You Should See Me Play Mega Man 3

My cousin Jeff and his wife Tamra have fashioned themselves a pretty fantastic life.

They have a perfect home (see below) in the perfect location (five miles from the Space Needle, right on a lake) that houses two gifted kids and two pleasantly odd dogs.

Tamra owns her own consulting business and Jeff plays in a band that is good enough to get consistent paying gigs. He also cooks, and it not only tastes delicious, it is perfectly healthy. During dinner I enjoy a carrot for the first time in my life. To be clear, I've had many carrots, but this time Bugs Bunny started to make more sense. It was, well, the perfect carrot.

Ivy, 13, and Wilson, 8, seem to agree, as they both eat their vegetables. The reward is a delicious berry sorbet that the kids made themselves. After dinner, Jeff convinces Ivy to play some music on the living room piano. Ivy is getting over a cold, so she is hesitant to sing, but after some prodding, she agrees to play an original composition.

I'm nervous about having to lie about enjoying Ivy's song, despite her assurances that two friends at school have respectfully labeled her a "musical genius" and "capable of selling records." I've heard that on many an American Idol audition, and it never pans out.

Only when Ivy starts to play her song, I am pleasantly surprised. Ivy's melodies belie her age and her singing is uniquely beautiful. What an incredibly talented kid, and she did it despite having a gene pool similar to mine. After playing a song far better than anything I could possibly imagine creating, young Ivy goes upstairs to do her homework. Tomorrow, she will awake to this view outside her house:

Wilson goes downstairs to play video games, and I soon follow, hoping to boost my ego by out dueling the eight-year-old in a game of Mega Man 2. Though I narrowly edge Wilson out, thus proving that my skills are at the very least a 4th grade level, Wilson takes it in stride.


He pets one of the oddest looking animals I have ever encountered, a Scottie Poodle mix I immediately wish to adopt, then goes upstairs to have his normal bedtime snack...an apple.

"Sometimes I'm convinced that we're raising our kids to be yuppies," Jeff admits jokingly.

It's the kind of joke made only by a parent who is quietly confident he is helping to raise some pretty great kids.

And Jeff and Tamra certainly are raising some great kids.

The Best Job in the World...Except Maybe Astronaut

Michelle, a friend from college, now resides in the small town of Yelm, Washington. She has recently been relocated from Fairbanks, Alaska, the spot the army last chose for her husband Matt.

I make it a point to stop by Yelm, conveniently located between Portland and Seattle, to catch up with Michelle and her adorable two-year-old son, C.J. With a constant grin and bright blonde hair, C.J. is filled with energy throughout lunch, past his nap, and into the afternoon. Frankly, he leaves me contemplating the merits of a daily nap time for myself.

"Did you know that I'm the only Park Scholar with a kid?" a recently pregnant Michelle points out. "I'll have two children before anyone else has one."

Michelle and I both went to Ithaca College, in part, because we were awarded Park Scholarships, which basically meant we got to go to school for free. This was a result of, among other things, a shared inherent need to overachieve. A certain type of person gets the Park Scholarship, which awards high school students with high GPAs, high test scores, and a ridiculous amount of extracurricular involvement and community service.

I find it interesting that out of nearly 100 overachievers who have gotten the scholarship since its start in 1996, Michelle is the only one with a child. By Michelle's count, less than ten of them are married or engaged, and that includes two couples where the bride and groom are both Park Scholars.

Michelle is concentrating on being a full-time mother, and it took her a while to get over her self-imposed guilt of staying at home with C.J. She finally decided it was what she really wanted after Matt offered some particularly supportive advice, encouraging her to do what she really wanted, not what others expected of her.

"It's like I feel the need to justify all of the money they gave me. I know it's not the case, but I don't want them to look at me and think, 'why did we give her all that money for school so she could just go home and be with her child?"

All of twenty-six years old, Michelle has graduated from college, worked various journalism jobs, been a successful columnist, public speaker and army wife, written and published a book, and appeared on both CNN and Fox News for her work. Most importantly, she is an excellent mother.

And she remains an overachiever. In the few hours of my visit, Michelle deals with a lost favorite toy, grumpy snack time, and two potty accidents of varying origin. She also completes a craigslist transaction by selling C.J.'s used baby blankets.

Her son seems to be on the right track himself.

C.J. is barely old enough to talk, but he already has better manners than I do. Michelle has him saying his "pleases" and "thank yous" and eating his vegetables. When it comes time to clean up, C.J. happily travels across the house and even into the backyard to put his toys away immediately.

Michelle loves being a mother, and she looks forward to starting the process over again in a few months. She is so excited about child number two that I can't help but be excited too. After all, the world can always use another overachiever.

Number 81

Take nothing for granted. Life is fragile.

Sunday is my day to watch football. Even during this project, I make sure to set up early at Starbucks and watch the Arizona Cardinals play on my laptop. This has been the source of a lot of frustration, because I tend to take sports too seriously. Watching the New York Jets dominate the Cardinals to take a 34-0 halftime lead put me in a bad mood.

But at least I have my fantasy football team. I got into fantasy football a few years ago as a way to enjoy watching football when the Cardinals aren't very good, which is always. Despite the Cardinals being down three touchdowns with less than a minute to go, my favorite Cardinal, Anquan Boldin, had played well and helped my fantasy team to a monumental lead over my best friend and arch rival.

So, as is fantasy sports etiquette, I called to brag about my big lead. Only my bragging was stopped short as my friend and I simultaneously witnessed a horrifying scene that made football seem completely unimportant. Boldin, while going for a late touchdown grab, was hit by a helmet to helmet blow and was lying motionless on the field.

I have since read updates from the Cardinal's head coach that Boldin was talking afterwards and can move all extremities, but it remains a jarring reminder of just how little we can take for granted in life.

All it takes is one moment and suddenly everything can change.

Hopefully, nothing has changed for Anquan Boldin.

Wow...Just Wow

The Walmart I currently call home provides motorized courtesy carts to make shopping easier for the elderly and physically handicapped. It is a much needed service at this particular location, which is constantly crowded. Every time I enter I see various people in need using the motorized shopping carts to aid them in traversing the giant store.

One night, I head to the front of the store to grab ice, but quickly realize that a woman in one of the motorized carts is looking to pass by.

"After you," I insist.

"Oh, that's okay," she responds pleasantly. "I'm having trouble getting this thing to move. I think it's out of battery power."

"Would you like me to get you another one?"

"That would be a big help. Thank you."

I rush to the front of the store where the courtesy carts are stationed. One has a sign saying it is out of order, so I head to the other one, which is plugged into the wall. After unplugging it and awkwardly trying to get it started, I determine that it is also broken, so I approach the Walmart greeter.

"Yeah," he says casually, "we have a couple that don't work so good, and that's one of em."

"Do you have any others?"

He looks around for a second before spotting one outside. A man in his early twenties is sitting on it.

"You using that?" the greeter asks.

The man smiles, then contorts his face and twists his head to the side, doing his best to imitate a mentally handicapped person. He then laughs and looks expectantly at the security guard and myself.

Neither of us find this remotely amusing.

"Naw, I was just fooling around."

"Well someone who actually needs it doesn't have one right now," the security guard says abruptly.

The man looks embarrassed and apologizes immediately.

"Sorry bro."

I shake my head.

What a stupid, stupid man.

No, that's not fair. What a stupid, stupid action. We all make mistakes, however boneheaded. At least he looks genuinely remorseful. I bet he won't be caught dead on one of these again.

Unfortunately, the carts only work when sat upon, so I have to ride it to deliver it to the woman inside. Still disgusted by the man's actions, this makes me feel very self-conscious. I get over it when the woman in the cart looks relieved to see me.

"Thank you so much! That's a huge help."

"No problem," I say, heading back to grab my ice.

An hour later, I reenter the Walmart to use the restroom and am shocked to see the same guy sitting outside, fooling around in another motorized cart.

What a stupid, stupid man.

WaMu Goes KaPut

Among the least satisfying things to wake up to in the morning:

+ A horse head in your bed.

+ The musical stylings of Wham.

+ A hungover Bruce Vilanch.

+ Numerous newspapers with giant headlines indicating that the bank you keep all of your money in has, well, run out of money.

Fortunately, Washington Mutual was purchased by JPMorgan Chase, so I didn't lose all the money I have to my name. All checking and savings deposits up to $100,000 are insured by the Federal Deposit Insurance Corp, and though I'll have to check, I'm pretty sure I just squeezed in under the cut-off.

My day soon got better as a really nice woman and mother of three named Carolyn waved to me as I parked at Starbucks. Turns out, she had read this blog and wanted to sign the van. She then proceeded to exit the coffee chain with espressos in tow, wishing me luck.

A barista soon followed with news that Carolyn had paid for a Starbucks drink of my choice which, if my calculations are correct, is worth slightly more than all of the money I have in the bank.

