8/7/09: The Cult of Heroism

I have yet to come to terms with the "noble knight" treatment of the police officer who Dennis killed “in the line of duty.” Colorado Governor Bill Ritter spoke at his funeral. It was a hero’s celebration complete with an antique fire truck taking the casket through Montrose. People lines the streets crying and holding hundreds of signs invoking the curious adjective “hero.” 

Admittedly, my opinions are slightly skewed having been involved in the “Justice for Money” system once or twice, and because of my own recent experiences; bringing the treatment of Leif in Tennessee, and the cop in Kalamazoo to mind. My respect for the law enforcement culture has been steadily waning for years, and I find the on-cue, contrived, advertised, on-your-knees worship outright amusing. It is as though all the episodes of CSI have rotted brains, allowing some to devour the peddled propaganda. 

Perhaps this cop WAS a great human being and Daddy of the Decade. But, these story’s are always portrayed the same: “Saint Killed by Monster!” It is as though the media is following a pre-conceived playbook. 

My background has led me to suspect strongly that is indeed the case with most “journalists”, with the exception mentioned in the previous post.

I do not see these cops as “heroes.” 

They were, I assume, storming Dennis’ garage while drawing a paycheck. I do not recall reading that they just happened by on their way to Baskin Robbins for sherbet and cake, spontaneously and selflessly choosing to get involved for the common good...personal safety be damned! 

No, that was not the case. 

They were law enforcement professionals. It was… their job. They chose their professions clearly knowing what the job may entail and, in my mind, are all too often little more than deified mercenaries who are contracted to uphold “The Law.”

Although I've yet to meet one, I'm sure there are wonderful, stand- up policemen and, not knowing this person, I do not presume to know anything about his motives. However, let's just keep in mind that an act of true “heroism” is NOT performed with a previous agreement of compensation. It is NOT an act initiated by the orders of others. 

Many of the comments directed at Dennis obliquely reference his “personal responsibility,” and that is fine; I am all for it. However, let's apply it equally. There is an element of that same "personal responsibility" when choosing a dangerous profession; one that pays quite well. Many have lamented as to how his daughter is now fatherless, and while that is sad, some of that responsibility lies with the cop himself. 

Using the litmus test applied to Dennis, one could ask why the cop did not take a desk job once his daughter was born. In addition, there is a big difference between NYPD’s heroes running into the collapsing twin towers, and running into a garage under the assumption that the worst this disfigured 50- something man can do is throw a hammer. What is heroic about believing you are running into little more than a fistfight when you outnumber the guy 3:1 with backup outside?

Heroism is something that requires a decision and action knowing your life is in jeopardy; not being shot because you were unaware that a person was armed when you were ordered, or gave the order, to rush him. 

I know these views are not popular is a society desperately clinging to every contrived example of heroism presented (and defined) by the mainstream propaganda machine. Herds of people whose "reality" is interpreted while sitting on the couch viewing the world through approved electronic eyes. 

I no longer care. This is common sense. I hope people are noticing this pattern. Right on cue, the media is blatantly enforcing the boundaries for the dialectic of “acceptable” thought.

That leads me to one aspect of this story that has not been addressed anywhere. Why were the police storming the garage in the first place? Obviously, they were acting on defective “intelligence” in assuming that Dennis was unarmed. Whose decision was it to run into this ambush? Where is the accountability here? 

Was that person not thinking of this cop’s daughter? 

It seems to me that using well- measured restraint; the situation could have ended much differently. Conceivably, Dennis could have sobered up and surrendered, or committed suicide alone. I do know that he had called his sons from the garage asking them to come to the scene. Possibly, they could have helped talk him out with an exercise in patience. I wonder if, with this patience, maybe a lengthy jail term would have provided an uninterrupted opportunity, and sobriety, needed to get a grip on his life. So many typical “maybes”. We will never know.

Finally, over the last week I have noticed a return of yet another of Morpheus’ Splinter in the Mind made evident by the re-manifestation of a well-known & gnawing negativity. Some of which are hovering directly above! I have decided to split this into separate posts, to make this a bit easier to digest. The next one will focus more on the future, and how I’ve been managing the sometimes-confusing process of digesting and incorporating all of this into the next phase, not just of the travels, but also perhaps on a larger scale.

