Distracted Writing

“Welcome to Nebraska! Home of the famous, ‘you are now leaving Nebraska’ sign!” For 450 miles I watched the landscape wondering when I would find something - anything - interesting. It was about this time that I lost my data connection on the phone. And that’s when reality set in. I was stuck in a state where there exists no discernable reason to stop and explore the landscape, I had no books to read, and if I heard one more time Weezer blaze out how I resemble Buddy Holly I was going to fling the ipod out the window. 5 hours later, we’d seen nothing resembling civilization.

Wyoming blows. The entire 400 miles of mostly desert carried 40+ mile an hour winds. On several occasions the hood popped up half an inch and made me think it was going to fly off - on a Jeep the hood is hooked on with rubber latches that can stretch. Every person we saw in Wyoming looked like a villain in a Disney movie (or a hero in Beauty and the Beast). That may have been because we stopped twice. Once at a Texaco and a second time at McDonalds. Regardless, these folks whose entire bodies and facial expressions are mullet-shaped, are not exactly the people they’re putting in the Wyoming tourism commercials. Also, Glenn Beck is on every fucking station in Wyoming. I’m flipping through the AM stations because I had just listened to 25 hours of music. For some reason Glenn Beck is blaring from every station not playing 40 year old country tunes. At first I thought there were just two stations, but no. The guy is literally on about 4 to 5 stations. So I listened to the guy for about an hour while my driving buddy slept. At one point he awoke while Beck was giving his take on the Travon Martin case, he said nothing, and went back to sleep. I kind of prefer it that way though. Let him think I’m a bit psychotic for a while.

Over 24 hours on the road.  Quite some distance before half way, which is amazing that we can drive for this long and not even be close.  I’m in THE Madison County from The Bridges of Madison County.  I’ve seen no bridges, nor any old folks.  A farce!

If you find yourself with a severe pornography shortage, go to Iowa.  Every 15 miles there’s a huge road sign for the Adult Superstore. 

The people of Illinois are adorable.  We stopped at two drive throughs for coffee and grub and were greeted warmly with friendly chit-chat by the employees there.  And I definitely wasn’t eliciting it.  I looked and spoke like Droopy Dog. 

We decided to sleep in the car for a few hours so we could make better time.  One thing I hadn’t noticed when I bought my jeep is that the driver’s seat doesn’t recline.  There’s a lever that seems as if it would recline the seat, but it appears to just be decorative.  So I spent half the night in the fetal position trying to get comfortable.  And that didn’t work because I have the most awkward dog in the world.  He sriously pants so much on the back of my neck that I felt like I was being spooned by a serial killer.  Eventually I got pissed, threw him in the trunk, and took his nice bench seat in the back.  I slept quite well and am refreshed and ready for the day!

BTW, it’s a Jeep so the trunk is the same space.

Our glutton apartment that consumed way too much invaluable crap is empty.  My temporary overweight living space is a black Jeep that is packed up near the brim of each window and now houses we 2 dudes and one hundred-pound drool-faced shaggy dog that is just now in the 6th hour getting comfortable enough to lay down for a few moments. 

When I imagined this 3-4 day excursion from NYC to SFO, I didn’t consider that the most prominent memory so far wouldn’t be about the topography or the sites passing by but the constant wet sweaty breath of the dog on my neck for six hours.  Indeed, somtimes I yell at him and he stops.  He stops, licks around his Red Light District, and sticks his breath on me again.  I swear, my co-pilot and I have been playing badminton with this dog for a full day.  You can imagine what it is like to recline the seat back within tongue’s reach. 

Beyond the toweling I’ve needed to do, however, the drive has not been so bad.  We’re about to pass into Ohio.  We’ve mispronounced the following towns: Scotrum, Kylertown, and Shenango.  I’ve seen American Flag rear windows, american flag denim jackets, several flying American Flags and our first Confederate flag.  Tolls paid so far: 2 booths totalling $2.35  More to come…

One year ago today at the time this post is being published, my little Madeline was born.  For her first birthday present we bought her a sock doll that cost $52.  It’s very cute – he said while his wife was staring him down as he was typing (“damn right it’s cute!  It’s $52 cute!”).  Today I just bought clothes for the sock doll.  One doll dress $12.  One doll sweater $12.  I don’t spend $12 on regular clothes for THE BABY.  But today I spent $24 on two articles of clothing for a sock. 

What I want to do is stock up on premie (premature baby, for those who are like me and have never heard the term) clothes for the doll to cover presents for Easter and Christmas.  Not a bad idea, but we’re going to give the baby the $52 sock with her $24 worth of clothes and one of two things will happen.  Either the baby will have no interest in the sock doll two weeks from now or two days from now she will drop it within biting range of the dog and we’ll have spent $76 on a dog treat. 

