When Victor's mother died, I offered to drive him home, since I knew he didn't have a car or the necessary funds to purchase the Greyhound ticket to get back down to the southernmost reaches of Mexico. Plus, I was sick of my job, and after he left, I would be the only one left of the original crew, and all the new people just didn't get it.

Although the extent to which we had spoken over the previous 9 months included only the phrases, "Listo!", "All todo?", and "No bueno!", the look he shot me after our manager Manuel translated my offer into Spanish conveyed an understanding not recognized by either of us during that time. He smiled, said, "Si," and that was that.

I picked him up from a house he shared with three other distant members of his family the following morning at 5 a.m., and we headed west on I-20, towards El Paso.

Mushpit.

Many of you have written me emails asking about my inclination to urinate on the floors and walls of establishments such as Starbucks. “Why would you do that?” “Is that true, hahaha? Seriously, it’s not, is it?” Friends, it is. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t go out of my way to patronize such establishments, of which Starbucks is but one place in a long list of such businesses, but, should I find myself placed, however unsatisfactorily, in said establishment, I do admit that I indulge myself in this unsavory practice- an at least funny, if not wholly ineffectual form of protest against the shiny floor, soft-lit culture we’ve created for ourselves.

“What about the workers making 6 bucks an hour that have to clean it up? They’re not the ‘corporation’ you’re ‘raging’ against, man.” Fuck ‘em. They chose that job, and so, in my mind, they are that corporation. Ipso Facto. Fuck ‘em. This is the sort of dumb, unproductive ideology that so many attribute to punk rock, but don’t misunderstand me here. Although I have embraced and adopted whatever stereotypical image “that lifestyle” conjures up in any given mind, and in fact even wrote a song about this very subject called “Vote with Your Piss” in an old band of mine, I will not have this process, which is an amalgamation of years of dissatisfaction, disgust and apathy towards our terrible habits as human beings honed down to one hot, 45 second spray of steam and waste, tainted by being pigeonholed into the by now near meaningless term “punk.” Nope, punk or not, this one’s all mine. I take full credit.

Now, for the majority of you, I’m sure this still isn’t the answer you were looking for. You’re looking for some form of understanding, some way to relate. Perhaps you’re curious- maybe it is the case that you just simply want to feel the way that I feel. After all, that is the only way to truly understand someone’s thoughts. The human condition.

And with that in mind, I can only offer an example. I’m resigned to the notion that this is an all or nothing stance. You’ll either get it or you won’t. You’ll either understand or be even more baffled than you were previously. You’ll either be fer me or agin’ me. There shall be no grey area. And I’m okay with that.

The following interaction took place today at an establishment called Potbelly Sandwich Works, a place whose name I hate to even say, for reasons not clearly defined in my own head, but I think it has something to do with the fact that it highlights and casts a warm, friendly corporate overtone to the absolute gluttony of American consumption patterns. They make sandwiches, shakes, soups and chili that are just on the verge of being overpriced. Many would argue this point, which is why the prices are on the verge. Save your comparative sandwich shop pricing for a time when you’re looking to cater a bar mitzvah or something. I don’t care.

The setting: Aforementioned sandwich shop. 2 p.m. Enter Jonathan and Rebecca.

“Hey guys! And how we doing today?!” Another reason to hate this place is that corporate policy dictates that employees must not only feign happiness, but moreover, act like they give a shit about the customer’s daily lives.

“Fine.”

“Great! What can I get for you guys today?”

“I’ll have the pizza with no mushrooms,” Rebecca said.

“Will that be on white or wheat, ma’am?”

“White, please.”

“Got it. Pizza on white, no mush,” the overbearingly friendly man rattled back. “And you, sir?”

“Uh, I’ll have the pizza, too. On wheat, though. And no mushrooms, either.”

“Pizza on wheat, no mush?”

“Yeah, no mushrooms,” I said, the bile creeping its way up the back of my throat.

The overbearingly friendly man puffed his chest out just a little, and I caught a flash of his fraternity days coming back to him for just a moment. He caught my gaze, looked at me in a way that one might call severe, and sternly says, “Pizza on wheat, No MUSH.”

Sighing, I replied, “Yup.”

Rebecca and I shuffled down the line, and I muttered to her, “If he says ‘no mush’ one more goddamn ti-“

“TWO PIZZAS NO MUSH COMING THROUGH!”

"Or to see if you're about to get mugged. Either one. Probably both."

The following words were written nearly two years ago, but somehow seem to resonate even more now than they did at the time they were written. To wit:

"Sorry. I'm about as good at keeping committments to myself as I am with keeping in contact with friends and family that aren't directly in my line of sight each day. It has been well over a month since my last entry, and much has happened- many things that are exciting, many things that anger me, hopes for the future, longing for the past, and yet it all adds up to a general sense of anxiety coupled with the gripping weight of desperation and ennui. I hope to summarily and inadequately recount these events in the near future, but I feel a duty to finish my thoughts on my trip to New York, which, although essentially uneventful, seems important to wrap up, since it is the case that I almost never finish any writing project that I set out on."

And so, as history continues to repeat itself, the continuation of a story recounted by countless people on countless occasions, in countless times, cities, countries, lifetimes. Just filling in the ever-expanding gaps, if only until this too dissolves and requires one more recollection in another time, place, to fill space and accrue validation for the seeker. And on and on...

"We eventually found the right train and made our way back to 67th and Colombus. Turning the corner, we saw a huge line of people, and there were two minutes left on the clock. I suppose we made it just in time. Or were we two minutes too late? Regardless, we walked the half block to the end of the line. Two production assistants were checking people in, and promptly asked if I was there to audition. Two other fellows meandered up behind Rebecca and I and waited for their turn to be checked off the list. Just then, the P.A.'s made an announcement to the newcomers that they were all filled up, making me the last person in line. Is this a good twist of fate, or a portent of doom?

I took it as a good sign, especially since I still had forms to fill out for the audition. One of the questions was, 'What would Meredith Viera find most interesting about you?' This was a question I was confounded over. How am I supposed to know? I don't really care about her life, and I just naturally assumed she wouldn't care about mine. So, my response was that the Millionaire line was the longest one I'd ever been in, which turns out not to be true, as I waited in line with my sister and her friends for hours when I was in fourth grade to get New Kids on the Block tickets.

Nonetheless, it wouldn't matter in the long run since I would go on to fail the qualifying exam to get onto the show. The test was thirty questions in ten minutes, and I knew in the first two minutes that I was doomed. It turns out that the central reason for going to New York was the most negligible, inconsequential aspect of the journey. I was happy to get out of there so quickly, actually. The atmosphere in the testing room had the distinct feel of school, and I was instantly out of my element and anxious to leave. Not to mention that Rebecca had left me at the door and was now wandering around the city by herself, which made me inexplicably uncomfortable.

On the way into the testing room, a flamboyantly gay man who cut in front of me in line was proudly strutting with our sheeplike herd, which incidentally was paraded around nearly a whole city block before being admitted into the building, gleefully announcing to the total world of strangers around him and across the street that he was auditioning for Millionaire. I hung my head in shame.

Surrounding me in the testing room was a true melting pot. Every type of person imaginable, save the Brown University dyke type, the anarcho-punk (my personal favorite), and the anarcho-hippie (my least favorite). I was definitely one of the younger ones in the melange. I was seated at a table with all men, who ranged in age from 25-60. Directly across from me was a portly- well, why mince words- a fat, balding man with vibrato to spare. An insecure joker, he tried to lighten an already casual and [the network's idea of a] fun, loose atmosphere- complete with late twentysomething test proctors and various other hip looking P.A.'s. He made 'funny' quips and asides in between every sentence the proctor spoke. He raised his hand and asked one of those 'funny because the answer is obvious' questions.

At the end of the test, his wit and charm proved no match to his utter inability to pass the test, just like the other 85 out of 100 people that didn't, myself included. On the table were official 'Who Wants to be a Millionaire?' pencils that we all took the test with. Most everyone around me that failed the test were palming their pencils or putting them in their bags as a small memento of yet another failure in their lives, and I followed suit.

As we shuffled out amidst post-test banter about the Missy Elliot question and who led the Zapatistas, the fat man, however, grabbed every spare pencil from each table he passed. At last glance, he must have had at least twelve of these things, and he stealthily stashed them in his fake designer shoulder bag.