8/7/09: Dennis-Violent End to a Tragic Life

As you can probably tell by all the references and foreshadowing, I have been gnawing on this particular post. I have intended to write it each and every one of the past six days, but wanted to be sure that it did not turn into an angry, emotional, self-serving rant. It still may, but it is never going to be the perfect time to write it, so here goes. Comments as always are always welcome below, but keep them respectful.

Last Saturday afternoon (8/1), I went online to the Denver Post for baseball news when I noticed a link that mentioned a funeral the day before for a police officer in Montrose, Colorado who the previous week was killed in the line of duty. When I saw “Montrose,” I instantly thought of Dennis. He was my first “real” ride ever, and as I read the article, I discovered that the man who killed the police officer and wounded two others before killing himself on July 25th was the same man I had ridden with: Dennis Gurney.

There had been a domestic violence call, and by the time police had arrived, he had barricaded himself in his garage. From what I have gathered, he managed to gain access to the gun safe without his estranged wife’s knowledge, or had stashed guns in the garage prior to the call. Either way, the police were unaware that he was armed when they blindly entered the garage to arrest him. He ambushed them. Dennis shot the three officers with a hunting rifle, killing one, and then turned his .22 Ruger on himself, committing suicide with a single shot to the head.

I sat paralyzed in shocked disbelief for a bit, and then frantically scoured Google devouring any details I could find. I naturally then began to reflect back on the short time I spent with him going back to the original post I had written 15-months ago, and finding it grossly inadequate. In my defense, this was only my third or fourth post and I was then treating this evolving blog like a novelty, not focused nearly enough on depth.

I had not figured everything out yet and was focusing much more on my actual written journal. As you will notice, if you go back to May 2008 via the archives, the posts gradually get more detailed as time goes on. I have seriously considered rewriting them several times, but decided that leaving them relatively untouched would preserve the continuity of where my focus and attitude were at the time. With Dennis’ post, however, simply leaving that blurb to stand-alone is now unacceptable at best, and probably bordering on irresponsible.

The many people I have told about Dennis’ death have seemingly responded the same: “See! People are nuts!” or, “You’re lucky he didn’t kill YOU!”

Horseshit.

Dennis was no lunatic. In my experience, he was a good, generous, obviously tormented person. He was not a person deserving the simplistic label "just another sociopath." With the benefit of hindsight and online newspaper articles, here is a bit more of his story.

As mentioned in the original post, in 1980 while in his early 20’s an oil well fire severely disfigured him. I had known about the fire and obviously, his appearance, but he had omitted some things from his narrative. Before trying to extinguish the flames, he went BACK to seal the source of the fire, sparing some of his co- workers the same fate in the process, while no doubt making his own infinitely worse. While you may sit in judgment this man, I would invite you to ask yourself this: If YOU were on fire, would you first think of the safety of others? Or, might you be focusing on the fact that you cooking alive?

Does this sound like a man with no regard for life?
Now, ask yourself this: How much Hell is a person expected to endure?
Once you have your answer, read on.

The fire had burned Dennis’ nose and ears completely off. With 3rd degree burns over 75% of his body, he died several times during surgery. Then, his wife was not allowed to see him  for 6-weeks after the accident because she was pregnant, and the doctors were actually afraid the sight of him would cause a miscarriage.

His burns were so devastating that doctors were unable to get enough of his skin to complete the graphs and resorted to harvesting skin from human cadavers and pigs. His body periodically rejected these, and the transplanted skin would actually decompose ON his body.

Once the doctors realized he would survive, the reconstruction process began doctors predicted Dennis might live another 10-years. Certainly no more than 20. Remember, this was in 1980.

Dennis’ recovery process required countless reconstructive surgeries over the span of years. The legal process of gaining a settlement from the oil company also took years. Dennis had indicated to me that he was “well off” but I paid little attention figuring, wrongly, that it was bravado. He and his wife ultimately received a huge sum of money, enough so that neither of them ever had to work again. At some point, they moved to Montrose on the advice of doctors who said the dry climate would help a man who had lost his sweat glands.

