rayman of XM WebDesign) talking about changes to the site. Halfway through our conversation, a police car pulls up alongside the van. The officer inside motions to me.
"I'm going to have to call you back. I think I'm about to get arrested."
The police officer is a giant man. I'm almost 6'5 and about 275 lbs. and he is definitely bigger than I am. Muscular with blonde hair trimmed army style, I'm happy to notice he is smiling.
"Just a friendly visit," he assures me.
My testicles drop back down.
The officer is just curious about my project. In fact, not only does he not arrest me, he actually engages me in a long, interesting conversation with topics spanning from war to religion to conspiracy theorists to schizophrenia and its effects on homelessness.
We talk about "affluenza," the sense of entitlement people feel and the suburbanites' need to spend beyond their means.
We talk about the effect gangster glorification has had on the streets, and about how the perception that it is "cool to kill people" has made his job much harder.
We talk about a lot of things you don't expect to talk about with an on-duty police officer and though he passes on speaking on camera (the force is very controlling about the image they present) it is nice to reaffirm that some cops are normal good guys who just want to protect and serve.
"The cool thing about being a police officer is you are often the only line of defense. When someone needs help, you're the person that cares and has the resources to do something about it."
He tells me about an accident that happened the other night. An eighteen-year-old German girl was visiting the States and got hit by a car.
"This poor girl was lying there in the middle of Las Vegas Boulevard and nobody stopped to help her."
Not only was the officer able to help, but he happened to speak German.
"I was able to talk to her, to let her know everything was alright and that there were people there to help her. Being able to tell her mother later that night that she was okay was part of what makes this job great."
"You have to sign my van."
Drive Safe.
Don't Speed.
It'll be there.
If not, it wasn't worth going.
I nod in appreciation, not only because the statement makes sense, but also because the man writing it is a gigantic cop.
Monday, August 4, 2008
A Love Story
"The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation."
-Henry David Thoreau
I had a long conversation last night with a friend I speak with far too seldom. As often happens when I talk with this friend, I left our conversation with a great deal to contemplate.
A few notes about said friend:
+ He is currently on a path that will most likely lead to material wealth and by most traditional societal standards significant success.
+ He is incredibly gifted intellectually. In most areas that count, he is smarter than I am. (At least mildly impressive, depending on who you ask).
+ He is a damned good guy with a sound moral structure and a huge capacity for good.
+ More often than not, he is miserable.
Like many intellectually gifted individuals with a huge capacity for good, he finds himself overcome by loneliness, even when surrounded by others. In his busy world, people just don't have the time to listen.
"Sometimes I just want someone to have a cup of coffee with," he confesses. "And I don't even like coffee. "
He is still torn up over a relationship that ended years ago.
That's the thing about love. It's damned powerful. Nothing else seems fully capable of causing the stir of emotions that love creates in even the most logical souls.
When you have it, nothing else matters. Or so I'm told.
Thing is, the power of love seems to work both ways. My friend thought he had met his soul mate. Instead, he was cast aside as soon as something "better" came along. He was cheated on, without remorse, and his ability to trust now seems irreparably harmed.
He refuses to consider the idea that he could ever love again, that he could ever open himself up to another woman.
"If it ever happened again, I don't think I would be able to live through it."
It is a statement delivered matter-of-factly, without a hint of melodrama, and it terrifies me.
Given the choice between a chance at future happiness with the risk of getting hurt again and a life lived without romance, he chooses the latter.
The optimist in me refuses to accept this, but the realist in me wonders if my friend is on to something. Is the human condition so doomed, so inevitably sad, that the real key to life lies with finding a route that minimizes the pain?
And then there's Michael Pardue.
Driving around in my van, I was struck by his story while listening to Howard Stern. Imprisoned for twenty-seven years in the prime of his life for a murder he was later proven innocent of, I was shocked as I listened to Pardue calmly explain the atrocities he was put through in prison. There was barely a hint of anger in his voice. Standing by his side the entire interview was his wife, Becky, a woman who spent most of her life dedicated to a man falsely imprisoned.
Despite all of the Hell he was put through, Pardue claims he wouldn't trade his life for anyone's.
He found his soul mate and that's all he needs.
If only my friend could be so lucky.
-Henry David Thoreau
I had a long conversation last night with a friend I speak with far too seldom. As often happens when I talk with this friend, I left our conversation with a great deal to contemplate.
A few notes about said friend:
+ He is currently on a path that will most likely lead to material wealth and by most traditional societal standards significant success.