As we exited the building, a woman near me asked simple directions to a nearby street, to which I responded that I wasn't from New York. She said, 'Me neither,' and continued to look at me in earnest. So, I gave her directions that I found out not five minutes later were completely wrong. Oh well. I walked up the street to a Starbucks that Rebecca had gotten coffee at earlier, thinking she may have taken refuge in the only place vaguely familiar to her. Not finding her there, I waited for the restroom to free up so I could crap, which, although I didn't really feel the need to do, I liked the idea of a free restroom in the middle of the city, and the fact that it was Starbucks was the crown jewel in the equation. I made sure to pee on the wall and floor before I sat on the toilet.

_______

I turned the corner and gathered my bearings. I fished a wadded piece of paper out of my pocket and found the nearest pay phone, which turned out to be about a block away, strangely. I had Rebecca's calling card number, and I needed to use it to call her cell phone so we could meet up. I dialed the number, and glancing at the PIN number on the paper, something seemed wrong. Then I remembered- days earlier, as we were traveling, she had at some point rattled off the PIN in the midst of a conversation. I couldn't believe it, but I actually remembered that part of the PIN had four two's in it, and the piece of paper that she had written the number down on for me only contained three.

I marvelled at my remarkable listening and memory skills, and said a quiet, 'Fuck yeah,' as I grinned to myself and dialed Rebecca's cell phone. As the line clicked to connect, I glanced around at my surroundings, y'know, like you do when you're on a payphone. A single moment between daily dealings when one is at rest, when one can take in the world around them and observe the chaos with which they are involved. Or to see if you're about to get mugged. Either one. Probably both.

Crazily, fatefully, my eyes instantly fell directly on Rebecca, half a block away and across a major intersection, walking perpendicularly to my line of vision, out of the possible hundreds in my line of sight. An audible gasp hit the back of my throat. I slammed the phone down and raced along the busy sidewalk, y'know, as one sees in the city sometimes and wonders, 'Where the fuck are they going in such a hurry?' or 'What'd he do? What's he running from?'

I thought about this as I zipped around professionals and professional transients. I always thought people ran through the city to get to an important meeting or class or court date, but as I ran through the crosswalk and hurried up behind Rebecca and slipped my hand through her pocketed arm, I realized that nine times out of ten it's probably for a girl. I couldn't believe I found my girlfriend in the middle of Manhattan by sheer sight alone. She kissed me and we walked around the city, past Central Park again, and eventually, we found our way back to the subway where we boarded the train to Jersey and returned to our hotel to clean up.

New York Retrospective: A Brief Pictorial.

Minor Interruption.

The chronicling of events past will continue with my next installment. I just feel it necessary to update those that may care (the devil may care! See: my attitude) on recent events in my life that are, I don't know, pertinent, or not at all pertinent. At any rate, things that have happened. In my life. Recently. Because this is a blog. And that's what one does. On a blog. Chronicle events. In one's life. Because people give a shit. Because this is a blog.

1) On Saturday, I went to Moore Funeral Home in Arlington, Texas to attend the interrment of my friend Joe Garza, who died last week. Joe was a good friend that played in many bands with me. You can view a biography that I wrote for his website here. It was a Catholic funeral, and I was fine through the whole thing until afterwards when I watched his big brother put his ashes in the little drawer while standing on a ladder. Then his sister played a song of his on a portable CD player- a song Joe recorded right before he died. That's when I lost my shit. If you click on the Joe Garza link, you'll hear the song I'm referring to. Then I came home and watched the series finale of Six Feet Under.

2) Later that afternoon, I got a credit card statement from American Express stating that they had not received my last payment- incurring any number of late charges, finance charges, and holds on my account, as American Express is merciless when it comes to matters of the heart, er, money. I called the company in complaint- I had sent a $100 payment not two weeks before. Of course, they hadn't received said payment.

"Can you cancel the check?"
"I sent a money order," I replied.
"Do you still have your receipt?"

Mere hours later, I found myself rummaging through rancid pizza sauce and unusable dough in the dumpster behind my place of employment searching for one piece of rectangular 65 lb. stock paper. I was searching for the receipt for a money order that I had thrown away not 18 hours earlier in a fit of boredom at work- a receipt that sat on the floorboard of my car for weeks. Why did I decide to rid my vehicle of trash that usually rests there until my girlfriend gathers and throws out in exasperation? Presumably so I could dig through a restaurant's dumpster in 100 degree heat. Of course! I did find the receipt, however, along with a number of other money order receipts I had purchased. Victory! Now to get the $100 refund from Western Union. All I have to do is send in the receipt from the money order (along with a $12 non-refundable service charge) with all sorts of information and conditions, one being, um, that the receipt be whole and intact. No problem. Except for that the one receipt I needed was RIPPED AND MANGLED.

So that was this Saturday.

3) Last Saturday, I skipped attending Joe Garza's memorial service in lieu of attending my grandmother's 80th birthday party/family reunion in Seminole, Texas- a town deeply west, about 30 miles from New Mexico. In fact, I visited New Mexico a number of times while I was there, as Gaines County is dry, and just across the border, in the beautiful deserts of New Mexico, the counties are as wet as you want them to be. And so, alcohol was purchased. And imbibed. The cousins and I had our fair share while playing card games and 'talking story' at the nearby hotel where my grandmother graciously put the young ones up for the weekend. Except for me. I was staying at my grandparent's house along with my father. After the evenings wound down, my cousins and I would retire to the hotel to drink and freak out the Mennonites who apparently let their women swim only at night and under close supervision. Generally, around 4:30 a.m., I would find my way back to my car and swerve back to my grandparent's home to pass out on the fold-out bed. And so it was last Saturday night.

Wait.

At the party earlier that afternoon, my grandfather, after having filled a plate full of barbecued meats and saladed potatoes, slipped and fell onto his hip and shoulder while exiting the back door of the house we were at. I was right in front of him when it happened, after having posed sardonically for a photograph that my aunt was insistent on taking. Luckily, he was okay. No paramedics were called, and the afternoon progressed as planned.

However, when I returned to the house later that evening in a severe state- I had just finished showing my cousin the first five chapters of R. Kelly's Trapped in the Closet- I found things to be amiss. Why, when I sneakily entered the house in a state of utter sleep, I noticed that the back door was open and the kitchen light was on- an unfamiliar attribute to a house normally quiet and dark after about 10 p.m. No matter- just let me stumble to my bed. Fuck brushing my teeth.

"What are you doing," my grandfather asked, scaring the fuck out of drunk me.
"I'm drunk. Why are you up?! I'm going to bed."
"I just can't sleep," he grimaced. "My shoulder hurts so bad."
"Aw, I'm sorry. That sucks. At least you didn't break it," I laughed.
Wincing, he said, "My hip, too. Gosh."
"Man, that su-ucks."
"Would you look at this and see if I have a bruise?"
"Sure, yeah."

And there went the pants. And underwear.

"Uh, yeah, you definitely have a bruise there. That's gonna be a big one."
"What about on my shoulder?"

At this point, he begins to take off his shirt, only realizing halfway through the process that his arm is in so much pain that he cannot remove his clothing on his own. So, what to do but enlist my help in removing his t-shirt? Directly, I found myself helping my already half-naked grandfather pull the tight, white Hanes shirt off his injured and aging body.

Thinking the worst to be over, I said uncomfortably, "Um, nope. No bruise there. At least not yet, anyway."
"It just hurts so bad, though."
"Well, you should put some ice on it. Or a heating pad or something. Ben-Gay or whatever," I casually mentioned, inching my way towards my bedroom door, praying for a swift end to this nightmare. One bullet's all it would take, I hoped.

"Well, I've got something in the bathroom I could put on it," he replied. "That would probably help."
"Do it!," I encouraged, turning on my heel and walking away.

Just as I reached the door to my bedroom, salvation only six seconds of dizziness and passing out away, I hear, "Hey, will you give me a hand with this?"
"Sure, what do you need?"
"Will you rub this on my hip? I can't reach it 'cause of my shoulder."
"Rub what? That cream? That cream in your hands?"
"Yeah. Ouch," he grimaced.

The world darkened. Shit got real.

"Sure.."