This act of kindness reassured me that as long as our country is filled with good caring people (or as John McCain likes to call them, "the fundamentals of our economy") everything is going to be fine for the good old US of A.

Still, I am looking pretty smart right now for not owning a house.

The Piddle Shuffle

Remember the pee pee dance?

You know, the pee pee dance. I'm not sure if this is the universal name (others may have called it the potty trot, the piss twist, or the urine jig) for when children shuffle back and forth nervously, but it certainly is a universal sign all children instinctively give to alert their parents of the need to find a toilet immediately.

This is something we all grow out of as soon as we are old enough to master the art of using the toilet effectively. Unfortunately, many towns across America close their stores early, and with them close my access to bathrooms.

When I find myself parked outside of a Walmart that is not open 24 hours, I often wake up doing the pee pee dance.

This is really my only complaint about living in a van.

I have gotten really comfortable with the day to day aspects of living in my vehicle. Almost too comfortable. The following are signs that I might be going insane and must return to a normal existence as soon as possible:

+ I now enjoy eating in my van. When ordering out at the beginning of this project, I always ate meals in the dining room of whatever restaurant I ordered from. As nice as Taco Bell's decor is, I now find myself more often than not ordering food to go and then eating in my van. I am almost certain this is weird.

+ I look forward to evening television in my living room. Many nights, I set up my laptop on my wash bucket (which doubles as my finest coffee table and entertainment center), plug in to my power inverter, and use the Slingbox I got for my birthday to watch television. These technological advancements have caused me to become surprisingly domestic.

+ The makeshift bed at the back of my van has become so familiar that I consider it to be "my bed." When visiting relatives, I sleep in some really nice guest rooms with luxurious mattresses, but almost never sleep as well as I do in my van. I get a good night's sleep every night, despite the fact that I generally am sleeping under the fluorescent glow of store signs with all sorts of noises penetrating the van's thin walls.

+ I'm sure my lifestyle presents a certain level of danger, especially considering not every place I stop is a good neighborhood, but I always sleep with the doors unlocked.

This is certainly stupid behavior, but I don't see myself correcting the problem anytime soon. It's a stubborn old man thing, like not going to the doctor when I'm sick or injured. Of course, that's also because I don't have health insurance, which, come to think of it, is another compelling argument for locking my doors at night.

When it comes down to it, I like not locking my doors at night, even if it may not be the safest choice.

Too many of us are scared to live because we are so busy living scared.

(Another decisive philosophical stance from yours truly, the man who started today's blog commenting on the pee pee dance. You're welcome. Be sure to check in tomorrow for a blog where I transition from the proper use of a whoopee cushion to a scathing analysis on America's financial crisis.)

Michael Corleone in Reverse

"I was sitting in the car, waiting for him to come back, and when he does, he's holding a bloody screwdriver. He killed the guy, and when I ask him why, all he says is, 'he still owed me fifty bucks.' I just shut my mouth and drove."

This is not a story I expect to hear when I am approached by an LA Fitness employee in a Portland area parking lot. But Juan, a clean cut Latino in his early thirties, is not your average gym employee.

Juan used to be a gangster. Not a graffiti-gang-signs-on-a-neighborhood-fence kind of gangster. Juan was a the-gun-is-hidden-in-the-bathroom-stall kind of gangster. As a teenager growing up in Long Beach amidst the mainstream arrival of NWA, Juan had it all.

He was living in lavish mansions, riding around in limousines, and enjoying the attention of a constant stream of beautiful women. Now, he is talking to me in a shopping center parking lot, wearing an LA Fitness employee polo shirt and holding a pad of trial membership coupons.

Still, Juan claims he is just now developing an appreciation for life.

"Prayer. It's all about prayer. That can do some amazing things for you."

Juan found God, and it has completely turned his life around. He no longer lives in mansions, he has no need for limos, and he is currently taking a vow of abstinence.

Sound like a bad deal? Juan disagrees.

"One day, I looked around and realized that all my friends were dying or going to jail."

Now, Juan is living a sustainable lifestyle that involves greater benefits than material wealth and meaningless flings. And more importantly, he's still around to enjoy them.

It wasn't easy. Juan gave up his sins to join a church, then was unceremoniously dropped from the congregation when he relapsed in a life-long battle with alcohol addiction. Fortunately, Juan's allegiance was to God, not to organized religion, and he was able to make it through.

Now he is free to concentrate on maintaining a healthy lifestyle, helping the children in his community, and making sure that the only screwdrivers he sees are used for household handiwork.

My Van Gets More Ink Done

It's time for another installment of "Sharpie Wisdom!" As always, these are real signatures from real people on my real van. It's all really...real. Really.

(I was originally going to delete that introduction, but then decided to leave it as a shining example of why I have never signed the van myself.)

My cousin Jaime found a fantastic quote from Albert Einstein. It's actually remarkably relevant to the project. You know, except that Einstein was discussing the process of formulating his theory of relativity, and I live in a van.


Reading this sentence is the meaning of life.


Did I just blow your mind? Kyle may have gotten married at Burning Man, but she was easily among the coolest people there.







The symbols Spots drew under his signature mean anarchy, peace, equality, and hobo rights.

I tried using this quote at Starbucks, but they still charged me four dollars for that latte.





Lora hitchhiked from Burning Man in Nevada all the way to Oregon so her boyfriend could pick up his passport in order to hitchhike to Mexico. Before I could mention the modern marvel that is the postal service, my van got a flat tire.

Lora commemorated the event appropriately.






When I got into Sacramento, a car of college age kids asked me to pull over so they could check out my van. They claimed to want to interview me for a fledgling magazine they were starting, but I never heard back from them again. Still, I really liked this message. It oddly made me want to attempt near suicide.

You know, in a good way.



I actually never met Edgar, but apparently he felt it was important to document his presence, and who am I to argue with someone who was so excited to be up?

Until next time,

Septemberfest Just Doesn't Have the Same Ring to It

Portland is a beautiful city. Driving into the heart of the town is highly recommended if you should ever find yourself in the Pacific Northwest. The Willamette River runs right through downtown Portland and provides the perfect backdrop for the industrial feel permeating the heart of the city.

Portland is very difficult to drive through because the entire time I am driving I find myself wanting to sneak a peek at the river and the impressive skyline and the various bridges spanning the area. It is the hardest city to drive through since St. Louis, although the only arches to be found in Portland are golden, representing not a passage to the West, but rather a blocked passage in your artery.

Speaking of eating yourself to an early death, (mental note to self: work on your transitions) I decide to head to the nearby small town of Mt. Angel for their annual Oktoberfest. This is an event where a bunch of Americans get together to celebrate German heritage by trying to emulate the sixteen day festival held each year in Munich.

The festival originally started in Mt. Angel when the town officials decided that the world would be a better place (a perfect society, if you will) if everything was more German.

(Look, I'm not above Nazi jokes. Do I wish I was above Nazi jokes? Sure. But it's important to know your limitations. Just ask the Third Reich... Damnit. Did it again. I blame Burning Man.)

These are the highlights of the Mt. Angel version of Oktoberfest, which of course ended before October:

+ the highest per capita collection of wiener dogs in the Western Hemisphere. If Paris Hilton had attended, I am certain she would have accessorized with a dachshund in her purse.

+ a veritable smörgåsbord of unhealthy food. Fried twinkies, curly fries, and various forms of giant sausages are displayed prominently, but pretty much anything heart attack friendly is available for a reasonable price (assuming you have good health insurance).

+ booze. Lots and lots of booze. The festival offers a festival pass into various "gartens" for a nominal fee. This basically means the ability to buy alcohol and to watch various German musical acts ranging from yodelers to polka performers.

There are two inevitable strategies for maximizing a "garten's" potential:

1) Consume an unhealthy amount of alcohol, then take in the German musical acts.

2) Take in the German musical acts, then consume an unhealthy amount of alcohol.

Remember, the Germans are famous for their affections for David Hasselhoff, pop star, so I highly recommend strategy #1 over strategy #2.

Either way, make sure to survey the ground for wiener dogs as you stumble home. I'm pretty sure dachshunds are bred for tripping drunk people.

And if not, they should be.

Hey, at least I didn't make another Nazi joke.

The Winner, By Way of Technical Knockout

Ask anyone who knows him, and you will hear that nobody tells stories like my great uncle Ray.

Unless, of course, you were to ask my great aunt Lavetta.

She is constantly correcting Ray, and vice versa, as they share with me the veritable encyclopedia of information they have gathered throughout their travels. They have been traveling in various RVs for decades, often as "full-timers."

The couple has been to every state in the Union except for Vermont. They claim this is due to a lack of interstates in Vermont, but I think they might just hate maple syrup.