+ He is incredibly gifted intellectually. In most areas that count, he is smarter than I am. (At least mildly impressive, depending on who you ask).
+ He is a damned good guy with a sound moral structure and a huge capacity for good.
+ More often than not, he is miserable.
Like many intellectually gifted individuals with a huge capacity for good, he finds himself overcome by loneliness, even when surrounded by others. In his busy world, people just don't have the time to listen.
"Sometimes I just want someone to have a cup of coffee with," he confesses. "And I don't even like coffee. "
He is still torn up over a relationship that ended years ago.
That's the thing about love. It's damned powerful. Nothing else seems fully capable of causing the stir of emotions that love creates in even the most logical souls.
When you have it, nothing else matters. Or so I'm told.
Thing is, the power of love seems to work both ways. My friend thought he had met his soul mate. Instead, he was cast aside as soon as something "better" came along. He was cheated on, without remorse, and his ability to trust now seems irreparably harmed.
He refuses to consider the idea that he could ever love again, that he could ever open himself up to another woman.
"If it ever happened again, I don't think I would be able to live through it."
It is a statement delivered matter-of-factly, without a hint of melodrama, and it terrifies me.
Given the choice between a chance at future happiness with the risk of getting hurt again and a life lived without romance, he chooses the latter.
The optimist in me refuses to accept this, but the realist in me wonders if my friend is on to something. Is the human condition so doomed, so inevitably sad, that the real key to life lies with finding a route that minimizes the pain?
And then there's Michael Pardue.
Driving around in my van, I was struck by his story while listening to Howard Stern. Imprisoned for twenty-seven years in the prime of his life for a murder he was later proven innocent of, I was shocked as I listened to Pardue calmly explain the atrocities he was put through in prison. There was barely a hint of anger in his voice. Standing by his side the entire interview was his wife, Becky, a woman who spent most of her life dedicated to a man falsely imprisoned.
Despite all of the Hell he was put through, Pardue claims he wouldn't trade his life for anyone's.
He found his soul mate and that's all he needs.
If only my friend could be so lucky.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
McScrewed
Capitalism in America has gotten a little out of control.
Now don't get me wrong. I see the virtue in life, liberty, and the pursuit of the American dream. I understand the important role capitalism has played in that dream. I was only eight when the Cold War ended, but rest assured I was sufficiently upset with the Communists for challenging our way of life and would have gladly hopped under the nearest desk for a nuclear drill had the opportunity ever presented itself.
But capitalism in America has gotten a little out of control.
I found myself in a McDonald's the other day (I'm not proud of it, but it happened) ordering a couple items from the dollar menu. Anticipating thirst, I asked for a cup of water to go with my purchase.
"That'll be an extra twenty seven cents," the clerk said matter-of-factly.
Really? For tap water? Is McDonald's experiencing a gigantic financial loss that can only be recouped by bleeding the consumer for every possible cent at the expense of common decency?
But I was pretty thirsty.
"Fine. But I hope you know I just died a little inside."
She didn't seem to care.
When my order came up, I spotted the cup I just paid for, but just barely, and only because I have excellent eyesight. My twenty seven cents had bought me a Dixie cup with golden arches. Literally, a Dixie cup. I would guess it could hold maybe four ounces.
Of tap water.
I asked for my twenty seven cents back, scarfed down my meal, and proceeded to head to the adjoining gas station to pay the attendant one hundred dollars in exchange for a nearly full tank of gas.
Now don't get me wrong. I see the virtue in life, liberty, and the pursuit of the American dream. I understand the important role capitalism has played in that dream. I was only eight when the Cold War ended, but rest assured I was sufficiently upset with the Communists for challenging our way of life and would have gladly hopped under the nearest desk for a nuclear drill had the opportunity ever presented itself.
But capitalism in America has gotten a little out of control.
I found myself in a McDonald's the other day (I'm not proud of it, but it happened) ordering a couple items from the dollar menu. Anticipating thirst, I asked for a cup of water to go with my purchase.
"That'll be an extra twenty seven cents," the clerk said matter-of-factly.
Really? For tap water? Is McDonald's experiencing a gigantic financial loss that can only be recouped by bleeding the consumer for every possible cent at the expense of common decency?
But I was pretty thirsty.
"Fine. But I hope you know I just died a little inside."
She didn't seem to care.
When my order came up, I spotted the cup I just paid for, but just barely, and only because I have excellent eyesight. My twenty seven cents had bought me a Dixie cup with golden arches. Literally, a Dixie cup. I would guess it could hold maybe four ounces.