It appears that things were, relatively speaking, fine for nearly 20- years after the accident. He was active in the community, made friends etc., and there are even anecdotes from friends who never knew him to drink- even a beer. Yet, it appears that in the end that, despite the money and affluence, somewhere around 2000 things began to take a turn. From what I can infer, he began to drink more, becoming increasingly mean, spiteful, depressed, and ultimately violent when he did. Clearly, something had happened or changed. Someone noted that 2000 was the 20- year mark he was never supposed to reach.

Fast forward now to 2008.

Dennis picked me up in May while I was in Ft. Morgan. He claimed that I was the only hitcher he had picked up "in 20,000 miles," and had done so because (as I would hear often from that day forward from various people) he just had a “feeling.” I believe he needed the nonjudgmental companionship that an anonymous backpacker might provide. We spent nearly 5-hours riding along I-70 toward Glenwood Springs and he was gulping his now-famous vodka the entire way. He had a few peculiar conversations with his wife that I could hear via the truck speakers (OnStar), and then became progressively more despondent as the night, and vodka, wore on.

His wife had a strange tone to her voice, as though she sensed something familiar (drinking), and was not buying in to his repeated proclamations of sobriety. As the night progressed he became more introspective and reflective, and we forged an odd sort of bond as he began to open up. During that time, I saw first hand, at least superficially, many of the things written in various publications: Depression, self- destruction, self-pity, a quiet rage, and a complete lack of the fundamental tools needed to cope with his burden.

Dennis really was a good-hearted human being; but one relentlessly tormented by his appearance and by what had happened on that oil rig. Our conversation centered on how he hated his appearance and despised people for the way that they silently, but blatantly reacted to him. He knew his life was out of control because of it. The resulting over-sensitivity and self- consciousness turned vodka into his best (and indispensable) friend. Dennis knew his life was slipping through his fingers into that bottle, but was helpless to do anything about it because, for whatever reason, it was his only refuge. These were his own words, not just my vain attempt at street corner psychiatry.

I tried to encourage him to treat the source, rather than simply the symptom. In other words, I thought Dennis needed to deal with his appearance and how he felt about himself before the alcoholism. The two walked in lock-step, and I knew what I was talking about.

I spent most of my own teens, 20s and early 30s using alcohol as that same readily available anesthetic and social lubricant. I could clearly see my own reflected image in his anger driven self-destructiveness. It is the kind of rage that has no outlet because it has no target. Whom could he blame for his condition? God? I shared my own experience with alcohol abuse, and that the “state” had also tried to force me into the blanket cure-all: AA. And, how it was a complete failure even though I went in with an open mind. In the end, the solution cannot be found externally because it’s not “out there.” It must come from within; otherwise, you are substituting one anesthetic for another. One that is less destructive to be sure, but one that also continues to hide or suppresses the “infection”, so to speak.

I told Dennis that, for me, nothing worked for any length of time until I began to take a long, painfully honest look inside and began to confront some of the darkest, frightening, suppressed, corners of my psyche. The very ones we desperately want to avoid out of fear. The fear that we may not like what we find. Nevertheless, I told him, in the end it is a dragon we must face and ultimately, we each have to face him alone.

The good news is that while the dragon has a mighty growl, he has no teeth other than those we ourselves provide him through fear and cowardice. Rather than breathing fire, he has little more than nasty, chronic halitosis. Once you discover this closely guarded secret he begins to cower, then sit relatively quiet in the corner, snorting occasionally. But, a good metaphorical dirty look will silence him. Some say that he my eventually die of starvation once we quit feeding him our irrational fears. Perhaps we have the choice of either wallowing in our own mental feces, feeling victimized, or taking control of our fears and embracing the responsibility for becoming the person we choose?