And that is how I found myself rubbing old people salve into my grandfather's heretofore unseen-by-me ASS, knowing all the while that the only reason I was able to maintain any sort of composure in this terrible, terrible situation is that I was completely drunk. And I'm okay with that. Actually, no I'm not. I'm not okay with that at ALL.

Fuck a Saturday.

"Call it New York Karma if you like."

Then we made our way back to the subway and headed uptown. Downtown? Whatever- towards the financial district. Toward the World Trade Center site. It was hard to find because the buildings weren't there to serve as a beacon. What? Too soon?

We saw a few buildings with giant drapes over them, perhaps to serve as blinders for the employees within, to keep them sane and productive, but I'm sure the official reason was far more utilitarian. There were mounds of construction everywhere, surrounded by streets barricaded, but we weren't sure if we were in the right place or merely among the melee of constant New York renovation. Finally, we spotted the garish tourist trap memorial- Ground Zero.

We made our way down the stairs which also served as an entrance to the subway to view the rebuilding through wire fences and black drapes similar to the ones that turned nearby highrises into giant shadows, into buildings composed of dark matter. We stared into the black hole of the site, and I, for one, didn't feel much different. It was somewhat impressive to see the scope of it all, how big it was. Although, I never saw the towers in real life, so I suppose much of the awe and indignation was lost on me. Plus, it doesn't help that I'm an insensitive asshole. Meh.

We continually cracked subversive and insensitive jokes and took satirically somber photographs of ourselves ensconsed in serious discussion and gazing pensively and morosely at the site, laughing hysterically for an instant here and a moment there, while simultaneously telling each other that we had to shut up lest we get our asses kicked. I guess it's a good thing that I didn't wear this shirt that day. I don't really own that shirt. Sigh...

After growing weary of being callous jerks, we decided to make our way back to the subway stop we came from as my appointment was drawing near. We had about 45 minutes, and the ride back downtown, uptown, was only about five minutes, so we had plenty of time. Of course, we got lost. I don't know how. I guess I just hadn't paid attention when we walked through Manhattan. I was more interested in walking through Tribeca and saying "Don't mind if I do," continually. I'd been saving that one.

We found plenty of subway stops, but none of them had the corresponding color or letter that we needed to get back to where we needed to be. I tried to walk quickly, but Rebecca's foot had begun to bother her, and the rain was picking up. Call it New York Karma if you like.

"I took the opportunity to marvel at the cleanliness of the restroom and piss all over the floor."

Day 3 cont'd., cont'd.

____________________

Within ten minutes, we were through the Lincoln Tunnel, explosion free, and pulled into the Port Authority Terminal. The blur of the city began, and we made our way to the subway station, getting deterred for a good five minutes by a guy trying to unload Improv Club tickets on us, a young man who wouldn't take no for an answer, though we managed to decline his incredible offer nonetheless, eventually. Lesson one: Learned. Ignore the comedy guys.

We were approached by no less than ten of these people while in Times Square. My declinations became less and less polite, so much so that the last one I remember encountering was visibly pissed off at whatever it was that I said to him, and stared after us menacingly. I awoke in the hospital.

Not really- but, with any luck, that guy became severely disillusioned with shilling comedy tickets and re-examined (or possibly, just plain examined) his life, and quit a job that would never offer an "in" into the stand-up comedy business, and promptly quit after our encounter. I don't distinctly remember the extent of our repartee, but it was something to the effect of, "Hey guys! Do you like stand-up come-"

"NO!", laughingly, jovially, like him.

In the subway station, Rebecca bought our one day "Funpasses" with her credit card. We were impressed- no- we were perplexed that the machine instructed the purchaser to "dip" the card to pay for the tickets. We searched the machine for some sort of credit card pool or flea bath to drop the card into, but to no avail. The only place to put the card was your average, everyday credit card slot. There was no "dipping" involved. You insert the card, and then quickly remove it. No dip.

A dip, to me, anyway, implies a quick drop and quick removal of an object, and usually the removal finds the dipped object covered in some substance not previously found on said item. We began to refer to everything as a dip, and I told her I was going to dip (excerpt missing here- oops! -ed.). Then, I dipped my hand into my pocket to retrieve my newly acquired subway ticket and we boarded the train and went uptown to see some shit, to wander aimlessly, to find the building my audition was to be at, and aimlessly wander. And look at shit.

We went to 67th and Columbus to find the ABC building that the audition was to be held, and there it was- just like the mystical email foretold. There were still about three hours left before the audition, so we continued down 67th Street to Central Park West and walked into a surprisingly serene and empty Central Park. We attempted to self-photograph some pictures of us in front of the grey, cloudy skyline with little success. Eventually, an old couple strolled by and offered to take the picture for us. I clenched my own bag a bit tighter as I handed the old lady the camera, just in case I had to bludgeon them if they tried to run, er, hobble off with the camera.

As I backed up to the fence to pose with Rebecca, I imagined the old couple as Rebecca and I from the future, coming back in time to help a young us- some sort of strange Auster scenario. After all, we were in his hometown.

We wandered around until we decided to find a place to expell urine. We walked up Central Park West towards 72nd Street, and while Rebecca talked to her mother on her cell phone, I noticed a particularly clever homeless man wearing a yamukah, pushing a shopping cart with a haggard partner. They stopped at a bench where an obviously successful Jewish businessman sat (he also wore a yamukah). I didn't hear their conversation, but it was clear that the homeless man was playing the religion/race card with the businessman, and whether or not the homeless man was Jewish was of little import.

I saw the businessman shoot the homeless man a disapproving, yet guilty look as he pulled a quarter out of his pocket and begrudgingly handed it over, holding onto and looking at the quarter a bit too long. So, I suppose the homeless man had won, but if the stereotypes about Jews and their money are true, the homeless man had seemingly carved a niche for himself that clearly wouldn't be too profitable. I suppose he would occasionally hit the guilt jackpot with some of the more self-loathsome, successful ones, if, in fact, the stereotypes pasted on Jewish culture are true, which I don't necessarily agree with, except that I know Mark is cheap as fuck. And he's one of 'em. Nonetheless, I found the homeless man's angle quite genius and enterprising. Maybe he was genuine after all.

We made our way to a Starbucks back on the corner of 67th and Columbus where I could piss without having to purchase anything. I took the opportunity to marvel at the cleanliness of the restroom and piss all over the floor.

"Not that I'm complaining- I just found it odd in a city that lost two huge buildings not three years ago."

Day 3, cont'd.

___________


"Hello," I said, cautiously. I saw this in a movie once. "Jonathan..." my mother's questioning-and-yet-relieved-in-knowing-that-I-was-still-alive's voice replied on the other end of the line, quite clearly, actually, for being over 2,000 miles away. Not that this should be a surprise. This isn't the fucking forties, after all. Some amazing advances in telecommunications have been made in the last few decades.

"Yeah-uh, hi...- what's.. up," I asked, taken aback. "I mean, I just walked up to the desk; we have to check back in."

"Well, I was wondering how big that hotel was! Is your room right by the office," relief and laughter in her voice.

"More of a manger, really. Hey, let me call you right back after we check in," I said.

"Okay, bye."

"That was weird," I smalltalked with the clerk. After we got checked in, Rebecca went back to the room and I called my mother from the payphone in the lobby, yelling to her over the jackhammer the various details of our trip thusfar. She told me that she had tried reaching us three times the night before, but that we hadn't arrived yet, not to mention a slew of sleuth's work tracking down the hotel's address and phone number after I had casually mentioned it when I told her I was going to New York.

I smoked a cigarette, said my goodbyes to my unconvincingly 'not worried' mother, bought a tea from a vending machine and returned to our room, where Rebecca and I finished getting ready to make our way into the city.

The shower head in the bathroom was attached to the ceiling. Man, is North Bergen ever weird. Finally ready, we made our way to the lobby to inquire about the best way to the city, after discovering that the whole wall full of brochures boasting things to do in NYC wasn't worth a shit when it came to getting around, unless one is interested in horse-drawn carraige, which, while not only being really slow, is also quite expensive by my estimation.

The lady at the desk gave us a badly xeroxed, hand drawn map highlighted with a pink marker along with some very hurried oral instructions. This took about three minutes, at the end of which I asked how much it would be to just take a cab. When she said, "Probably about $40," I asked her to explain her crazy pirate map again, the "X" being the Park and Ride which was literally just across the street- only seperated by a mound of dirt, construction and a railroad, and this time I paid attention when she spoke.