Ray and Lavetta currently live in Salem, Oregon and I have a great time visiting them. Not only do they offer a wealth of stories, but they are always good for a new card game nobody else has ever heard of or an old classic game like Zonk or Whist.

I always enjoy playing cards with family. It gives me a chance to abandon my normal polite form and talk trash like it was my job to hurt people's feelings. I learned this tactic from my grandmother, Leola, who despite being the daughter of a minister and the kindest person I've ever had the privilege to know, always managed to turn into a ruthless card shark when it was time for a game and remained so well into her nineties. She is 96 now and, though she doesn't play cards any more, she still gives me a look every now and then that clearly says, "Think you could take me in a game of hand and foot? I'd like to see you try without crying like a little girl."

I also enjoy my visit because Ray has amassed quite the impressive garden and Lavetta makes pies, jams, and jarred vegetables that would make Wolfgang Puck jealous. In my two and a half day visit, I gain somewhere between two and three hundred pounds. Unfortunately, I am not the only one who enjoys Lavetta's food.

I am currently transporting six jars of green beans and jams in my crowded vandominium for the next two months because I was threatened with physical harm if I didn't bring Lavetta's food through Arizona for my aunt Dana.

Dana has severe back problems and may not weigh over a hundred pounds soaking wet, but the family consensus is that if a fight broke out in regards to Lavetta's green beans, Dana "could take me."

"Easily."

Pirates, Careers in Fast Food, and The Fall of Rome

Some random unoriginal thoughts from a cold wet day in Washington:

+ Today I walked into a Walmart restroom and a man was standing at a urinal, yelling obscenities out loud to nobody in particular. This did not remotely faze me.

+ Yesterday was International Talk Like a Pirate Day. I have two things to say about this:

1) If you have a Facebook.com profile, I highly recommend going to the "Settings" tab at the top of the page and changing the "Language" to English (Pirate). Unless you are significantly cooler than I am (and I apologize if you are not) this will be the highlight of your day.

2) A belated Happy International Talk Like a Pirate Day, me mateys! May your voyages be full of booty and your future pillages be free from scurvy!

+ I grabbed lunch at a Jack in the Box the other day and happened to sit down right next to a Jack in the Box employee being interviewed for a promotion to assistant manager.

"Where do you see yourself in five years?"

"Here."

"Here? Really?" (Even the Jack in the Box corporate suit found this answer odd.) "Why are you so interested in working here?"

"Because it isn't going anywhere. It's a place I should always be able to rely on for steady work."

At first this answer struck me as sad. But the more I think about it, the more sense it makes.

+ Among the stupidest things I've ever uttered to another human being:

* "There's no way the Arizona Cardinals don't make the playoffs this year."

* "That Justin Timberlake sure is talented."

* "You know what's weird? I've been in Oregon and Washington for a couple of weeks now and it hasn't rained once. I guess I just lucked out."

+ Shouldn't we as a country be more horrified by modern times than we are?

The Baby Boomers had Vietnam and the assassinations of JFK and MLK Jr. Their parents had World War II and The Great Depression. Generations X,Y, and Z have had more than our share of turmoil, but it hasn't seemed to have the same effect.

We're so inundated with pop culture, dumbed down 24 hour news networks, and product endorsements (with bright shiny objects like the internet constantly stealing our attention) that it is incredibly easy to ignore or underestimate the impact of the devastating hurricanes, collapsing financial institutions, and increasing poverty plaguing our country.

Sometimes I think that the only thing saving us from our loss of innocence is our ignorance.

What's So Great About the Danes?

Oregon is an easy state to travel in. I have family littered throughout the state, which means I am able to eat for free, shower regularly, and sleep inside.

Oh yeah, and I get to see family.

After visiting Uncle Bill and Aunt Ona Lee, I decide to make a brief detour to Bend, Oregon to see my cousin Jaime and his wife and daughter, Lee and Brianna. I had seen Jaime a couple times fairly recently, but it had been a few years since I had seen Lee and Brianna.

Brianna has grown up a great deal (as children are prone to do) and is now twelve years old. Still, she is dwarfed by the family's Great Dane, Summer. They also have two other dogs and six cats. It is like visiting a petting zoo.

Some of the cats are friendly while others stay away. One cat, Midnight, takes it upon herself to use me as a scratching post, toy, and bed at various intervals throughout my stay. Luckily, she never uses me as a litter box.

As for the dogs, Bailey is calm and friendly, Karma likes to growl at me like I just stole her bone, and Summer has developed quite the affinity for my crotch, which she unfortunately lines up perfectly with.

Jaime assures me that Summer is a small Great Dane, but I assure him that no such animal exists. All Great Danes are gigantic, and Summer is no exception. With her black and white spots, she resembles an anorexic cow more than she does a dog.

The bed I sleep in is in the family room, so I share the area with the animals. As I start to sleep, Summer jumps onto the bed, claiming half of it for herself. In the middle of the night, I awake just in time to narrowly avoid crashing to the ground.

Summer has managed to take up the entire bed, sending me sprawling onto the edge.

No longer possessing a bed, I head to the bathroom. Passing Jaime's bedroom to get there, I am met by a snarling Karma, who snaps at me in protection of her owner. Quickly shutting the bathroom door, I do my business and hurriedly sneak past the growling canine and back to my Great Dane-saturated bed.

When I wake up the next morning, Marmaduke finally makes sense.

The Beatles Might Have Been on to Something

My Uncle Bill and Aunt Ona Lee seem to be on the right track. They met each other late in life, each of them having moved on from previous marriages, but they look to have made up for lost time.

They live in beautiful Eugene, Oregon. Not only is their home stylish and roomy, but it rests against a backdrop of gorgeous trees and plentiful wildlife. Bill has taken to naming a squirrel that frequents their backyard and regards the bushy-tailed rodent as a pet of sorts. I see dozens of deer during my stay there, to the point that they cease being majestic and start becoming a nuisance.

While watching football with Bill, I spot a doe grazing three feet from the house. The large windows allow for a perfect view, so I motion for Bill to check out the doe. The second Bill looks over, the doe decides to deliver a present in pellet form.

Oops. Not quite the sight I was going for. I guess not everything about nature is beautiful.

Bill and Ona Lee are retired, but they both find plenty of ways to stay busy. I am invited to spend the night, but am offered an apology because neither relative plans to be around the next day. Bill is golfing with some buddies and Ona Lee is meeting a friend for walking and shopping. When Bill gets back from golf, he immediately schedules a fishing trip for the next day.

The couple are completely in love. They have been together for years, but still have that newlywed dynamic. Bill reminds Ona Lee how much he loves her multiple times during my two day stay with the couple, and those are just the times when I was around. Ona Lee is quick to return the favor, and though she is less overtly expressive in her adoration for Bill, her eyes are quick to betray her.

And why shouldn't they be in love? Ona Lee is as nice a person as you could possibly meet. She makes a point to stay busy and to stay in shape, which becomes even more impressive to me as the evidence of her outstanding culinary abilities grows. As for Bill, well, he's a Mosier. That means he was blessed with almost superhuman genetics in looks, intelligence, and modesty.

When Ona Lee returns from shopping all day, excited about her purchases, Bill eagerly watches as she shows him the clothes and dishes she has bought. He not only feigns interest in her new shoes, he seems genuinely interested, which means my uncle is either a) disturbingly intrigued by womens' shoes or b) totally and hopelessly in love.

When it comes time for me to move on from my stay in Eugene, Ona Lee heads over to sign my van while Bill picks some apples for me from his front yard apple tree.

"Thanks Bill," I say, always a fan of free food. "Don't forget to sign my van."

"Oh, that's okay," he replies confidently. "Ona Lee signed it for me. After all, we do everything together."

Alright, that one made me throw up in my mouth a little bit.

The point is, Uncle Bill found someone who makes him sincerely, thoroughly, unapologetically happy. Ona Lee is his meaning of life. Ona Lee is his life. And I've never seen my uncle happier.

Your Karma Ran Over My Dogma

I am making good time on my way to Eugene until the highway traffic unexpectedly backs up. As the van crawls around a mountain bend, I spot three oddly dressed twentysomethings on the side of the road with their thumbs out and expectant looks on their faces.

Great. More Hippies. I bet they just came from Burning Man.

Now I know I've come out in recent weeks as decidedly anti-hippie, but when people can't rely on a good natured ride from the old van with autographs all over it, who can they possibly rely on?

Besides, it's just good karma.

So when the hippies spot my van and I see their eyes widen with delight (or maybe they were just stoned), I pull over to the side and tell them to hop in.

Their names are Dusty, Hannah, and Lara. They have just come from Burning Man. (My hippie-dar is getting really accurate.) They are excited that I have also come from Burning Man, but look disappointed when I tell them the festival was "not my organic cup of tea."

"Oh," replies Dusty. "That's too bad. So...what's your sign?"