Again, I know I just said it but it bears repeating: This is not a job we can contract out, and no person can “give” you these things. You can receive guidance but ultimately, it is your battle to fight alone. The reward however is priceless. Along the way, it will redefine you and allow you to reclaim your identity and establish it from within. I shared all of this with Dennis. Much of what happened with me personally with my family, a year later this past June, was yet another step in this long process. I don’t believe it’s “coincidence” that I noticed \I was finally able to drink like a normal human being again without the familiar and repeated Random Acts of Stupidity.

Dennis took to this concept and desperately (not an exaggeration) wanted me to stay at the hotel to talk more, offering as bait to take me all the way to Grand Junction or Montrose the next day. However, by the time that he checked into Glenwood Suites he was unable to hold a sensible conversation due to fatigue and vodka.

I also had begun to sense an odd vibe as his mood deteriorated. I'd had long since had enough and needed to move on. I told him, truthfully, that I liked him & would love to chat with him more but was simply sick of dealing with his vodka. His truck conveniently had a laptop with nationwide broadband, so I had secretly sent out Couchsurfing requests between Idaho Springs all the way to Breckenridge before finally arranging to stay with Leah in Glenwood Springs. I then hoped that I could keep him motivated to make it there through our conversations and the implications that there were ladies waiting to "party" with us!

I never talked to Dennis again, although he did have my cell number. I have since hitched and backpacked all over the country and Dennis had been a favorite story and reference point about the interesting, and GOOD, people I have encountered. He will continue to be.

I believe he was a tormented soul who was seeking the friendship of a complete stranger and for a while, and found it. I had often wondered what had become of him and thought of him often. People seem to love to label Dennis as a “cop-killing monster” but he was no monster. The best and most accurate assessment I can give would be that, knowing what I now know, I would GLADLY still hop in and take that ride across the mountains with him again.

Dennis had talked of alcohol related legal- troubles in Oregon and Eagle, CO and, from what I have read, the state had ordered rehab which, not surprisingly, failed miserably. Cart before the horse. According to the papers and court documents, things began to get more severe last September. There were at least two arrests since then for domestic violence and Dennis and his wife had separated. He was living in a hotel and spending most of his time writing reconciliation letters, drinking, and violating restraining orders until July 25th.

It would appear to me that Dennis simply did not have nearly enough fists to swing. Even if he had them, there would still be no target for the rage and depression that consumed him. Other than himself. Inevitably, when all you can blame is God, the lashings lands on those who are closest. In his case, this person appears to be the wife who had stood by him through everything.

While I cannot imagine living his life and can sympathize, the raw truth is that, in the end, the responsibility for his life lay in his hands, as it does all of us. Tragically, his inability to regain control ultimately led to alcohol-induced bloodshed and devastated families.

I seriously considered making the 300- mile journey to Montrose for Dennis’ funeral this past Tuesday. Had the Saturn not broken down in March, I surely would have. I would liked to have made the humble gesture to his family, and let them know that there was one more person who was thinking of them. Someone else who had some level of compassion and at least a primitive understanding for what they have been through over the last 29-years. It also would have been a nice gesture to Dennis himself. Unfortunately, it did not work out.

One of the most disconcerting things I have seen over the last week is the barbaric treatment of Dennis and his family by the supposed “innocents” sitting unseen at computer terminals. The ability to anonymously “contribute” to news articles opened the door to Hell’s Kitchen, and out have slithered some of the most vile invertebrates imaginable. I have seen an odd mix of contrived busllshit. For example, obvious feelings that Dennis was “Burning in Hell” due to their personal religious beliefs, yet conveniently omitting those main tenets of Christianity; compassion and forgiveness as opposed to a primitive blood thirsty vengeance. Some of the comments directed at his family are unconscionable.

Anonymity removes accountability and breeds a curious regression back to the schoolyard. It has shown me once again the rotted underbelly of the vultures some show themselves to be when no one is looking. On a positive note, the nephews of the slain police officer recognized that there were two families decimated, and sent flowers to the Gurney family. I thought that showed extreme empathy and kindness. I hope it will serve as an example to the Christian Values Vultures ravenously pecking away at Dennis’ corpse.

