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.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
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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