She said we could walk, but the bus stop was a Park and Ride, and even though the term "across the street" sounds simple enough, there were no crosswalks, sidewalks (except a very thin one crossing a bridge over a busy road), or places that weren't covered in dirt or surrounded by construction crews or machines. There were, however, concrete barriers, giant muddy dirt mounds, and an endless flow of one lane traffic on both sides of the street to traverse. Hell is easier to navigate. So, we decided to drive. Even though the Park and Ride was not only less than one quarter of a mile away, but visible, in fact, we still got lost.

Of course, there was no way to turn left out of the hotel parking lot and easily round the curve that led directly to our destination. Instead, we had (or, we were told) to exit the hotel's parking lot from the rear of the building, go left (or was it right?) out of the lot and proceed to the nearest 'turnaround,' where we could then access the road that would lead us in the direction we needed to go. There was also the matter of a stoplight that we were told to wait at until it turned red, and then proceed through.

Though this was baffling, it did shed a great deal of light on the mishap we experienced the night before. Apparently, there are lights that one goes through when they turn red. Exactly. We ended up back at the hotel, feeling like dullards (that was probably just me..), asking for the third time about how to get to the goddamned Park and Ride. Luckily, the lady was friendly and courteous, as were most of the east coast residents we interacted with. Stereotypes be damned!

Eventually, we made it to the Park and Ride, parked the car as far away from the bus terminal as possible, and upon arriving, bought round trip tickets for our ride into the city. I smoked a cigarette in the drizzle and felt like a backwoods hick- no one else was smoking. Progressivism and ad indoctrination are still alive and well in the east, and out of the eight million stories in New York, I'd bet only about 500,000 of them smoke. It's just not romantic anymore.

The bus came, and I marvelled at how easily a would-be terrorist could smuggle a bomb on board and blow the Lincoln Tunnel to bits. Not one metal detector or C4 sniffing dog in sight. Not that I'm complaining- I just found it odd in a city that lost two huge buildings not three years ago.

"A moment later, she looks at me strangely and says, 'It's for you.'"

Day 2 cont'd. cont'd., cont'd.

_________________

"We require a $20 deposit to activate the phone... and then we charge for any calls you make." Even credit card calls? "Yes, sir. But there is a payphone in the lobby, sir." Well, of course there is. Okay.. thanks. "Thank you, sir." Oh- wait. Is there any way to turn off the air in here? We tried to, but nothing's happening. "Yes, sir. You just turn the knob all the way to the right. You'll hear it shut off." I know, I think that's what we did, but nothing happened. "Hmm... try it again." Okay, great. Thanks. "Thank you, sir." Oh, um.. one more thing. Could we get a wake up call? "What time?" Uh... 11? Rebecca? Yes- 11 o'clock. "Thank you, sir." Thanks.

I walked to the thermostat, looked at it- a beat here- and turned it all the way to the left- the coldest setting. The air conditioning clicked off. Another beat. I walked to the window and opened it to smoke, cradling the cigarette under the umbrella of my palm as a driving drizzle tried its best to pelt me, then changed its mind, blowing parallel to the building. It must have been having an existential day as well. I decided to wait to phone my mother until the morning- I didn't feel like going downstairs again. We settled into the bed and Rebecca made drinks- beer for me and vanilla vodka and 7up for her. And me, too. I really needed to take the edge off. Not that it did much good. I was too keyed up to relax, so Rebecca started in on the massage she'd been promising all day. At some point we turned off the television, likely around 4 or 5, and went to sleep, finally.

Day 3

___________

The wake up call came and I awoke somewhat refreshed. Either that, or I was still filled with excess anxiety that my body couldn't get around to the night before. Checkout was at noon, and we were required to check out and then check in again, as we had decided to stay an extra night so we could meet up with Rebecca's father and extended family on the way back through Pennsylvania.

The elevator doors opened into a lobby filled with disgusting noise. In New Jersey, "Under Renovation" is not just a sign. It's a statement. The statement is, "Prepare to be bombarded with a fucking jackhammer." We approached the desk and began the process of yelling our request to check back in. Right as we began talking, the phone rang and the clerk motioned for us to wait while she answered. A moment later, she looks at me strangely and says, "It's for you."

"I made a phone call to the front desk to inquire about the phone."

Day 2 cont'd., cont'd.

________________

I circled the hotel an indeterminate number of times, hoping somehow that the elusive Palace Hotel would emerge through the mistiness of the late Jersey evening, a literal oasis, a savior for the road-weary- to no avail, of course. I decided to stop and ask for directions at the Radisson, and thought twice about it, my fatigue becoming paranoia about rude and embittered East coasters that must surely have had it in for me. Why is this city so goddamned hard to get around?! It was one in the morning. Surely the night clerk would steer me the wrong way. Fucking tourists. I'd do the same thing.

I parked in a no-parking zone, hazards ablaze. I peeled myself from the seat, legs and arms jittery from all the subsiding adrenalin, my fight or flight instinct disabled, mutated into an unfamiliar strain of 'drive or die,' a new bacteria that easily conquered my nerves. Walking to the door of the hotel, I felt high- in a bad way, though- and light flashed in my periphery, light that wasn't there, exploding into a million refracted points by the raindrops collecting on my eyelashes. Eyelashes and water- the stoned man's prism.

I made it to the door under a shining, wet maroon awning and pulled. And pulled again, just to be sure, like people do when doors are locked. And.. once more. The night man looked up, bored, used to the homeless, probably, that yearn for a lobby of repose. Wet, haggard, crazy-eyed- I could have been homeless. I made some sort of motion with my hand- Open the door. He pointed to the wall on my right- a telephone, sans buttons. I picked up the receiver, and directly was having a conversation through two glass doors and about 100 feet of lush carpet. Essentially, I was having a face-to-face phone conversation. As Brendan Kelly said, "There's two types of prisons, some say. One where you're locked up and everything's outside, and the other one- you're outside and everything's locked away."

The overweight man, stuffed into a shirt and half-vest, pointed the way. "Go that way, about five or six miles. You're on the completely wrong end of the street."

"That way," I pointed, mimicking his gesture. A not wholly unfriendly nod. "Thanks."
Click.
Back in the car, I felt better, but not relieved. We wound our way up the hilly street and emerged at an odd three way stoplight. It was red, and so naturally, I stopped. One line of traffic, off to my left in a sort of S-curve, was stopped as well. One line, to my right, at sort of an acute angle, was also stopped. I sighed- a momentary lapse.

A car pulled up behind me, stopped quickly, and inched closer. As I watched the headlights begin to set in the horizon of the bumper and mirror visibility, a car passed on the left, fast, right through the red light. Then the honks began. I can only imagine what the guy behind us was saying: "Fucking GO, Texas!"or "Dumbass hick! GO!" or "As a native Texan, I understand this fellow's confusion at this strange intersection, and perhaps if I gently honk, I can coax and encourage him to bolster enough confidence to FUCKING GO, DOUCHEBAG!"

Shit. The light's red here, but I guess I'll go. "Shit," I told Rebecca. Very cautiously, I edged into the intersection, and then zoomed through. "What the fuck was that?!" I pondered. Finally, though unbeknownst to us at the time, the worst was over. The horrible, seemingly destroyed by giant, spiked metal feet, construction laden road finally put the Palace Hotel into our line of vision. Elation. Exhaustive elation. We pulled into a spot on a hill and staggered, somewhat melancholy, into the lobby. We checked in, inquired about the continental breakfast we would not be attending in the morning, and rode the elevator up to the fifth floor of the 'under-renovation' hotel.

When the doors opened, thousands of us stared back at us. The entire hall was lined with one or two inch lengths of mirrors, seperated by dark strips of wood. This wasn't helping. This was Timothy Leary's vision of a hull in a 1940's pleasure cruise liner. A few more steps... a few more. We closed the door behind us, leaving the sounds of partying tourist groups just returning from the clubs in NYC to bounce off the mirrors and settle into the dark carpet and plaster ceilings and become part of the living history of the building, to give the hallway character, to help one to feel less alone when walking in solitude in the aging hotel.