I tell him that I'm not a big astrology fan citing that I am a cancer, which is a disease, and that my logo is a crab, yet another disease. This does not stop him from detailing each of their signs and what that means. I could not recount the details here now for a million dollars.

Dusty is very talkative. He prides himself on being able to talk with anyone, even the elitist rednecks he claims populate the area. Dusty grew up in a logging family, but has spent the last few years living an alternative lifestyle, hitchhiking to various destinations, attending rainbow gatherings (think Burning Man with less rules and money) and hitting as many hot springs as possible. The three are heading to a hot spring tonight after I drop them off in Roseburg.

Hannah is as quiet as Dusty is talkative. Lara speaks in between doing crafts in the back of the van.

"I think the meaning of life," she says, "is to learn as much as possible. I recently became fluent in Spanish and it has opened up a whole new world to me."

Dusty thinks life's meaning lies in experiences. He and a friend once went cross country filming their skateboarding exploits and the people who gave them rides, but "at the end, someone stole (his) camera and all of the footage."

"It's okay," Dusty concedes. "It's probably best that people don't know some of the things that happened that summer."

Dusty tells me that he has had some experiences I wouldn't believe, so I push him to share one.

"Well, I was back in the woods with some friends once, and this crazy guy ran out in just his underwear. He pulled his wallet out of his underwear and handed each of us a $100 bill, all the time insisting he'd won the lottery. Sure enough, when we saw his place, he was loaded."

Of all the scenarios that start with a crazy half-naked guy running out of nowhere in the back of the woods, this has to be the most fortuitous.

"Really, I think life is all about karma," Dusty insists. "If you do good things, positive events will happen for you. If you do evil, that will come back to haunt you. It's all about..."

He is interrupted by the screeching of the tire beneath him. I quickly regain control of the van and pull to the side of the road. The tread has come completely off my front passenger side tire.

I head to the back and grab my tire iron, only to realize that I have not packed a jack. That's right, I live in my van and travel constantly, but I don't have a jack. I never claimed to be competent at life.

Shaking my head, I call roadside assistance and wait for the tow truck guy to arrive as Dusty continues to wax poetic about karma.

Why I Never Ball With Hulk Hogan

"I know he isn't saying anything."

The guy saying this can't be out of college yet. In fact, I'm not entirely sure he is out of high school. What I am sure of is that he has gone out of his way to be disrespectful to me.

"What does that mean?" I respond. "Why am I not allowed to say anything?"

The guy, who is about 6'2 and athletic and reminds me of the stereotypically arrogant preppy jocks that littered my high school, continues to trash me to his friend while I stand right next to him.

"I'm sorry," I continue. "Did I do something to you? Am I unworthy of speaking?"

I have become Joe Pesci from Goodfellas.

"Please, enlighten me as to why I am not able to express myself."

There are few things more cathartic for me than a good game of pick-up basketball. I've kept my gym membership for this project, because when I am in an area with an LA Fitness, that means I get to work out and I get a nice hot shower.

Basketball is my way of relaxing and getting out physical and mental aggression in a productive manner. Of course, this is made much more difficult than it should be by the odd culture that surrounds pick-up basketball games in this country.

Go to any gym or playground in America and you'll be shocked to find that the group of full grown men playing there almost without fail will degenerate to a society not unlike the kids from Lord of the Flies. There's just the right balance of sweat, competition, and testosterone to turn reasonable men into raving lunatics. A dispute over a foul results in a fifteen minute shouting match far more often than one would imagine and fist fights are known to break out frequently.

I once had to give eye witness testimony to the local police station because a man broke open another guy's nose at center court. To be fair, the victim did double dribble and refused to acknowledge it.

I learned a long time ago that if you're too nice on the basketball court, other players will eat you alive. So when the preppy jock stereotype passive aggressively calls me a loser, I refuse to back down.

"No, really, I'm interested. Why would you say I am unworthy of speaking my mind? I want to know why you would go out of your way to disrespect me."

Though I am currently in a stage of mild annoyance (I am standing up for myself out of principle more than anger) it quickly becomes clear that Preppy Jock has become irate.

"One on one. You and me."

His friend is excited by this notion, and quickly steps in to referee. I am no stranger to the odd tradition of solving disputes with one-on-one games to seven, so I quickly agree, eager to beat this kid who clearly sees me as a fat guy with a bad beard and poorly coordinated workout clothes (which, I'll admit, is the ultimate slap in the face to a preppy jock).

"Okay," his friend says. "Game is to seven by ones and twos. Loser has to buy a bottled water. We'll start with a jump ball."

"Just give this fool the ball," Preppy Jock says with an increasingly annoying cockiness.

"No charity" I respond. "Just throw the ball in the air."

The jump ball goes up and I win it with surprising ease. Preppy Jock, completely unprepared for losing the opening tip, is caught off guard as I glide in for an uncontested lay-up. After I back him down twice for two easy buckets and a 3-0 lead, his expression changes.

"You're in trouble when I get the ball."

"If you get the ball."

I score twice more, reaching a 5-0 advantage. I am clearly too big and strong for him, but he manages to knock the ball away. When I beat him to the loose ball, he looks furious. On the next possession, he starts fouling me on purpose. He does everything but punch me in the face, but I still score. After my sixth point, I finally miss.

Preppy Jock grabs the ball and proceeds to miss an uncontested three point shot. I grab the rebound and back him down. In a moment of shameless showboating, I toss the last shot behind my back, off the backboard, and in. Not only do I win, but I shut him out.

The goal was to teach Preppy Jock respect, but instead I have just angered him more. He is on the verge of tears, and he starts arguing with me. However, instead of saying things to my face, he speaks to me through his friend.

"I challenged him to wrestle, not play basketball!"

Wait. What?

"I said, 'You and me, one on one, let's wrestle.' Not play basketball."

"I don't think he heard you say that," his friend responds.

"Hold up, you wanted to wrestle?" I ask, starting to feel bad for humiliating Preppy Jock with the over-the-back shot, and using that regret as my sole motivation to keep from laughing out loud. "Why would I wrestle you?"

I must admit I am greatly amused by the idea of wrestling to resolve our conflict. I can just imagine explaining to my friends why I am no longer welcome in any Oregon LA Fitnesses. Plus, anyone that eager to wrestle probably enjoys wrestling a little too much, if you get my drift. (That was my 'wrestling is blatantly homo erotic' joke. Aren't I clever?)

As Preppy Jock gets more and more upset, I keep my comments to myself, but here are some of the counters I was considering for his wrestling challenge:

+ A no-holds-barred impromptu game of Tiddlywinks. Winner keeps his manhood and the tiddlywink board.

+ A blog-off. Whoever comes up with the most satiric witticisms in five minutes owes the other a free latte.

+ We wrestle. Oh wait. That was his idea. Sorry. I couldn't come up with anything more absurd than the reality.

Preppy Jock's friend is eventually able to talk him off the ledge, but I never get my bottled water.

When I call my best friend Ryan to recount the story, he listens in silence until the end, pauses to reflect, and says:

"So you shot the last basket behind the back? What a douche bag move."

Thanks, Buddy. Well, at least he didn't challenge me to a wrestling match.

Out, Damn Spots...Yeah, I read Shakespeare

"Everyone around here is nice," Spots tells me excitedly. "People are actually talking to me."

We have stopped at a gas station near Mt. Shasta. Spots goes inside for rolling papers while I head to the back lot to shoot b-roll of the mountain. When I get back, Spots is talking to a nice couple about my less than inconspicuous van. Spots is clearly happy to be having conversations that don't involve asking for money.

"Normally people just stare."

Spots has grown up in Hollywood and then lived as a hobo. He probably hasn't had the best experiences with random friendliness.

"I think that if you give people a chance, you'd be surprised how nice most of them can be," I reassure him. He nods, but I silently wonder which one of us is being the naive one.

When we get into Yreka, Spots is able to get in touch with his uncle via his parents. We are told to wait by the local McDonald's, though we grab dinner at Taco Bell (we both really like Taco Bell).

"I don't really know my uncle all that well. I do remember that he's boring," Spots confides. "He just got over his drug addiction."

We spot a car at the McDonald's, but Spots doesn't recognize the man in the car.

"Mike! Well hello stranger. How are ya?"

The man in the car is indeed Spots' uncle. He seems incredibly enthusiastic, as if trying too hard. Which is fair. He also seems to regard me with a hint of trepidation, which is also fair. When your nephew is a freight-hopping teenager, the autographed van seems more weird than quirky, I'm sure.

I give Spots my business card and we plan to meet back at the Walmart at ten the next morning so I can take him to Portland. He offers a handshake, but I return with an awkward man hug, a gesture Spots clearly appreciates. It can't be easy for him to find people to trust.

The next morning, Spots is nowhere to be found. I call his mother, who seems surprised to hear from me.