Of tap water.
I asked for my twenty seven cents back, scarfed down my meal, and proceeded to head to the adjoining gas station to pay the attendant one hundred dollars in exchange for a nearly full tank of gas.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
I Live in a Van Down by the Walmart!
I now know what a hot pocket feels like.
Every morning I wake up feeling like I was just microwaved. That's one of the problems with living in a van...in the desert...during the summer.
I can't currently open my windows because the Walmart I am staying at (more on that in future posts) is about twenty feet from McCarran International Airport, and it turns out planes are relatively loud. There's a reason that those relaxing sounds CDs meant to make you fall asleep tend to include "running water" and "gentle breezes" more than "jet engines" and "landing gear."
I would go to a different Walmart, but this one is centrally located and in a relatively good neighborhood, a tough combination to find in Vegas. Plus, it comes with security, in the form of a small car with a flashing orange siren driven by various residents of the nearby retirement community. (I've had a couple conversations with Doug, an affable security guard who informs me most of his coworkers actually do "remember the Alamo.") These guards circle the parking lot over and over again for hours on end, spraying the surrounding area with a charming neon glow that I now describe as "homey."
Still, it definitely beats the Pilot Travel Center I parked at for my first week on the road. It was busy 24 hours a day and had a sign lighting structure eerily reminiscent of Times Square. It also offered showers for a low low price of ten dollars which, judging by the look of the showers, did not cover the cleaning expenses. I chose instead to opt for a coin-operated water machine and a good old-fashioned bucket.
There are some good things about living in the van, which include (but are not limited to):
1. During the day, I am forced to leave my doors open to take advantage of the breeze (and by this I mean 115 degree gusts of hot air), and it results in meeting a lot of interesting individuals. I find these interactions generally involve some sort of financial transaction. Sometimes the person I talk to feels inspired by my search for meaning (and by this I mean "sorry for me") and generously slips me some money for gas. Other times, I find myself giving others money, mainly because they ask and I'm not particularly adept at saying no. Actually, one guy saw me working on my laptop in the van and, despite my insistence that I am one step removed from "computer illiterate," I am currently awaiting a call from his mother so that I can provide her with computer support.
2. Being microwaved is good for my tan. I occasionally get sunburned (to the point of blisters once), but I'm pretty sure a "healthy glow" is in my near future. To borrow a line from my favorite Ithaca business establishment, that's "Tanfastic!"
3. The van keeps giving me inspirations for new games. My current favorite is a drinking game called "How many times can you hit your head?" Here's how to play:
Step One: Grow to be 6 feet 4 inches tall.
Step Two: Live in a van.
Step Three: Discover new and inventive ways to hit your head.
Every time you hit your head, drink. If you hit your head on the same part of the van twice in one day, drink double. If you hit your head hard enough to cause "blunt force trauma," drink until the pain goes away.
Every morning I wake up feeling like I was just microwaved. That's one of the problems with living in a van...in the desert...during the summer.
I can't currently open my windows because the Walmart I am staying at (more on that in future posts) is about twenty feet from McCarran International Airport, and it turns out planes are relatively loud. There's a reason that those relaxing sounds CDs meant to make you fall asleep tend to include "running water" and "gentle breezes" more than "jet engines" and "landing gear."
I would go to a different Walmart, but this one is centrally located and in a relatively good neighborhood, a tough combination to find in Vegas. Plus, it comes with security, in the form of a small car with a flashing orange siren driven by various residents of the nearby retirement community. (I've had a couple conversations with Doug, an affable security guard who informs me most of his coworkers actually do "remember the Alamo.") These guards circle the parking lot over and over again for hours on end, spraying the surrounding area with a charming neon glow that I now describe as "homey."
Still, it definitely beats the Pilot Travel Center I parked at for my first week on the road. It was busy 24 hours a day and had a sign lighting structure eerily reminiscent of Times Square. It also offered showers for a low low price of ten dollars which, judging by the look of the showers, did not cover the cleaning expenses. I chose instead to opt for a coin-operated water machine and a good old-fashioned bucket.
There are some good things about living in the van, which include (but are not limited to):
1. During the day, I am forced to leave my doors open to take advantage of the breeze (and by this I mean 115 degree gusts of hot air), and it results in meeting a lot of interesting individuals. I find these interactions generally involve some sort of financial transaction. Sometimes the person I talk to feels inspired by my search for meaning (and by this I mean "sorry for me") and generously slips me some money for gas. Other times, I find myself giving others money, mainly because they ask and I'm not particularly adept at saying no. Actually, one guy saw me working on my laptop in the van and, despite my insistence that I am one step removed from "computer illiterate," I am currently awaiting a call from his mother so that I can provide her with computer support.