I returned to the car to put our parking pass on the dashboard and to retrieve Rebecca's pillow. I returned to our freezing room. There was a thermostat on the wall, but we couldn't turn the air off. I told my mother I'd call her when we got there, so I tried to make a calling card call from the phone by the bed, and when Rebecca and I had both tried enough times to determine that it wasn't our fault that we couldn't dial out- we aren't stupid, for Christ's sake- I made a call to the front desk to inquire about the phone.

"In fact, I think we may have driven into the brownstone district."

Day 2, cont'd.

_________________

The final hundred miles to North Bergen, New Jersey, where our hotel was located, were appropriately the most grueling. Why should it get easier? We passed a giant building that said "Nestle" in giant blue letters on the side, and I began to speculate as to whether it was a factory or a distribution center, shortly before we passed a smaller building with wide, sweeping windows that appeared to be on the same property. Inside the building, backlit by what must have been 1,000 watt spotlights stood what appeared to be a giant vat, and we decided that this building was the actual Nestle Factory, which, though not marked by any signage, must surely have doubled as a fun tourist attraction for Jerseyites, or at least bored schoolchildren on field trips. We marvelled momentarily at the thought of thousands of gallons of molten chocolate percolating inside a big, brass pressure cooker.

I began to feel the comfort of the home stretch, imagining that this factory must be the beginning of what must be vast urban sprawl, growing further and further out of the giant industry of New York City- vericose veins of business branching out and out in search of cheaper real estate and softer blood cells to contaminate and render unattractive.

Unfortunately, this turned out to be an anomoly, as, aside from a few shopping districts and gas stations, the densely potholed, divided expressways, rust iron and corrugated steel of the Garden State's North Bergen were still a good sixty miles away. Presently, I focused my attention on driving rain and rude truckers, and as I felt my car hydroplaning every twenty seconds due to the next divot in the road, each one longer and deeper than the last, I hunched further and further over the steering wheel, feeling not unlike any number of stereotypical images of old men or women behind the wheel, my heart rate rising rapidly as Rebecca grew agitated aloud as she attempted to decipher the final, most confusing directions so generously bestowed upon us by the inhuman, cold and calculated brain of Mapquest.

I began to second guess, to question myself: "What the fuck am I doing right now? Why am I driving in New Jersey at one in the morning? Wouldn't it be weird if I died out here, 1,600 miles from home?" I began to think that Rebecca's mother would think that I had done it on purpose- taken her daughter from their happy home to commit a strange murder-suicide.

Finally, we sensed the nearness of the city; not from traffic- the highway was surprisingly empty, even for a Tuesday night. But, what do I know about traffic out east? The big rigs were still problematic, and the rain and puddling hadn't ceased, so tensions still walked a tight line in the car. I took a risk and exited the expressway to the other, unnecessarily divided part of the expressway- luckily- just in time to make the exit to the city highway that we needed to be on. According to my odometer, we were a mere two miles from our one-way, 1,596 mile journey.

As soon as relief began its washing effects on my mind, the sense of security was quickly swept away by a tide of fresh anxiety and worry. We had found our way to North Bergen, to be sure, but now to find the city street to turn onto. I crossed a horribly ugly steel, brown bridge, wondering if it was completed, or if mine would be the car that would finally buckle the ancient girders, imagining a disastrous death of stinking Jersey river and toppling I-beams. I looked off to my left- was that the skyline? It was too rainy and foggy to tell. A fine welcome, indeed.

We found the city road to our hotel, but I mistakenly took the way marked "Trucks Only." Some sort of out of the way, lesser traffic, wider lanes number that terrified me to no end. I felt we were surely lost. It just didn't feel right. I pulled into some sort of gas station and asked a cabbie and his partner the way. They looked at me awfully, and Rebecca lustfully, and gave me directions that were clearly a brush-off. I thanked them and faithfully took the way they prescribed.

Minutes later, I felt that they weren't lying. I spotted a Radisson. The hotel district! The hotel district? 'District' implies more than one, correct? I could see no other hotels around. In fact, I think we may have driven into the brownstone district.

"I wish I could've hung around truck stops when Nixon was in office."

Day 1 cont'd.

___________

At the end of our meal, we inquired about purchasing alcohol on a Sunday night in Tennessee, as the prospect of a fresh hotel room sans booze was a garish thought. We were pleased to find out from our perhaps overly knowledgable waitress that the alcohol laws there were actually more liberal than in Texas, which sounds absurd (at least to me, anyway), but nonetheless a pleasant surprise. We got a six-pack at a nearby gas station and continued on. I was driving 'in the zone,' and wanted so badly to whip the halfway point of our trip with a belt, which by my estimation would have meant travelling 1,000 miles the first day.

As the night approached the early morning late night of 4 a.m., we realized that most hotels require a checkout at or before noon, and we felt like getting as much sleep as possible without having to pay for two nights was a good idea. So, at 4:30, I relented, and pulled into a Days Inn in La Grange, Kentucky, and felt only mild satisfaction at having merely sort of elbowed the halfway point of our trip in the ribs in a large crowd while walking quickly by and behind it, wreaking a cowardly vengeance on it for having mercilessly stepped hard on my foot while it passed without so much as a second, or first, glance back in my direction- unapologetic, self-important and rude.

Rebecca stayed in the car while I got a room for one, and then we snuck in the back entrance, making sure to keep up the facade by not having Rebecca phone in our wake up call. It turns out I was really fatigued, only I didn't know it while we drove. That didn't stop me from drinking one, maybe two, beers and watching bad late night cable TV while Rebecca showered. (Excerpt missing here- damn ink pens and papyrus. -ed.) We went to sleep at or near six with plans to take advantage of the free continental breakfast between seven and ten the following morning, a plan that was quickly dashed the moment we closed our eyes. This would be a recurring theme for the following three nights. Not once on our journey did we consume any melon, burnt toast, bad coffee, or hotel scrambled eggs.

Day 2

________

The next morning we continued on- 700 miles to New York. I cannot remember when or where we ate, not that it's important. A lot of the day is a blur, though I do remember passing a sign somewhere in the mountains of Pennsylvania- a bonified, reflective, presumably state-sponsored sign that read, "Site of Fatal Bus Accident- 1988" in a shade of brown normally reserved for historical landmarks, tourist attractions, or tree sponsorship programs.

The mountains grew dense with fog and rain as darkness and semi-trucks crowded around my little car. The mountains lasted forever, and thinking about them now conjures a sense of depressedness, though at the time I was perfectly happy, if not just a tiny bit stressed about 18 wheelers and rain and death and an annoying windshield wiper blade that would be better termed a smearer. The roads were not too steep or winding in the Pyrenees, like those out west or in Hawaii, so there was an upside to it, I suppose. Earlier in the day, Rebecca discovered that our route was to take us directly through Washington, Pennsylvania, the town where her father currently resided, a man whom, before March of that year, she had not seen for five years. She called her mother to inquire as to whether or not she should call him to inform him that we were passing through.

Within minutes, the entire side of her father's family had heard the news- even her great-grandparents who were on vacation to the tiny, picturesque town, and plans were promptly made for a meeting and dinner on the way back home.

We emerged unscathed on the eastern side of the mountains, and what we lost in hilly altitude and curves in the road was made up for in increased rain and the hellish, slick, near destroyed roads of New Jersey. We stopped at a secluded rest stop about 100 miles from the city where I tried to help a man fish a quarter out of a pay phone that had become stuck in his haste to insert the coins and also read some fine, witty graffiti in the bathroom that involved Bush AND swastikas, as well as what seemed to be a legitimate gay personals ad space, complete with measurements, desires, abilities and actual phone numbers. Rebecca speculated that Bush is the only president that people tag bathroom walls in protest of. While the previous is a poorly written sentence, she conveyed her meaning, and I agreed at the time, but now that I think about it, I think I disagree. I wish I could've hung around truck stops when Nixon was in office.

"As middle class, young, white liberals, we naturally felt guilty."

This blog has become so stagnant that I can actually smell it when I log in these days. So, as an exercise in writing (and futility), I will, in the days to follow, post some writings that I did about my trip to New York a few years ago that have never seen the light of a backlit computer screen, in an effort to get my feet back on the ground of regular writing, and since the recent posts on this wretched mess have been about travel, I considered it to be somewhat apropos. Forgiveness, please, if any of what is to come is boring or uninspired. This is more for me than you. Enjoy. Or not. You know, whatever.