But, of course, she’s worth it.  Happy Birthday, Maddie girl!

Shortly after my daughter was born almost a year ago I saw a young woman in the subway panhandling on a stairwell at Columbus Circle.  She was holding her newborn baby girl who was sleeping and wrapped in a soft pure white blanket.  The baby was such a gorgeous little person sleeping in her mother’s arms that her appearance was hyperbolic when contrasted by her mother’s ripped cut cardboard sign, old jeans and ratty coat.  I don’t usually keep much cash with me, but seeing them there it was the first time I can remember where I was truly tempted to give over some money to a homeless person.  But in the less than 15 seconds I saw them, I knew I wasn’t alone in sympathizing for them as one woman on the opposite track went out of her way to help them out.  I knew it would be a lucrative day for the mother.  I knew her beautiful girl made for a fine prop.  Still, I felt guilty for the cynicism.  The baby didn’t know what she was doing there.  She was just an innocent child sleeping in her mother’s arms.  And her mother could have just really been someone in real dire need of help.

Over the last year I’ve seen them in different sections of the city.  Union Square a couple times.  Time Square.  The financial district.  I’ve seen this little girl grow just as I’ve watched my own.  Every time I see them the baby is either sleeping or has a bottle in her mouth.  I’ve never seen her move.  Never heard her make any sounds.  Besides the fact that she spends all day in a dirty subway, the baby seems very well taken care of.  I know the bottle she’s being given.  We have the same one and it costs over $10 for one.  But at the same time she seems cold.  Or maybe just bored.  I’ve never given them money.

As I prepare to leave New York City, strangely enough, I felt a tinge of guilt when I saw them this week.  Not because I’ve never given them anything, but because I’ve seen this little girl her whole life.  And every few weeks I’ve been assured that she’s doing ok.  I suppose I’m fortunate to leave now.  This is a baby who has spent her entire life in filthy cockroach and rat-filled subways.  At the moment she has a pure glow of being the most beautiful girl in New York City.  Life for her will only get harder from here.

For those who aren’t aware, my wife and I are moving back to Seattle in mid-April.  It’s been a long time coming.  We’ve been exploring our options for moving away from New York for years now.  New York is fine, but it’s way too damn hot in the summer, equally cold in the winter, and generally the local attitudes reflect the weather (especially now that we own a car).  Seattle was our 3^rd choice in terms of destination.  Our original plan was Australia.  We’d gone so far as to inquire about possible apartments, contacted local universities and flight times to visit beforehand. But the work visas alone would have cost $12,000 and there were a myriad of other barriers that ended up scrapping the idea.  Next was Southern California.  I’d secured a job down there.  We were knocked off that plan by the fact that going to L.A. meant further implantation into a career I currently loathe.  So finally we settled on Seattle.

The packing and preparing for the trip has been going on for a couple weeks now.  I cannot believe the amount of crap we have been able to cram into a small 2 bedroom apartment (it’s really a large one bedroom).  With most items I pick up, I doubt why I ever bought it to begin with.  Why did we need THREE meat loaf pans that have never been used?  My wife doesn’t even eat meat loaf.  But we have three of these things.  Three pans - only for meat loaf.  But there I was, wrapping and packing them.  I thought about throwing them away, but at that moment I was really hungry for meat loaf.  I was thinking, “man, I’m gonna want meat loaf again, and when I do I’ll be glad I packed this shit.”  I have an entire box about as big as an old tube TV that is filled with electrical cords to devices that I may or may not still own.  There are cords for old cell phones, laptops, stereos, etc.  I don’t know what they go to.  I only know that when I plug something in, I will have the cord buried somewhere. 

None of this even hints at the baby stuff we don’t use.  We spent at least $1000 on just baby chairs.  A couple are for rocking the baby, one props her up, some are for holding the baby.  All I know is that the baby is quickly reaching “kid-dom” and she doesn’t sit in any of these things anymore.  All of them are bubble-wrapped and coming with us.  You better believe I will not be paying $1000 for more of these things when the next one is born (we all know this is a lie because we don’t have the boy version of all this crap). 

Amongst the numerous piles of stuff that amounts to the thrift store that is our apartment is a video game system I bought from some dude on the street near Union Square.  It is essentially a video game controller with “thousands” of old Nintendo-esque games imbedded into the controller itself – which you then connect to the TV.  There’s “Duck Shoot”, “Super Morio,” “The Legend of Zeyda,” “Mega-Robot” – you know, all the classics.  One of the accessories to this copyright nightmare is a plastic light-gun like the old gun that came with the old Nintendo system.  Only this one looks exactly like a real, black pistol only there’s a cord running from the butt.  As I’ve packed each box, I’ve noticed that I tend to hold on to this thing.  I point it at stuff and fake shoot things like records and ugly people that pass by the window. 