"I don't know what the deal is," she tells me, frustrated. "If you ask me, what Mike is doing is crazy."

When eleven comes and goes, I head on my way to Oregon, hoping that I have left Spots in a better situation than when I found him.


Editor's Note: According to a myspace bulletin, Spots decided to ride the freights home to LA and visit friends and family before heading back to Portland.

What Would You Think if I Sang Out of Tune?

Spots and I are in Dunsmuir.

Spots had always wanted to see the town, famous to him for its annual hobo conventions. He had heard a great deal about the area's beauty and, looking around, I can see why. I didn't realize it until now, but I had been to Dunsmuir before.

Dunsmuir is a town just outside Mt. Shasta which some high school friends and I had passed by on a memorable road trip. Among the things I remember about the area are the picturesque views, the friendliness of the people, and the great tasting water.

My friends and I had taken a detour near a surrounding mountain to find a rare carnivorous plant that grows in the area (hey, I never claimed to be part of the popular crowd in high school) and when we got to the top, we decided to collect some water from the stream. It remains to this day the best water I've ever tasted.

So I find it particularly reaffirming when I see that downtown Dunsmuir features a large mural advertising the city with, Dunsmuir, Home to the Best Water on the Planet. The town is not home to the best library on the planet, however, so we head down to the train station in order to find a wifi connection for my computer. Spots seems glad he has a ride when he spots a police car patrolling the yard.

We grab a bench and Spots calls home. He has called home a few times since I picked him up, which relieves me. I know his mother must be worried about him because I know how much my mother worries about me doing this project and I call her every day. I couldn't call her for three days in Nevada because I didn't have cell reception, and when I finally did get reception, my cell mailbox was full. While I try to check my email, Spots tries to find out if his uncle still lives in Yreka, a town not too far north of Dunsmuir.

When we both finish our electronic duties, we take a second to embrace the spectacular view of the forested mountain in front of us.

"I'm really glad I got to see this," Spots exclaims with a smile.

I offer to take Spots through to Portland, where he can stay with his friends, but the plan is to stop in Yreka for the night. Spots mentions how much he likes to read, so I offer to pass on to him all the books I've read so far on this journey. In exchange, he hands me a copy of Rolling Nowhere, a book I had been interested in for awhile. It is written by a journalist named Ted Conover, who decided to ride the rails back in the 1980s and document the experience.

The bookmark left in the book has a picture of a distraught young man and the words I lost ME to Meth. Spots has been off meth for over a month now, but it can't be easy recovering with his lifestyle.

Spots has lived a rough life. Though only nineteen, he has dealt with abuse, addiction and homelessness. His circle of friends is in the same boat.

"All my friends are dying or in jail," he says, shaking his head.

He tells me of one friend (whose name I can't recall, but it was something along the lines of "John the Crackhead") who was particularly ill-fated.

"John was always strung out. He would say things like, 'I'm not going to eat or drink ever again. From now on, I will live off of drugs alone.' One time, he went insane and started yelling at me because he was convinced our friend was hiding in his backpack."

Spots pauses to reflect.

"He got in a fight recently and got pistol whipped. His jaw got wired shut... so he's doing better now."

Spots

Spots walks with a noticeable limp. Several months of the homeless lifestyle will do that to you. Actually, Spots doesn't consider himself homeless, preferring instead to use the term "houseless," which is basically the same thing without the negative connotations.

Spots hasn't always been houseless. In fact, he still has a house to go back to. His mother and stepfather live in Los Angeles. His mother battles depression, and an increasing dependence on several medications have made her difficult to relate to. His biological father was abusive, and Spots considers his stepfather his dad.

Every time he goes home, Spots becomes restless and uncomfortable. He prefers the excitement and beauty of the open road, even if it does come with some rather difficult challenges.

Spots makes due by "spanging," or "spare changing." Being still young and intelligent, Spots is able to rely on the kindness of strangers. He has different tricks for different types of people, and his experience "spanging" has taught him to approach an old man or a young woman with entirely different tactics. And Spots is no stranger to inventive tactics.

He tells me of some of the signs he has used in the past. When he was younger, he would bring his girlfriend with him onto the streets. This was a practice not uncommon among the youth Spots had fallen in with. Sitting on the sidewalk, Spots and his girl would hold up a cardboard sign that read:

Please give money for booze so she can get drunk and I can get lucky.

"When I was with a guy, the sign would read so he can get drunk and I can get lucky." Spots laughs. "You should have seen the responses I got from that one."

As he tells me this, I can't help but wonder how much Spots is playing me. But if he is playing me, he's doing an admirable job. Spots makes for excellent company on the road.

He tells me all about life "riding the rails." How groups of anarchist teens have formed ruthless gangs like the FTRA (Freight Train Riders of America) and The Scumfucks, a group in San Francisco with no respect for human life.

"They'll slit you're throat for fun," he tells me. "I don't like The Scumfucks very much."

He also tells me of an unpublished book that gets passed around by freight riders. The book contains secrets on the best places to get into train yards without getting caught. The book can only be passed on by photocopying, and it is updated frequently to outwit the train authorities who, according to Spots, are known to be quite ruthless when dealing with freight riders.

Most freight riders will wear a bandana. Different bandana colors label their owners with different characteristics, or affiliations, and they are also helpful in distinguishing a hobo from a "home bum," Spots' term for homeless people who stay in one city for a long period of time. The bandanas are used to guard against fumes and other dangers that come with unconventional travel.

It is also common practice for riders to carry railroad spikes. Though they make traveling more difficult due to their weight, the spikes are often seen as a matter of life or death because certain cargo spaces are not meant for human cargo and can suffocate travelers who don't use the spikes to jam the door open and let in air.

Sensing that Spots is tiring of talking, I offer to put on a CD. He browses through my collection excitedly, finally settling on a classic Green Day album.

"I'm so happy to hear music," he says, beaming. "I never get to just sit back and listen to music."

When we stop for lunch at Taco Bell, Spots munches down a burrito and a cheese roll-up.

"Sometimes I forget I have to eat." It doesn't make it any easier that Spots has decided to be a vegetarian.

After limping out of the restaurant, he sits down on the curb and takes a moment to let his feet breath. His feet are covered with blisters and callouses, and they are bleeding in several areas.

Freight-hopping is not an easy existence.

I hand Spots my cell phone and tell him to call his mother.

Sacramentos, the Not So Freshmaker

These are the things I know about Sacramento before arriving there shortly after Burning Man:

+ The city is home to the Sacramento Kings, an NBA franchise owned by the Maloof brothers, who also own The Palms Casino in Vegas.

+ One of my favorite basketball players growing up, former Phoenix Suns point guard Kevin Johnson, is running for mayor there.

+ Arnold Schwarzenegger, a man who has been elected governor of California despite having once given birth on screen, currently resides there.

That's pretty much it.

However, I had a picture in my head of Sacramento as a sprawling suburban landscape free from crime or bad thoughts. So imagine my surprise when I park in the worst neighborhood I've yet to see with a Walmart.

It can't be easy growing up in the hood. But the Sacramento hood? That's all pain, no glory. By the looks of things, the residents of this area can't have it much better than those who live in the slums of New York and Detroit and Chicago. But when's the last time a rapper got famous on the credibility of his rough upbringing on the streets of Sacramento?

I rest my case.

The plan is to hang out in Sacramento for about a week while I wind down from Burning Man, then head on over to nearby San Francisco. I've been to San Francisco twice, but I certainly wouldn't mind going again. It's a really remarkable city.

When I wake up in the morning, however, plans change.

"Excuse me? Do you know where the nearest train station is at?"

A young looking man with dirty hair and dark clothes is looking to hop a freight train out of town. He has been on the road for a couple years now, riding the rails from city to city and living off of the land. I offer to check my gps system for the nearest railroad, but not until I get a chance to use the restroom in Walmart.

"You're welcome to come along. I'll by you a coke," I say, feeling thirsty myself.

The man introduces himself as Spots, or Mike if I prefer. He is a well-spoken interesting guy with a lot to say about the hobo lifestyle. I am happy to buy him a coke and he is happy to interview for my documentary.

"I'm so glad I met you," he says, beaming. "When I woke up today, I was covered in ants. It's nice to have something good happen."

"How old are you, Spots?"

"Nineteen."

When we get back to the van, I start to check my gps system, then think better of it.

"Hey, where are you going to?"

"I was thinking Dunsmuir."

I have relatives in Eugene, and Dunsmuir is on the way. I'm sure they would be happy to see me, and I've already been to San Francisco twice. Besides, the kid's nineteen.

"You know what, why don't I give you a ride? I was going to head on up there soon, anyway."

"That'd be great!"

"Hop in."

And off we go.

Why is it Not Called Burning Woman?

The Man is set to burn Saturday night. In an annual tradition, the organizers construct a giant artistic tower representing The Man and burn it to the ground. I am told this will be preceded by a celebration that can best be described as Cirque de Soleil on acid (err...on more acid?).