2. Being microwaved is good for my tan. I occasionally get sunburned (to the point of blisters once), but I'm pretty sure a "healthy glow" is in my near future. To borrow a line from my favorite Ithaca business establishment, that's "Tanfastic!"
3. The van keeps giving me inspirations for new games. My current favorite is a drinking game called "How many times can you hit your head?" Here's how to play:
Step One: Grow to be 6 feet 4 inches tall.
Step Two: Live in a van.
Step Three: Discover new and inventive ways to hit your head.
Every time you hit your head, drink. If you hit your head on the same part of the van twice in one day, drink double. If you hit your head hard enough to cause "blunt force trauma," drink until the pain goes away.
Friday, August 1, 2008
Not a Slot Machine in Sight
There's no showgirls.
Carrot Top does not perform there every night.
You have to bring your own buffet.
But Mt. Charleston, a scenic tree-laden giant hiding about forty miles west of Las Vegas, seems as likely a spot as any in Southern Nevada to provide the type of insight I am looking for. So I fill my van's gas tank to the the brim and head to the top of the mountain. When I get to the first open campsite, I hop out of my vanpartment and grab an envelope to pay for an overnight stay.
My spirits high and my worries few, I hop back into my vandominium, toss the keys in the ignition, and...nothing.
No worries. My vandormitory was made in 1992, so sometimes it takes a second to start up. I turn the keys again. Still nothing. I pop the hood and check the gauges. Everything seems to be in working order. You know, except for the whole "turning on" thing.
Having your mode of transportation break down is never a fun experience, but it is particularly disheartening when you're stuck at the top of a mountain, miles away from civilization, and that vehicle happens to double as your home... and triple as your job.
It also doesn't help that I had to replace the radiator and water pump the second day of my project. I would drive a few miles, park, then look down to see a massive amount of green ooze (coolant) pouring down from the engine to the asphalt below. It looked like a member of the mob had used my GMC Vandura to perform a particularly inventive "hit" on Slimer from the Ghostbusters.
I wander around the campsite, searching for help, meanwhile pondering just how expensive emergency roadside assistance would cost at 7000 feet, and I begin to worry; I had already become attached to the idea of not being contractually obligated to name my first born child "Geico."
The site manager doesn't seem to be home, so I head back to my vantel and wait for the next car to come by. The driver obliges with a jump start, but the battery is not the problem. Dismayed, I head back up to the site manager's pop-up trailer to wait for him and see if he has a phone. When I get there, I notice I shadowy figure at the back of the trailer.
"Hey. My car broke down at your entrance. I was..."
"Yeah. I saw you. I was gonna say something, but you know..." the shadowy figure motions to his belly. "I just ate." He burps. "A real big meal."
Eccentricities aside, the manager is helpful in solving my problem. The issue was just a gas vapor issue that often occurs going from a hot, low elevation to a colder, high point. After leaving the gas cap off for half an hour, my vanplex mercifully starts. Exhausted from worry, I shut down for the night and wait to start anew the next day.
When I wake up the next morning, I am refreshed, excited to use an actual shower. (I had been keeping hygienic through what I call "hobo showers," which I will leave to your imagination, because it's more fun that way). On my way to the bathroom, I pass a site occupied by a few college-aged kids who seem to be having a significantly better time than I. After getting clean, I approach them, hoping to get a video interview for projectmeaning.com.
Though they are at first hesitant, they eventually agree to a group interview when they find out they get to sign my van...(vanhome? vanwam? vangloo? Screw it, I'm going with vangloo). My vangloo.
The group includes:
DJ, an impossibly skinny extrovert with a peculiar style all his own.
( "Sometimes, we're not sure if DJ is absolutely brilliant, or maybe just a little retarded." )
Ryan, a talented guitarist with a trademark mop of curly blonde hair.
Jenelle, a cheery soul with a big smile and a warm presence.
Jenelle's boyfriend, Brandon, a smooth skater type with a tank-top and an ever-present ball cap.
Will, an average-looking guy with a unique ability to make everyone around him feel at ease.
Jenny, a quiet girl with a genuine calm about her.
And Jenny's boyfriend, Jason, a giant man with a giant personality (and a talented guitarist in his own right).