I’ve gotten into arguments with right-wing buddies of mine about why I should not get a gun, and this is exactly why I shouldn’t.  Because I want a gun.  I think owning one would be awesome.  I want an old pistol like Blondie from The Good the Bad and The Ugly.  I want a holster with bullets on it that hangs low around one hip.  But I don’t want it because I want to protect my family or do target practice or hunt or something.  I think I want it because I want to walk around the house like I did when I was 10 years old and silently pretend I’m a cowboy or Harry Callahan.  And I would, too.  I’ve priced these things.  I would spend the $700 on a gun so I could walk around and point it at crap.

I would be put away so fast that there’s no way on earth I should be allowed to have a gun.  I shouldn’t even have the plastic one I have.  On multiple occasions I’ve told myself I should cut the cord off the bottom and keep it in my glove box.  This thing looks like a real gun.  I can only imagine what would happen the first time I got pulled over and the cop asked for my registration.  He’d see this gun in the glove and freak.  I would then try to show him it’s fake by – like an idiot – pointing the damn thing at him, and then I’m the next news story.  And knowing my life, I’d be shot on my way to buy the ingredients to meatloaf.  Clearly, as I sit under the cardboard box fort we’re building in preparation for the move I should just send my stuff to more responsible people.

I’m currently in a Starbucks working on a piece I’ll publish later and sitting directly to my right is a man who has shaved the top and sides of his head, but left a patch of hair on the back.  He was hunched over and furiously thumbing buttons on his handheld Playstation.  His face was so close to the screen that you could see the glow reflected on the greasy hair on outskirts of his head.  Well, he just passed out, face down with his nose on the triangle button, and unfortunately his bloated face is in my direction which means the alcohol breath is wafting my way and making me slightly light-headed.  Behind him is a very short older man looking giddily out the window at all the girls passing by.  The Starbucks is about 4 feet below the sidewalk outside so I think the old man is looking up skirts.  I think he’s mentally challenged though, so I really can’t tell what he’s doing.  The rest of the people in here are normal business folk looking at their Blackberries, laptops, and staring only at their own circular tables. 

This is my New York experience.  It’s me eyeballing crazy while the rest of the world is either ignoring it or are too self-absorbed to pay attention.  

Yesterday, I’m walking down Washington Street here in Hoboken and who do I see but Chris Nirschel.  I know.  No one knows who he is, but I’m made to watch Food Network Star on the Food Network, and this dude is one of the contestants.  You can see a write up on him by going here:  http://zoknows.com/2011/05/09/chris-nirschel-food-network-star-finalist/

Or you can see a video bio by going here: http://www.hulu.com/watch/246762/food-network-star-bio-video-chris-nirschel?c=Reality-and-Game-Shows

Go to those links because I tell you when I saw him, the guy was wearing the exact same blue V-neck T-shirt.  It was 2PM on a Tuesday.  He was walking through town slowly and just looking up at the buildings.  He hadn’t shaved in a few days and was meandering about.  On the show he’s clearly one of the weaker participants.  Something tells me he gets eliminated this week.

In my job I wear a tie.  Generally the same one.  It’s a thin, black one I usually keep tied even when I’m not wearing it.  When I want to take it off, I just loosen it enough to get it over my head and leave it hanging somewhere – hopefully with a mental note of where I placed it.  In New York, I notice that a lot of establishments keep old early 20^th century photos on the wall, and I notice that the tie is staple garment in a man’s attire in these images.  It was a fixture to the uniform of the modern free market male of the era.  To me, however, it is merely the quintessential symbol of middle management.  I’ve met very few individuals wearing a tie and jacket that I actually wanted to meet and converse with.

This isn’t always the case.  I’ve known a few people who wear them as part of their look. It might be a skinny tie under vest and jeans.  But I think most consider a similar anchor like mine.  Perhaps I need to incorporate different styles.  Maybe I could come to work with red polka dotted ties or ones with crazy triangles on it.  Or perhaps a Winnie the Pooh tie.  For some reason, however, I don’t think a swinging Pooh bear on my tie would relieve its stranglehold around my neck. Maybe I’m wrong.  Maybe the tie to some is their insignia of their advanced placement or their displacement from the unemployment line.  But to me it remains hot, cumbersome, and unnecessary beyond its fulfillment of an arbitrary dress code.