I am eager for the burn to take place, because by the time Saturday rolls around, I am absolutely exhausted. I never want to see any more dirt as long as I live. My plan is to capture some video footage, attend the burning, get some rest, and head out early in the morning.

Unfortunately, I am unable to capture any more footage because another heavy dust storm is pervading "the playa." The dust storm is not as bad as Monday, but most predictions are that it will get that way, and I certainly am not taking my video camera out in such conditions.

So instead I read. I tend to read more when I am unhappy or bored, and I've been reading a lot at Burning Man. Actually, I've gone through four books since I got here. But as I start a fifth, I come to a realization.

Nothing is keeping me here.

I can't get any more video footage. I'm too tired and annoyed to participate in anything, and I couldn't do much anyway with all the dust blowing around. I don't particularly want to see the burning for any reason than some odd sense of obligation, and even then there's a chance the dust storm will ruin that too.

So I leave. It takes a while getting out, but I save probably four or five hours of stop and go traffic by leaving early.

By the news reports I read, I made the right decision. It seems the dust storm just got worse, and many participants soon followed my lead in exiting early. One internet blog even goes so far as to call the dust storm God's way of smiting the heathens at Burning Man.

And I thought I was harsh.

In all fairness, I'm glad I went to Burning Man. It was an experience unlike any other I've had, and I'm always pleased to broaden my perspective. That said, I would never come back without bringing the following things:

+ Friends. Burning Man is not a good event to attend alone. Organizers and repeat visitors greet first-timers by saying "welcome home," but I never feel at home. Many people are friendly and inviting, and I hang out with a couple groups at different times throughout the week, but I did not find Burning Man participants to be any more friendly and welcoming than regular society. Part of that falls on me, but I doubt I am alone in my lack of social transcendence.

+ A Bicycle. Walking around "the playa" is a stupid idea. It leads to exhaustion, dehydration, and serious frustration. Burning Man supplies community bikes, but these are hard to find and, I can only assume, not incredibly hygienic.

+ Drugs. You know, so I can be more popular.

+ An Open Mind. I like to think I'm a pretty progressive guy, but I found Burning Man to be, for lack of a better term, annoying. There's something about the seemingly forced "individualism" of the event that struck me as cheap and inauthentic. The event was like a physical manifestation of the internet. It's nice to think that everyone be able to express themselves spiritually and artistically, but when absolutely everyone is sharing their artistic side, you get stuck with a lot of abysmal art, making it harder to find and appreciate the things that are truly inspired. If I were to attend the event again, I would need to focus more on the positive aspects of the celebration.

In the meantime...well...maybe I'll just find a way to stay away from hippies for a while. You know, like wearing more deodorant.

Hippies hate deodorant.

My Soul Eats Alone

I never thought I'd enjoy being an associate at Costco.

Now, to be fair, I'm the only one using the term "associate," and I'm pretty sure Burning Man's Costco Soulmate Trading Outlet doesn't properly mimic the experience of working at Costco; I'm enjoying it all the same.

I am an interviewer, meaning I get to ask soulmate seekers all sorts of weird questions about themselves in order to properly guage who would make a good soulmate for them. I take an application, read the applicant's answers to the questions, and then yell out the applicant's' name in the waiting room.

Some of the names are real names, but most are special Burning Man monikers, like "Queen of Sheba," or "Morpheus", or "Sheba Morpheus, Queen of the Toad Lickers." Some of the people are really cool, some of the people are really strange; a few are both. I talk to an Australian, a Welsh woman, and even the guy who did my soulmate interview. Many are engaging, interesting personalities with a lot to say about life. Others have very little to say.

One girl seems disinterested in talking the whole interview until I notice that she has read Greg Behrendt's book, He's Just Not That Into You, and mention that my friend used to work on Behrendt's show. The girl immediately perks up and starts reciting the virtues of the book with a livelieness I had not seen before.

"It's true! It's so true! You can waste so much time with a guy and worry and worry but if he really loves you he'll never let you go. It's so important to realize that. If he really loves you, he'll never let you go. I mean, why would you want to be with the wrong person? And sometimes guys just aren't that into you. It's so true!"

This continues for another five minutes without a single pause to catch some air. I start to understand why many guys just aren't that into her.

Another woman is about fifty. She is wearing bright red lipstick and very little else. Her goals are twofold: 1) She wants to start a commune and 2) she wants to change the world. I ask her how she plans to change the world. Her answer involves maps. That's pretty much all I got out of it and my reasons are twofold: 1) She couldn't have been more vague and 2) she was not wearing a shirt.

It is incredibly difficult to conduct an interview with a fifty year old woman when her boobs are hanging out. It's like trying to interview Mikhail Gorbachev. Sure, you feign interest in his thoughts about the Cold War, but you're really concentrating on not staring at the birthmark the whole time.

I guess what I'm saying is that the woman's boobs looked like Mikhail Gorbachev's forehead.

One girl I interview, Meg, is incredibly attractive and sits incredibly close to me. It's a bit disturbing how much I am willing to forgive when it comes to a stunning woman. She is a hula-hooping vegan who speaks with an unfounded accent that vaguely resembles British, Minnesotan, or Madonna, depending on the sentence. Though I find most of these traits annoying, they somehow strike me as endearing when put to a pretty face.

Meg has just spent six months in New Zealand, plans to become a dentist, and has a fantasy about having sex in a library "with a man of great intellect."

"I was valedictorian, you know," I casually point out.

I have no shame.

When the interview is over, I hand Meg her Costco membership card as well as my business card. You know, for business purposes. I then head over to the Costco tent to collect my soulmate, which means exchanging my membership card for the application of a like-minded female. The application includes her location at Burning Man, so I head over to her camp to say hello. After all, it's not every day you get to meet your soulmate.

As I head over to the "couchsurfing camp," I review my soulmate's application. This is what I know about her:

+ She had sex on the beach before she ever had the drink, "sex on the beach."

+ She's never played a video game.

+ She "stole a five dollar battery back for (her) new vibrator, reasoning that she just spent sixty dollars on a dildo and the universe owed her. She spent the night in jail."

That's funny, I think to myself. She doesn't soooouuund like my soulmate.

I never find out. When I reach the "couchsurfing camp," I find its residents to be plentiful and not particularly receptive to visitors. A couple people have never heard of my soulmate. One guy has, and he offers to look for her.

I wait around awkwardly, making polite conversation with two girls and an odd man from Switzerland named Nader. Nader is wearing a miniature cowboy hat, designed to be hilariously small for his head. I judge it to be decidedly non-hilarious. A few minutes later, my soulmate's friend returns, stating that he can not find my soulmate, but that I'm welcome to hang around in case she returns soon.

"Okay. I'll just annoy these people here in the meantime," I say jokingly, referring to my new acquaintances.

Two seconds after saying this, the two girls walk away, leaving me standing in the middle of the camp alone. Ouch.

To be fair, one of the girls returns a couple minutes later and continues to make polite conversation. However, I'm pretty sure I am now "cock-blocking" Nader.

It's becoming increasingly difficult to ignore the symbolism of waiting aimlessly for my soulmate with a disinterested girl and an increasingly annoyed Swiss guy in a tiny hat, so I leave. I return the last day of the event and achieve similar results.

I will not find my soulmate at Burning Man.

On the other hand, I hear that "Sheba Morpheus, Queen of the Toad Lickers," was very pleased with her match.

So there's that.

I Found My Soulmate in the Bargain Bin

My favorite theme camp at Burning Man is the Costco Soulmate Trading Outlet. They provide "top quality soulmates at the lowest possible prices," all under the guise of a corporate structure. I find the concept to be quite clever, and finding a soulmate seems incredibly relevant to finding the meaning of life, so I head over to Costco to learn more about their practices.

They are looking for volunteers to do interviews throughout the week, which sounds like a fun way to find out more about the people that go to Burning Man, so I offer my services. Volunteers must be trained in the morning, so I offer to come back the next day to help out. In the meantime, I decide to fill out an application for my own soulmate.

The concept of soulmate trading is simple. Basically, they have hundreds of people come by to answer weird questions about themselves on paper, then answer weird questions in person to an even weirder person in the hope that said weird person will assign them a proper soulmate that has answered the weird questions in a similar manner. Okay, so maybe it isn't so simple. But it is surprisingly fun.

I fill out an application and am quickly greeted by a man in a red Costco shirt. He informs me that "the company's" process is completely scientific and involves a satellite and a supercomputer. I can't imagine why he would lie about this.

He asks me about my passions, my thoughts on society, and what I am looking for in a soulmate. After my interview is over, I am given a Costco card with many letters and numbers on it and am told to redeem it for a soulmate within the next couple days.