They have gathered up in the mountains to celebrate Jason's 23rd birthday. They will later be joined by Will’s girlfriend Sunny (“I’m Sunny, like my personality!”), Ron, a silently intense young man struggling through some hard times, and Kehau, a larger-than-life rapper with an amazing ability to freestyle. Brandon describes Kehau as “An amazing guy. I love that dude, but sometimes I get the feeling he really wants to kick my ass.”
As I set up my camera, I notice DJ frantically searching through supplies, a look of sheer panic on his face.
"Toilet paper. Toilet paper. Where's the toilet paper?!!!"
After almost a minute, he finally locates his prize and dashes into the woods.
The group wants to wait for another friend before starting the interview, so I head to the next site over to talk to a middle aged couple. Robert, who could most certainly at this point get work as the "before" actor in a Visine commercial, is eager to get his thoughts on film, but his wife Dyana is slightly more hesitant.
"Can I show my boobs on camera?" she asks. "I only wanna do it if I can show my boobs."
"You're more than welcome to," I respond, "but that part's probably not getting past the cutting room floor."
"Oh."
"Plus, I'm going to be honest. As much as I try to model my business practices after Girls Gone Wild, I don't have any t-shirts to give you."
"Oh. Well screw that then."
The couple is funny and engaging in their interview, and I thank them as I head back to the college-aged kids. When I get there, I find DJ walking back from the woods, awkwardly rocking back and forth. As he approaches, it becomes increasingly clear that he has defecated in his pants.
"You shit your pants, didn't you?" Jason remarks, laughing.
"Yeah I did."
"Good thing you brought underwear this time."
There is something oddly endearing about a group that regards such a humiliating moment with casual indifference. Sure, DJ is met with plenty of light-hearted jokes, but I witness nothing but acceptance among his friends after the incident. It made me a little jealous of the guy who just messed himself. That's an accomplishment.
The group of friends immediately warms up to the camera, and supplies me with an honest, warm, and genuine discussion about some of life's biggest issues. It becomes clear that most of them have led very difficult lives, but that they have come out of it for the better. I am pleasantly surprised by their willingness to take me in as one of their own.
Their group dynamic is impressive. There is an effortless comfort and mutual respect that manifests itself in an almost magical calm. As they sit around the campfire, playing songs on their guitars, laughing, and shooting the breeze, I sit back and try to enjoy the moment through them.
It is one of those moments that may not seem extraordinary at the time, but that sticks in your mind for eternity. As if for that brief period of time, up in the mountains of Southern Nevada, life just stood still.
The perfect blend of youth, friendship, and hope.
A winning moment.
And not a slot machine in sight.
Editor's Note: Video footage and interviews from my Mt. Charleston excursion should be available at projectmeaning.com in the coming days.
Carrot Top does not perform there every night.
You have to bring your own buffet.
But Mt. Charleston, a scenic tree-laden giant hiding about forty miles west of Las Vegas, seems as likely a spot as any in Southern Nevada to provide the type of insight I am looking for. So I fill my van's gas tank to the the brim and head to the top of the mountain. When I get to the first open campsite, I hop out of my vanpartment and grab an envelope to pay for an overnight stay.
My spirits high and my worries few, I hop back into my vandominium, toss the keys in the ignition, and...nothing.
No worries. My vandormitory was made in 1992, so sometimes it takes a second to start up. I turn the keys again. Still nothing. I pop the hood and check the gauges. Everything seems to be in working order. You know, except for the whole "turning on" thing.
Having your mode of transportation break down is never a fun experience, but it is particularly disheartening when you're stuck at the top of a mountain, miles away from civilization, and that vehicle happens to double as your home... and triple as your job.
It also doesn't help that I had to replace the radiator and water pump the second day of my project. I would drive a few miles, park, then look down to see a massive amount of green ooze (coolant) pouring down from the engine to the asphalt below. It looked like a member of the mob had used my GMC Vandura to perform a particularly inventive "hit" on Slimer from the Ghostbusters.
I wander around the campsite, searching for help, meanwhile pondering just how expensive emergency roadside assistance would cost at 7000 feet, and I begin to worry; I had already become attached to the idea of not being contractually obligated to name my first born child "Geico."
The site manager doesn't seem to be home, so I head back to my vantel and wait for the next car to come by. The driver obliges with a jump start, but the battery is not the problem. Dismayed, I head back up to the site manager's pop-up trailer to wait for him and see if he has a phone. When I get there, I notice I shadowy figure at the back of the trailer.