_______________________________________________________

Day 1
On Sunday morning, Rebecca and I arose at a leisurely hour- 10 or 10:30- and made final preparations and object gathering for our road trip to New York. We made it out of the apartment and into the car, all systems go, by 11:00, which surprised even me. We got gas and were ready for the open road when a snag arose: I had forgotten my map of NPR stations across the country- the map I essentially paid $35 for when I pledged membership to the local station, incidentally (or perhaps not) for the very reason of road trips. No matter. We were merely one minute from the apartment, so I returned and retrieved it, and we made our way, our long, three mile, arduous way to the interstate.

Interstate 30, to be exact. In our haste to get on the road, we failed to eat anything, and we were both quite hungry, not to mention a little queasy from a night of drinking with Nick and Steve the night before- a sort of unintentional bon voyage, as Steve headed to the farthest Western reaches of the continent the following morning- the polarity of life pulling each of us in opposite directions, at once the same.

We hit standstill traffic just east of downtown Dallas, a strange anomoly on a Sunday, orange cones and police cruisers directing traffic around an invisible accident, at least as it appeared when we passed it. We were anxious to eat, and the choices are not scarce on this stretch of road, but I was determined not to stop until I was unfamiliar with the territory around me. This is how I guage progress. Had we eaten anywhere before Rockwall (which is where I worked at the time -ed.) I would have lost the sense of being on the road, and would be liable to lounge and drag my feet. Rebecca complied, and we waited until we were approximately 82 miles from our starting point, and pulled into an unfamiliar town and ate at an unfamiliar IHOP amongst the post-church crowd.

Stuffed into a tiny two seat table in the back, I accidentally got too animated in a classic Jonathan rant, and said 'fuck' a little too loudly next to a family of five, three of which were under the age of six. Oops. We distracted ourselves from talking until the food came by playing children's games of shaping and reshaping straws into makeshift hearts, which quickly degenerated into some form of flick-soccer or hockey across the table, scoring goals and changing the rules mid-flick to make the game work to our own exclusive advantage. By one, we returned to the highway and continued, or rather, began the long trek.

We traveled approximately 882 miles the first day, eventually surrendering to the hypnosis of the road in La Grange, Kentucky, where we stopped at 4:30 a.m. at a Days Inn. On the way there, we passed through, amongst other little towns, Little Rock, Arkansas, Memphis, and Nashville, Tennessee. In either Memphis or Nashville, we stopped to eat dinner after minutes upon minutes of indecisiveness, at a Shoney's that, while quite crowded when we arrived, quickly cleared out as soon as we sat down. We sat next to one another, as we usually do, and faced the front of the restaurant. Soon, an overweight black woman and her daughter sat next to each other at the table directly in front of us- facing us- and in an instant we were essentially sharing a table with two complete strangers, face to face, as if we were communing with friends or family. With both of us as insecure and inept at dealing with social situations as we are, I cannot speak for Rebecca, but I for one was uncomfortable. I don't like people looking at me. Of course, I realize that this is a very conceited thought- as if the lady across from us even saw us, much less took the time to fully look at us. Her attention would likely have been focused on her daughter, who was clearly severely retarded, or mentally handicapped, or whatever it is you say these days, but even this was not the case.

Perhaps the eleven or twelve years that she has had to deal with her quite needy child had left her numb and spiteful or simply indifferent, which, at any rate, left her free to ignore her daughter and stare silently at her menu, addressing her child only when she became increasingly loud in calling for her mother to look at any number of, to the ordinary mind and perception, inane objects and details. She seemed to continually stare at us, which made me less uncomfortable than if a 'normal' person was doing it. When Rebecca got her baked potato, she hit her head on the low hanging light when she got up to dress it at the buffet table. The little girl found this hilarious, and laughed and laughed. I laughed, too. The little girl quickly diverted her attention to other things, and we ate.

After we left, Rebecca was honest enough to admit that watching the little girl eat (a ridiculously messy sight) was uncomfortable for her, and she had to stop looking in that direction altogether. I felt the same way, but I was reluctant to mention it, as I didn't want to seem like a close-minded fool, simply because a little girl ate messily. As middle class, young, white liberals, we naturally felt guilty.

Friends and Compatriots!

For all my friends from Myspace- my goddamn site has been hijacked and hacked. Maybe I'll get it back, and maybe I won't. Until further events warrant the answer, I shall remain close-lipped. Just prepare yourselves. That's all I'll say.

This is the business, and y'all ain't gettin' nothin' for free.

What is most feared has now become reality. I will return soon, with much aplomb, accolade, and machismo. This, to you, I vow. No one is reading this.

HP stands for Helpful Percy.

Copied below is an actual copy of an actual conversation I had online with an HP representative a few weeks ago when I was drunk. Good people, those HP'ers. I tried to draw him (or her, I'm not sure) out, but to no avail. Professionalism all the way with those people. Salt of the earth, those people! Those people- wow! Helpful, but not personable. And that's what I expect in a computer problem setting. "Take care of my problem, and then kindly fuck off, no matter what I say." Fix my computer, and then kiss my ass. That's why I bought the computer. So you can be subservient to me. Because I bought my computer from the company that you work for. BE SUBSERVIENT TO ME! As a consumer, I DEMAND it, even if I'm drunk!

Chat Transcript Begins Here.

Percy-Hello Jonathan.

jonathan pool- hello..

Percy- Welcome to HP Total Care for Pavilion Notebooks. My name is Percy. How may I assist you today?

jonathan pool-thank you for your courtesy..

jonathan pool- um..

jonathan pool- when i plug in my computer, the screen goes dim. when i unplug it, it gets bright.

Percy- Okay. Could you let me know the following System Information. Serial Number : Model Number : Product Number : The Model, Product and Serial numbers are located on the bottom of the notebook on a white sticker.

jonathan pool- hp pavilion zv6270us

jonathan pool- is that sufficient?

Percy- Yes,that's sufficient.

Percy- Could you please give me a couple of minutes to work on the issue?

jonathan pool- absolutely.

Percy- Thank you.

jonathan pool- Percy, for you, anything.

Percy- Thank you for your time Jonathan.

jonathan pool- Thank you!

Percy- To resolve this issue you need to adjust the Brightness of the display.

jonathan pool- Okay.

Percy- I would like to inform you that the brightness of the screen can be adjust by pressing the following keys Fn + F7 - To decrease the brightness Fn + F8 - To increase the brightness.

jonathan pool- Genius!

jonathan pool- Question..

Percy- You have to increase the brightness when the AC adapter is plugged in the wall socket.

jonathan pool- Is there any particular reason why the notebook would have switched the way it did?

jonathan pool- Because, before, it was doing the opposite.

jonathan pool- i.e., bright when plugged in and vice versa.

Percy- It will only reflect the previous settings.

jonathan pool- How do you mean?

Percy- The setting will be saved for every time they are changed.

jonathan pool- That's what I'm not sure of, because I didn't change any settings.

jonathan pool- So you're saying that if I make the screen dim when it's unplugged using the fn button, it will go dim the next time I unplug it?

Percy- That's correct.

Percy- Let me explain more that the settings for brightness will be saved by Windows whatever have been configured the last time. So if the brightness is made to minimum when AC power is connected then it reflects the same settings next time when you plug the adapter.

Percy- So Windows will make the appropriate settings for the display when the notebook is connected on battery and on AC adapter.

jonathan pool- Interesting. Might it have anything to do with watching things on real player when it was unplugged? like, does real player maybe default to a brighter setting?


Percy- So I suggest you to increase the brightness ( at plug-in position ) and then disconnect the Adapter. Now plug the adapter to test the results. To increase the brightness use Fn+F8 keys.To decrease the brightness use Fn+F7 keys.

Percy- No.

jonathan pool- Excellent. Thank you so much, Percy. You're the cat's meow. And I mean that!

Percy- Is there anything else I can assist you with today?

jonathan pool- Hmm.. no, I guess not. I'm just wondering how it switched the way it did. No matter, I suppose. Unless you have some insight.

Percy- Are you completely satisfied with our service today?

jonathan pool- More than you know.