The next day, during volunteer training, I discover what the letters and numbers mean. I would explain in further detail, but I signed a confidentiality statement, and I could never compete in court with the expensive lawyers of a big corporation like Costco.

I will discuss my volunteer experiences in tomorrow's blog, but for now I thought I'd highlight some of the differences between this Costco (CSTO) and the giant superstores found throughout the country:

+ CSTO, according to their website, "eliminates many of the costly overhead expenses faced by traditional stores. You know, like fancy display cases, sales people, advertising, research, morals, scruples and so on."

+ While most Costcos charge for their membership cards, CSTO offers their membership free of charge. Though CSTO officials are quick to point out that the membership card is not designed "to get you laid," it has historically produced significantly better results in this area than even the platinum membership card at traditional Costcos.

+ At CSTO, nothing can be purchased in bulk. I try to purchase a harem of soulmates, but they refuse, citing that, among other problems with my plan, I am an idiot.

+ This location is clothing optional. Other locations tend to frown on freeballing. Though one traditional Costco in Sioux Falls, North Dakota is surprisingly liberal about breast-feeding.

+ Unlike most Costcos, CSTO does not provide eye exams, twenty pound jars of mayonnaise, or the morning after pill.

There are better places to find an optometrist, and everybody knows the desert is not the optimal place for giant globs of mayo, but many a hungover hippie has been devastated by the absence of the third product on that list.

Especially when they find out the supercomputer and satellite don't really exist.

How to be a Good Househusband

“I, Crafty, take you, Kyle, to be my playa wife. To recycle and repurpose together; to get the record straight…to be real and intentional; to realize that circumstance and situation are merely illusion, and the meaning of life is about knowledge, and understanding of self, and Morgan Freeman.”

Crafty and Kyle are the first friends I make at Burning Man. I only know them because they saw me walking by in a dust storm the first day and selflessly offered me an extra pair of goggles. Before I could thank them, they were off to the camp across the street, rushing to help their neighbors when a canopy crashed in the wind.

So when they invite me to their “playa wedding” later in the week, I am happy to not only attend, but to also act as a videographer. Thankfully, Burning Man weddings are not legal, but that doesn’t stop this particular wedding from being special. Kyle and Crafty have been together since they met online four years ago. They plan to get married for real later this year.

In the meantime, their Burning Man wedding is a joy to behold. Couches and chairs are set up at a nearby theme camp and dozens of spectators and friends are in attendance. The ceremony comes complete with two makeshift bands, a store-bought wedding cake, and a minister. Though to be fair, the minister is dressed in boxers, a playboy robe with no shirt, and a bowtie. He pronounces them man and wife by “the power invested in me by wikipedia.”

The minister provides a great deal of entertainment with his ceremonial speech. He has discovered a 1955 article from Housekeeping Monthly instructing a housewife on how to properly please her new husband. In the spirit of fairness, he amends the article to instruct Crafty on how to please his new wife.

“Have dinner ready. Even plan ahead the night before. This is a way of letting her know you think about her all day and are concerned about her needs.

Prepare yourself. Take fifteen minutes or so to rest so you’ll be refreshed when she arrives. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh-looking. She has just been with a lot of work-weary people.

Be a little gay to make it more interesting for her. Her boring day may need a lift and one of your duties is to provide it.

Listen to her. You may have a dozen important things to tell her, but the moment of her arrival is not the time. Let her talk first; remember, her topics of conversation are more important than yours.

Don’t ask her questions about her actions or question her judgment or integrity. Remember, she is the master of the house.”

All kidding aside, it is a touching ceremony, proving that two people in love can have a beautiful wedding no matter how many members of the audience are sporting s and m costumes. Kyle’s vows are genuine and touching, and it is clear that she and Crafty share a deep connection. She even sports the tears one would expect at a traditional wedding, though her outfit is slightly more risqué than the typical wedding dress.

The happy couple feeds each other cake as various guests start to autograph Kyle’s bare midriff. After a public make out section, the two are off to ride the closest thing Burning Man has to a limousine to get to the closest thing Burning Man has to a hotel. They are clearly having the time of their lives.

I am happy for Crafty and Kyle. There’s a long road ahead for any marriage these days, and Burning Man can’t be the healthiest start to a successful union, but I really hope they make it through together in this crazy world of unimaginable joy, unquestionable sadness, and Morgan Freeman.

Good Night, Sleep Tight, Don't Let the Hippies Bite

Burning Man is an exhausting experience. The party is infamous for going on all night, but I never seem to have enough energy left by the end of each day to do anything but sleep.

It's a good thing I'm a sound sleeper, because the community around me seems to be decidedly anti-sleep. On the advice of Burning Man regulars, I make sure to camp near the middle of "the playa." The reason for this strategy is simple; the rave camps are located at each end of the city, and they are notorious for playing loud techno music throughout the night.

I can only imagine how annoying that must be. I am camped right next to "Kidsville," which makes me reasonably certain that my spot is among the quietest at night. Still, I am treated to constant rap music and loud yells throughout the night and into the morning. Fireworks go off in the night sky, which is great, and loud fire explosions erupt from all sides, which is not, mainly because these explosions are unceasing.

"Mutant" vehicles roam the landscape for all hours. These are cars that double as works of art, which generally means they barely qualify as either. They range from high tech elaborate theme cars that would make the Rose Bowl envious to glorified golf carts with bad crafts glued to the sides. Nearly all of them carry groups of loud people and nearly all of them come complete with music.

A few of them make it a point to roam the entire city blasting music loudly at inconvenient times. I can sleep through almost anything, but I'm pretty sure I could have brought physical harm to the group that felt the need to blare "Turn Around" at high volumes at four in the morning.

All said, it is easy to see why so many people leave Burning Man incredibly fatigued. It is also becoming increasingly apparent that the whole experience is significantly enhanced for those who enjoy licking toads.

There are, however, some positive aspects to the Burning Man experience even for the completely sober. I will detail these tomorrow for those of you tired of hearing me bitch about hippies. Until then, I am off to bed.

Don't Hate the Playa, Hate the Hippies

The nice thing about Burning Man is that it offers a little bit of something for everyone. Because the “city” is basically run by its “citizens,” there are activities for a wide variety of individuals.

Enjoy hula-hooping? No problem. Raving? We’ve got you covered. Taking far too many drugs? Don’t get me started.

And if you’re looking for gay sex, I dare say Burning Man is your destination of choice.

I happen to be a fan of none of these activities (sorry, fellas), so I have to go a little farther to find my enjoyment. Fortunately, “the playa” offers various opportunities to play sports, and I look to capitalize on this as much as possible. The oversaturation of hippies at this event has left me needing to release aggression, and I decide that if I’m going to hit anything, it should probably be a volleyball.

A disturbing trend develops throughout the week as scheduled event after scheduled event is canceled or postponed. This rings true for kickball, four square, and rugby, which is particularly frustrating because each requires a very long walk to get to. It takes me a while to find the volleyball game, but I eventually do.

The first half hour is played without scoring, which I find to be fundamentally unAmerican. It should be noted that while I am generally liberal minded, when I get around hippies I tend to become a gun-toting, bible-thumping, flag-waving red-stater. The idea of not keeping score reminds me of the loss of dodge ball in physical education, the need to hand out participation trophies instead of championships, and the American flag waving upside down, which one of my neighbors seems to find artistic. I refuse to not keep score.

So we do keep score, and my team wins every time. It’s not that I’m particularly good at volleyball, it’s just that I want it more. It is unacceptable to lose an athletic competition to a hippie; regardless of how athletic or talented they are, hippies are always beatable due to their lack of killer instinct. So I make sure my team wins every time, using my grit and determination to will my team to victory.

It also doesn’t hurt that the hot chick on my team used to play professional volleyball in Brazil.

I continue my winning ways the next day on the basketball court. I actually am pretty good at basketball, and I make sure my opponents know it. It feels good holding court for game after game, but I start to get dehydrated after an hour or so. In the final game, my undefeated record is tested.

The game will be three on three full court. On one side, three tall athletic potheads stand poised to mellow their way to victory. On my side, I am joined by a man who has clearly never played basketball in his life, we’ll call him “Airball,” and a diminutive yet feisty baller we’ll refer to as Napoleon.

Before the game, I had played Napoleon one on one. Though I beat him six to zero, he refused to back down, citing that he could easily “take me” if not for the following reasons:

+ He is a foot shorter than I am.

+ He is wearing sandals.

+ He is very high on LSD.

All good points, and all good reasons not to be excited to have him as my only teammate capable of hitting the rim.

Our opponents, on the other hand, include a 6’6 surfer and a six foot guy in sunglasses who is referred to as “Mr. Wonderful.” Both of these men seem incapable of missing a jump shot. Their jumpers are smooth and effortless, and as the game goes on I start to appreciate NBA players’ seemingly overwhelming desire to smoke a lot of pot.