"Hey. My car broke down at your entrance. I was..."
"Yeah. I saw you. I was gonna say something, but you know..." the shadowy figure motions to his belly. "I just ate." He burps. "A real big meal."
Eccentricities aside, the manager is helpful in solving my problem. The issue was just a gas vapor issue that often occurs going from a hot, low elevation to a colder, high point. After leaving the gas cap off for half an hour, my vanplex mercifully starts. Exhausted from worry, I shut down for the night and wait to start anew the next day.
When I wake up the next morning, I am refreshed, excited to use an actual shower. (I had been keeping hygienic through what I call "hobo showers," which I will leave to your imagination, because it's more fun that way). On my way to the bathroom, I pass a site occupied by a few college-aged kids who seem to be having a significantly better time than I. After getting clean, I approach them, hoping to get a video interview for projectmeaning.com.
Though they are at first hesitant, they eventually agree to a group interview when they find out they get to sign my van...(vanhome? vanwam? vangloo? Screw it, I'm going with vangloo). My vangloo.
The group includes:
DJ, an impossibly skinny extrovert with a peculiar style all his own.
( "Sometimes, we're not sure if DJ is absolutely brilliant, or maybe just a little retarded." )
Ryan, a talented guitarist with a trademark mop of curly blonde hair.
Jenelle, a cheery soul with a big smile and a warm presence.
Jenelle's boyfriend, Brandon, a smooth skater type with a tank-top and an ever-present ball cap.
Will, an average-looking guy with a unique ability to make everyone around him feel at ease.
Jenny, a quiet girl with a genuine calm about her.
And Jenny's boyfriend, Jason, a giant man with a giant personality (and a talented guitarist in his own right).
They have gathered up in the mountains to celebrate Jason's 23rd birthday. They will later be joined by Will’s girlfriend Sunny (“I’m Sunny, like my personality!”), Ron, a silently intense young man struggling through some hard times, and Kehau, a larger-than-life rapper with an amazing ability to freestyle. Brandon describes Kehau as “An amazing guy. I love that dude, but sometimes I get the feeling he really wants to kick my ass.”
As I set up my camera, I notice DJ frantically searching through supplies, a look of sheer panic on his face.
"Toilet paper. Toilet paper. Where's the toilet paper?!!!"
After almost a minute, he finally locates his prize and dashes into the woods.
The group wants to wait for another friend before starting the interview, so I head to the next site over to talk to a middle aged couple. Robert, who could most certainly at this point get work as the "before" actor in a Visine commercial, is eager to get his thoughts on film, but his wife Dyana is slightly more hesitant.
"Can I show my boobs on camera?" she asks. "I only wanna do it if I can show my boobs."
"You're more than welcome to," I respond, "but that part's probably not getting past the cutting room floor."
"Oh."
"Plus, I'm going to be honest. As much as I try to model my business practices after Girls Gone Wild, I don't have any t-shirts to give you."
"Oh. Well screw that then."
The couple is funny and engaging in their interview, and I thank them as I head back to the college-aged kids. When I get there, I find DJ walking back from the woods, awkwardly rocking back and forth. As he approaches, it becomes increasingly clear that he has defecated in his pants.
"You shit your pants, didn't you?" Jason remarks, laughing.
"Yeah I did."
"Good thing you brought underwear this time."
There is something oddly endearing about a group that regards such a humiliating moment with casual indifference. Sure, DJ is met with plenty of light-hearted jokes, but I witness nothing but acceptance among his friends after the incident. It made me a little jealous of the guy who just messed himself. That's an accomplishment.
The group of friends immediately warms up to the camera, and supplies me with an honest, warm, and genuine discussion about some of life's biggest issues. It becomes clear that most of them have led very difficult lives, but that they have come out of it for the better. I am pleasantly surprised by their willingness to take me in as one of their own.
Their group dynamic is impressive. There is an effortless comfort and mutual respect that manifests itself in an almost magical calm. As they sit around the campfire, playing songs on their guitars, laughing, and shooting the breeze, I sit back and try to enjoy the moment through them.
It is one of those moments that may not seem extraordinary at the time, but that sticks in your mind for eternity. As if for that brief period of time, up in the mountains of Southern Nevada, life just stood still.
The perfect blend of youth, friendship, and hope.
A winning moment.
And not a slot machine in sight.
Editor's Note: Video footage and interviews from my Mt. Charleston excursion should be available at projectmeaning.com in the coming days.
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