Percy- I hope you have found this session helpful and informative. A copy of our Chat session will reach you shortly along with a Survey Questionnaire in 24 hours. Please do take your time to tell us what you think of our service. Our exclusive Owner Services will help keep all of your HP and Compaq products up and running. Please visit our Web site at: http://www.hp.com/home/ownerservices

jonathan pool- How are you doing, though?

Percy- I am doing well.Thank you.

Percy- Have a nice time Jonathan.

jonathan pool- They make you be completely professional, huh? You can't have much candid conversation, can you?

jonathan pool- The overnight shift, eh? Where are you guys? California?

jonathan pool- I'll leave you alone, I swear. Just wondering.

Percy- Yes. We are in California.

jonathan pool- How did I guess?

Percy- Have a nice time!

Chat Transcript Ends Here.

Right here is where I was attempting to apologize to my computer-savvy friend, Percy, for being drunk, but he/she didn't give me the chance. Just cut me off and sent me back to the HP homepage. I can't blame him/her, but I won't lie and say that it didn't sting a little. I'll probably never chat with Percy again, but I hope he/she knows that the job that he/she has is a shitty one where you can't even talk to a customer like a normal human being. Seriously, for the first few lines, I asssumed I was just talking to a computer generated response system. Until I asked questions that revealed otherwise. Although, I could be mistaken. I could've been talking to a robot the entire time. What do I know about technology? I'm sure they have computers smart enough to respond to bullshit questions like mine. I hope that's not the case, though. And, I hope that you, Percy, if you're an actual human being, that you find it in yourself, sooner rather than later, that human interaction is more important than a silly job with computers. I say that, but if I could deliver pizzas with a robot, I'd do it in a second. I hate interacting with strangers.

President Bush Adopts Ebonics During News Conference With Prime Minister Blair in Attempt to Seem "Cool" in Front of "Out of Towners."

If you didn't hear this press conference or think that I'm lying (which I completely understand), go here.

Q Prime Minister, this is possibly your last official visit to Washington as Prime Minister --

PRESIDENT BUSH: Wait a minute. (Laughter.) Back-to-back disses.

Yeah, that's right. Bush said "Back-to-back disses." Speculation suggests that he may have picked up this word after repeated visits to various jails across the country while bailing out his daughters on various drunk driving charges.



And for the President, what will you miss about Tony Blair, and what are you looking for in an eventual replacement?

PRESIDENT BUSH: Hmmm -- I'll miss those red ties, is what I'll miss. (Laughter.) I'll say one thing -- he can answer the question -- don't count him out. Let me tell it to you that way. I know a man of resolve and vision and courage. And my attitude is, I want him to be here so long as I'm the President.

PRIME MINISTER BLAIR: Well, what more can I say? (Laughter.) Probably not wise to say anything more at all. (Laughter.)

Here's something, too: Besides the awkward silence after Blair's last comment, and it was very awkward- seriously, he really did think it wise not to say anything more at all, and so he literally didn't, leaving the room full of reporters waiting blankly to see if he was being serious, a few twitters of nervous laughter here and there- there is an interesting omission from the above transcript, which did come directly from the White House site. I'm telling you- click on the above link and read the transcripts for yourself. It's amazing. In Bush's last sentence, what really aired was, "And my attitude is, I want him to be here so long as I'm the President, which is another 2 1/2 years." Oh, wait. No- the 2 1/2 year comment came from earlier in the press conference when he was talking about being Commander-in-Chief. Whatever. The point is that it's only 1 1/2 more years. Maybe Bush just slipped up again. He's certainly been known for his flubs during speeches, hasn't he, the little scamp?! But, I'll keep the conspiratorial side of me alive, too, and just say to not be surprised if there is some grand mal in the next election that causes Bush to stay in office until 2009 (or beyond!), and if/when that happens, I will gladly take your money, whether it be from a bet we made, or that you have taken me as your personal messiah and savior- either of which I will be glad to oblige you with. Now: go read those transcripts. And wait'll you get to the last two lines. I sense some fan fiction sites popping up after this open-endedness! Steamy!

San Francischronicles, Chapter ∞ .

On the last day of our trip, my camera was dying a slow and painful death. You see, I didn't bring the charger with us, because the charger is also a photo printer, and would have been quite a nuisance to lug around with us the entire time, not to mention the very likely possibility that I would drop and break it at any given point. So, we called Radio Shack to see if they had a charger for my particular model of camera. Of course they did- for only $50! When we got to Radio Shack, I explained to the young man working behind the counter the situation- we were only gonna be in town one more day, and just needed enough of a charge to make it home. I also played it real cool with the kid- let him know I was down. 'You into online gaming? Hell, I'm a 35th level Orc (I really hope I spelled that right.). You into weed? Fuck, let's get high, man! You into social activism? Shit, man, I'll form a picket line behind an "End Road Work" sign! Let's be pals!'

My ultimate coolness and Rebecca's friendly charm (pronounced: cleavage) eventually worked on the kid, who at first denied us due to his unfriendly, old, and uncool boss, but soon he said, "What the hell- I'll do it." Then- a problem. Turns out he didn't really have a charger for my particular model of camera. Turns out they're special order only. So much so, in fact, that not one Radio Shack in the whole of San Francisco had one. Then, an idea occurred to me. About technology. This is never a good sign, and yet I trusted myself again for some reason. I suppose I was simply in an affable mood.

"It says here that this just needs a 5 volt D/C cable. Don't you just have, like, a generic 5 volt plug we could use? That seems like it would work..." The Kid didn't seem too disagreeable with my idea, and so it was done. I knew it would take a while, so I told the Kid that we were going to eat, and we'd be back in about an hour or so to pick up the camera. The Kid said, "Word," we gave each other daps, and I moonwalked right the fuck outta there.

Upon our return from eating at The Yellow Submarine, The Kid played it cool, real cool, as we walked in. "Can I help you guys with anything?" Gulp. "Um...," I said, instantly betraying myself as so not down. We must've looked uncomfortable, because the next thing he said was, "...Or do you just want the camera back?" An audible sigh of relief crossed my lips, and soon he was behind the counter retrieving the camera. "Sweet," I said as he handed it to me. "Now to check the battery.. Huh. That's odd. It actually has less power than when we gave it to you."

The Kid shrugged, bored now with his act of rebellion. I knew it was over. The camera wouldn't even stay on long enough to snap one picture. It clicked on, flashed its red "battery drained- don't even think about it" icon and immediately turned itself right back off.

We walked out of the store, utterly dejected. The Era of Photographs had come to an end for this trip.

Or so we thought!

Now, dear reader, through the ironic use of the very technology that had so recently scorned us, YOU CAN STILL SEE PHOTOGRAPHS FROM THE REST OF OUR TRIP!

REAL PHOTOGRAPHS AWAIT!

DRIVING DOWN HWY 101 IN OUR RENTED DODGE NEON TO HALF MOON BAY!!


OUR FABULOUS HOTEL ROOM AT COMFORT INN IN HALF MOON BAY! THANK YOU, DEB!
PERCHED PRECARIOUSLY CLOSE TO THE EDGE OF A BREATHTAKING CLIFF AT HALF MOON BAY!

THIS COUPLE SENT ME A COPY OF THIS PHOTOGRAPH TAKEN AT A BEACH IN HALF MOON BAY! THEY UNDERSTOOD OUR DILEMMA, AND EVEN THOUGH THEY SPOKE VERY LITTLE ENGLISH, THE INTERNATIONAL LANGUAGE OF PHOTOGRAPHY WAS OUR BOND, AND THEY WERE MORE THAN HAPPY TO LET US SHARE A FRAME WITH THEM!

THEN WE WENT TO THE REAL MOON!!

A fitting end.

Note from the Editor: Due to the moratorium on doing any writing of any kind, especially as concerns blogging OR audioblogging (See "Ethics and Etiquette: An Author's Guide to Not Being Really, Really Lame and Embarrassing Oneself in front of One's Peers," Sec. 8, Par. 3, Clause 2, Subsection 6), while under the strange, cold, and careless hand of intoxication, whether intentional or not, this post has been forever removed from this blog, and all further conversation or thread-starting on other websites shall hereby cease forthwith. No questions or comments shall be directed toward the Author concerning this decision, as it was not his to make, and besides, any endeavor in this direction would only prove futile, as the Author has signed a sealed affidavit stating that he has absolutely no memory of posting the offending blog, even though the authoring of it spanned the course of 6 hours, not to mention 4 states.