Despite our team’s shortcomings, I am able to keep us in the game, due to three decided advantages:

+ I have clearly played more basketball than anyone else playing.

+ I am significantly bigger and stronger than our opponents.

+ I am one of only two players wearing shoes.

I should explain. Napoleon was complaining so much about wearing sandals before the game that he convinced the others to take their shoes off, despite the rugged dirt surface of the court.

I refuse to take off my shoes, citing my non-negotiable rule of never removing any article of clothing based on the request of a man who has recently taken LSD. We agree that Mr. Wonderful and I will keep our shoes.

Equipped with shoes and skills, I am able to keep our team in the game. When the other team rotates a new player into the game, I swat his first lay-up attempt twenty yards away, displaying my physical dominance to the naked women passing by.

None of them seem to care.

But I care, and I use every last bit of strength to drive past the three defenders and power in the game winning shot. It seems like a victory at the time, but when I am unable to secure water afterwards, my physical exertion comes across as decidedly less impressive.

The walk home is a few miles, and by the time I get near the van I have developed severe cottonmouth. With the van in site, I start sprinting to get to the water inside but stop, realizing that I am incapable of running without passing out.

Walking slowly to my desert oasis, I rejoice in chugging as much water as possible. It strikes me that I have seriously jeopardized my health just to beat a bunch of druggies in basketball, but as I take another swig, I glance up at the American flag waving upside down on the trailer behind me and decide that it was definitely worth it.

Ask the Dust

Burning Man takes place on "the playa," which is a large dry lake bed, essentially making it a giant landscape of loose dirt. On Monday, the first morning of the event, "the playa" is hit with abnormally high winds for the entire day and night. The result is a dust storm that would make "Okies" from the thirties envious.

I return to my van at three in the morning, but before I can get to sleep, I hear a knock on the door. I open my side door and am greeted by an oddly dressed man who looks suspiciously like the film director Kevin Smith. He is not Kevin Smith, but he does direct me to move my van. Apparently, I have parked in a site reserved for a “theme camp,” which I obviously should have figured out from the giant “no parking” sign that was never posted.

An older man in a Hawaiian shirt (marking the first time a Hawaiian shirt can be considered an understated wardrobe choice) has done the same thing. His name is Ken, and he is from Kauai. I mention that I have family there, and we immediately decide the navigate the pitch black parking together.

After finding a nondescript patch of dirt, next to various other cars, RVs, and tents, I decide to get some sleep so I can attend some of the “events” listed in my Burning Man guide.

There is an event called "Contact Improv" taking place at ten in the morning; it basically sounds like a lame version of yoga, but I feel it is important for me to participate as much as possible, and "Contact Improv" is one of the scheduled events close to my camp that sounds least like a thinly veiled attempt at exploiting some odd sexual fetish, so "Contact Improv" it is.

Except when I get to the site of the event, I find no activities taking place, but rather a disheveled tent and some dirty looking men with long hair loitering by the campsite. The event has been canceled. Go figure.

So I move on to the next event. Except it is also canceled. It seems most "theme camps" have yet to be set up, let alone are they prepared to entertain. With nothing better to do, I walk around “the playa” and offer my services in helping various camps set up.

Most people seem to look at me strangely, and I think it is because of the way I’m dressed. I’m wearing a black t-shirt, blue jeans, a cheap fedora I got at the Reno Walmart, and a clip-on tie. I think I look ridiculous. Others seem to agree, but for different reasons.

I mean, seriously, what self-respecting guy wears jeans instead of a skirt? Or at least show off your ball sack. A fedora? How about an Indian headdress with some peace signs painted on it? And a clip-on tie? That’s not quite tacky enough for our tastes. Could it be a clip-on bowtie with pink polka dots? And did I mention I can’t see your balls?

Maybe I’m not being fair in regards to my fellow “Burners” perceptions. You can’t blame me though when the paper I’m handed at the entrance includes the following advice next to its environmental warnings:

“Don’t ‘playa-hate.' Just because someone isn’t sporting a costume doesn’t mean they aren’t participating. Maintain an open mind.”

I find it interesting that they feel the need to warn against hazing the conservatively dressed. I can just imagine Burning Man tough guys walking around “the playa” with angry stares, searching out casually dressed participants and bullying them into wearing pink skirts and feather boas. You know, the inevitable progression of society if gay people are ever allowed to get married.

I really hope most people reading this have an appreciation for sarcasm.

I mention my fedora in part because I look damn good in it and in part because I can’t keep the damn thing on my head. Huge gusts of wind keep sweeping it off and carrying it across the dirt. This is usually accompanied by a solid face-full of dust.

Two campers notice my dilemma and offer to help. Their names are Crafty and Kyle. They came to Burning Man last year and insist it is impossible to make it throughout the week without a face mask and goggles. Fortunately, the have an extra face mask and another pair of goggles, and they are kind enough to let me have them.

This is a greater blessing than I at first realize. First of all, I catch my reflection in a car window and notice that the goggles, face mask, and fedora have given me the appearance of a villain from Brazil or a random Stanley Kubrick film. Secondly, before I can admire my chic attire, my fedora is blown off my head again and I am hit with the biggest pile of dust in my face yet.

The wind has gotten violent. So violent, in fact, that it has destroyed the living set-up of the camp across from me. The poles are uprooted out of the ground and the large tarp overhead has fallen down onto the campsite. Crafty, Kyle, and I immediately rush over to help, grabbing the poles and bracing them against the wind while the eight or nine people at the camp…casually wait around.

Hippies are not exactly the most reliable choice in the face of diversity. If you need some pot, or a detailed discussion of your astrological sign, they’re great. But for repairing a campsite, not so much. I brace against the weakest pole for about an hour while the camp, which of course includes a naked guy, futilely discuss how to find zip ties. After a while, my shoulders really start to hurt, but nobody really seems to care. Kyle is a trooper; she alternates with one of the campers off and on. Most of the camp residents just watch.

After what seems like forever, the canopy is restored. Tired, parched, and hot, I head to center camp to purchase ice. This is a huge mistake. I bring the goggles but neglect to bring the face mask. This is another huge mistake.

By the time I am half way to the ice vendor, I am unable to see more than two feet in front of me. This is what is referred to as a white-out. The winds are so fast that dust is sprayed in every possible direction, most of it finding its way up my nose or into my mouth. I finally understand the insult, “eat dirt.” I am able to find the ice vendor thanks to a giant sign, but finding my van is a much more difficult venture. The small signs indicating the roads are impossible to find and every area looks the same. By the time I am able to take stock of my location, I figure out that I have walked well over a mile in the wrong direction.

My ice is melting at a rapid rate, but I am unable to use it as water because of all of the dirt flying in my face. The progress toward my van is slow and scattered, and it takes me about two hours to get back. When I get there, I devour as much ice water as my body will handle.

Deciding that I can’t let a dust storm beat me, I head back out, this time to an event only a few hundred yards away. After realizing that nobody else was stupid enough to head to an event in a giant dust storm, I head back. I soon find myself over a mile away in the wrong direction.

I ask for directions several times, but most everyone I talk to is as lost as I am. Dehydrated and sick, I want desperately to reach the shelter of my van, but I am unable to run due to lack of vision. What should have been a fifteen minute journey has turned into a multi-hour walk of doom.

When I finally do find my van, hidden in the swirling dirt, I launch myself inside, pull the doors shut, and collapse. I am more than happy to take a really long dirt nap.

What is Burning Man?

What is Burning Man?

It's a question I asked myself many times before attending this year's event. It's also a question the organizers of the event seem reticent to answer. In fact, if you visit the frequently asked questions page on Burning Man's official site, you'll get the following response to "What is Burning Man:"

Trying to explain what Burning Man is to someone who has never been to the event is a bit like trying to explain what a particular color looks like to someone who is blind.

(Note: I like to imagine the person delivering this statement as a white man with dreadlocks who, having never been to Europe, speaks in an exaggerated British accent and takes great lengths to keep his nose upturned as he speaks, possibly to avoid his own smell.)

Personally, I do not find it so difficult explaining Burning Man.

Imagine that the Apocalypse happened.

Now imagine that only fifty thousand people had survived the Apocalypse and that all of them were confined to just five square miles of desert.

Finally, imagine that these fifty thousand people just so happen to be made up entirely of people who really wanted the Apocalypse to happen so that they could:

take copious amounts of drugs/ walk around with their genitals flapping in the wind/ hula hoop for a disturbing amount of time

while

"The Man" burns in Hell for eternity/ showers cease to be a social necessity/ onlookers gawk, mesmerized by the artistically viable movements of their bewitching hips.

Unfortunately, I made none of these realizations on my first day at Burning Man, because I was too busy worrying that the Apocalypse was actually coming.

Check in tomorrow to read about the "Dust Storm of the Century."

Mein Krapf

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