Thank you.

San Francischronicles, Chapter 9.

Lombard Street. I drove our rental car down this stretch of madness to prove my worth as a San Franciscan driver, wondering all the while why it was that I felt nervous and inadequate in attempting to manipulate this crazy road. Then I realized that I should not be the one feeling weird and insecure about myself- it's the fucking engineer of this road that should! What kind of insecure city planner would put the residents of this particular street through the daily misery of having to navigate this monstrosity? I imagine it must have been some sort of personal vendetta- perhaps the person in question was beaten by his drunken father repeatedly on this street, and hoped to design a road that would eventually kill him in his state of inebriation. Either that, or some weird Oedipal thing that I haven't quite been able to surmise yet.

At Chrissy Fields. Rebecca's nonplussed look likely comes from the fact that I was probably complaining about something- the kite flyer's lack of form in the distance, the fact that I was really, really tired, or that "this picture would be so much cooler if the bridge was on fire."

SEE?!?

At Baker Beach. We're European!


"Zees art, zees life- ees stupid. Een my homelahnd, een Gearmany, we live life dat ees real. Zees- Zhees is all illusion. Fake American boolshit. Would that I hang myself with rope from zees picture."

At Seal Rock, where not one seal was to be found. Unless seals have wings and shit on your car while you're driving. Man, how awesome would that be...


Sleepytime at Seal Rock.

TELESCOPIC ART!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Another house Rebecca grew up in. The man in the top left corner of the photo was quite perturbed that someone was standing directly outside his front gate, and by the time we left, he had moved into the kitchen window directly above Rebecca with an economy sized jar of giffelte fish and was ready to hurl them at us loiterers had we been there much longer.. Our exuent was hasty. Though, if Shaw was here, Creed's "Arms Wide Open" might have blared from somewhere off in the distance and good times would likely have ensued.

Why I shouldn't be allowed to do anything, ever.

At The Mint Karaoke Bar in San Francisco. It's probably best that the video doesn't show much. I think the audio says enough. Kill me.

San Francischronicles, Chapter 8.

Sometimes people kiss other people on boats. So what? Why don't you lay off, man?

At the Mucky Duck in Inner Sunset with Mike the Awesome. The Mucky Duck is the best bar in San Francisco, for numerous reasons. Note the flagrant display of an ashtray in the lower left corner of the photo. Actually, that's pretty much it. And they have PBR on tap. And fully sanctioned giants for bartenders.

Click on this picture to fully understand what I stared at the entire ride home from the bar, and my subsequent dumbfoundedness. I'm still not sure what that lump is, and I'm not even drunk now. Oh, wait. Yes, I am.

BLURRY SUBWAY ART!!!!!!!!!!!

Horrible photograph of the Roxie Theatre, where we saw an awesome documentary about Bolerium Books as well as "As Smart as They Are," a documentary about the band One Ring Zero, who play at a lot of McSweeney's events. They have an entire album of music with lyrics written by a bunch of awesome authors: Paul Auster, Jonathan Lethem, Dave Eggers, to name but a few. I say "we saw," but in reality, Rebecca fell asleep through the entire film. It's okay. She was tired. As am I. So, so tired.


My Mecca: 826 Valencia. Only this time, at night.

At the Elbo Room in Mission District. As you can tell, we're serious. Serious about things. Namely that a 12 oz. can of PBR costs $3.50 here. Rebecca: "Are you fucking kidding?!" Me: " *sigh* No... I'm not. I'm really not this time."


Photograph from inside a photo booth. Whoah... I just blew my own mind.

The end result.

And thus ends my work week's worth of free internet at the hotel. I cannot promise anymore posts before I return home, for I know not what the future holds. We rented an automobile, and tomorrow we venture into the unknown, by which I mean the hotel we stay at may or may not have free internet access from our room. We're roughing it! Please stay tuned, however. I have something that, if I cannot get up tonight, will be up very soon that I am absolutely positive you will want to see, if for no other reason than to see how lame I really am. Trust me.

San Francischronicles, Chapter 7.

A Happy Ponderance. An Happy Ponderance? Whatever.


I believe that this will be my new mantra.


Action shot of me drinking! Rebecca's look of concern is well founded. Two nights previous, somehow I drank too much at The Mucky Duck(an awesome bar- great bartender and very friendly neighborhood "needy queers"- that's what the bartender called our new friend Ray, who got any number of free drinks from us. Also, I'm not sure if he was gay, seeing as how much he hit on Rebecca. Although he did tell me he'd marry me right now.) and remember very little of getting back to the hotel.


Um... I have, like, ten more pictures exactly like this.


On the ferry to Sausalito. If I look hard, it's because I am. Don't fuck with my gangsta stroll. Y'heard?

Lost m'teeth in a fishin' 'ccident. Y'can tell I'm still angry 'bout it, too. Death came slow to that damned sturgeon, and even slower for the albatross that caused all the trouble in the first place. Never leave shore without a welding iron, Mama used t'say. I'll take those words to m'grave.

MARITIME ART!!!!!!!!!

Staring down crabs in Sausalito. You'd be surprised at how easily they back down. They don't call them Cowards of the Sea for nothing.


Rebecca's twin sister, Carlita, The Russian Spy. Directly after this picture was taken, Carlita was discovered by the Port Authority taking photographs of the ship's hull with a small camera inside a ring on her finger. In a quick moment of indecision, she swallowed a cyanide pill given to her for this very instance. But then, she realized she had her rocket boots on. Perhaps she was not aware of the very devastating effects of cyanide, and believed she could fly to safety and rid her body of the deadly poison. Unfortunately, moments after she took flight, her body went limp and she sailed around the bay like a deflating balloon. The Port Authority immediately cordoned off the bay and began waiting for the boots to run out of fuel and bring Carlita down. They'll probably be there for a while. The boots were fueled by a highly concentrated mix of Uranium-238 and vodka.

Bad Punicles, Chapter 6.

We went to the Palace of Fine Arts today, after being kicked out of the Exploratorium at 3:00 p.m. for some schmaltzy private party they were having there. I muttered something to the effect of "inventing a perpetual motion machine that would continuously shove itself up your ass" to the attendant. He grunted, but I could see the glimmer of an idea sprouting up in his dead, dead eyes.

Sadly, naziism is not dead yet, even in as liberal and progressive a city as San Francisco. Shortly after I took this photograph, a recruiter from the local chapter of Hitler Youth approached me with some interesting looking fliers (they were printed on brightly colored paper!), but turned on his heel after he saw my unkempt beard- perhaps he thought I was Hacid. He saluted a weak Sieg Heil to the wall and disappeared into a nearby bush.

FUCKING ART!!!!!!!!!!!!

Illegally posing in front of the world's largest cement Faberge egg.

We happened upon a swan attempting suicide at a nearby pond. Sadly, minutes after we arrived, he succeeded. The reason for this swan's untimely demise is still unknown, but speculations suggest it could have been utter disillusionment with the realization that he had lived his entire life in a pond sponsored by a regime responsible for the deaths of millions of Jews.

In front of 826 Valencia, only the coolest fucking place in the entire world!!

So goddamn cool...


Rebecca outfitted in a lovely pirate's hat and official pirate handbook. You can't see it in this photo, but her pockets are filled to the brim with dubloons. And lard. Just two of the many pirate related items they sell at 826 Valencia. I bought six fake moustaches. No, wait. Seven. Seven fake moustaches.

View of an immigration protest from a trolley car. I took a photograph in solidarity.

INCIDENTAL ROMANTIC ART!!!!! (you may have to enlarge this photo to see the genius.)

San Francischronicles, Chapter 5.

And now, for the picture that you all knew was coming, but didn't think I'd actually go through with posting. You thought you knew me better. You were wrong.

I'm guessing this is art. I'm not sure.

Tree-sittin.' I think my facial expression conveys that.

Yancy's Bar. Rebecca's mom used to work here. Note the ancient cash register, which they actually use. For transactions. Of a financial nature.

Waiting for a bus that refused to come.

ART!!!!!!!!!!