Nancy Lofholm at the Denver Post opened herself up to criticism by writing a very fair article last Sunday. It was through her piece that I learned of Dennis’ actions on the rig, and much of his background. She took the time to gather and present a more complete picture, and I was impressed. She avoided the route of generic sensationalism, instead choosing to attempt to tell the full story. I personally emailed her, and she deserves acknowledgment here... **Continued**

7/12-7-31/09: Santa Fe Interlude

In 2008, my “interludes” while traveling did not go perfectly. They generally degenerated, after a few calm days, into impatience and a mad searching for signs & answers as to what step is next. This year has been different. My visit home in May was quite nice, and the rest of July continued that theme.

Once off the bus and in the apartment, I literally exhaled and collapsed from mental exhaustion. I proceeded to sleep and do little else for the better part of the first week. Chris and I had left our futures open-ended, and didn’t communicate at all that first week as he settled into whatever Denver held for him, and I basked in the old routines and familiar surroundings hoping to do a bit of a study of what had changed from a familiar perch. Perspective is a constant battle.

The first thing I noticed was that I was in no way clear that I wanted to return to the road anytime soon, if at all. I had told Laina and Chris that, on some level I was afraid that confronting my age-old demons in Michigan would leave me motivationally impotent after being the frustration-fuel for so long. I had attacked this peculiar, inwardly directed anger and seemingly neutralized it, but was afraid complacency would now take its place. Someone asked me once what motivated me to “succeed.” I was surprised myself to learn that it was indeed this anger and my healthy ego needing to “show people” something. Externalization and adapting an identity-through-praise; pure, unadulterated ego and an attempt to fill a cavernous, festering sore with someone else's skin. No wonder it was infected.

The end of this cycle was when I hit a mental rock bottom in 2004, which led to meeting Chris via his website. These two events directly connect; it was the first time I seriously considered jumping into a backpack and setting off to eliminate life’s fat in an effort to see what was truly necessary; what was real. It was also around the same time I began to take Thoreau seriously, which then led me to Gandhi’s ideas on unfiltered truth. Authenticity. I wondered now what that pursuit meant, and whether it still involved backpacking around the country and beyond. I could not answer that, but I knew in my core that something had at least fundamentally changed as to the method and purpose.

Laina and I went camping, of all things, the first weekend I was here and once on the road had a great time driving toward Pecos Canyon and sitting around the little fire drinking beer. It was the most relaxed I could remember being in a very long time, and we chatted about all sorts of things past and future. It was the perfect escape even though it was only for one beautiful, calm night. I had also had an odd conversation with Chris that Saturday afternoon. He had seemed quite lost, not exactly sure what he was doing in Denver, and I was of little help. We had truly disconnected and were on our own little quests where neither could help the other. I was quite sure he would figure it out soon enough, and it took about two days until he was happily announcing a regained energy and focus.

Over the next couple of weeks, things began to sort themselves out. After the events of June slowly but surely began to make their way to the appropriate places in the recesses of my mind, I began to notice a tangible difference in my thinking. With a gentle nudge from Shelly, I began using my father’s last name; changing it on Facebook and various email accounts as a way of getting other people (and myself) used to it. Essentially, that is the name I use now and will complete the legal paperwork soon. That was a rather bold step for me, considering that I have been quite the thorn in the saddle of some people over the past couple of months. I have no idea how Pam and Kim have reacted to it, still not hearing from either since April. Right or wrong, on some level I kind of hope it stings as a reminder every time they see it. I also began one final blog transfer, although to date it is still not ready for full activation. I have been delaying while trying to decide rather or not to begin an actual full-blown website. In all likelihood, this will happen, in URL at least. This will be the third and final one. I like the procession of the three, from Running with the Wind, to Te Nosce (Know Thyself), to this new one.

I also began to find myself keenly annoyed when I occasionally would find myself looking backwards, beyond May 20, 2008. My focus is now forward, and integrating what I had learned over the last 15-months into whatever is to come. This would turn out to be some massive, unknown foreshadowing, and was quite astounding for a man historically haunted by ghosts. Not even real ghosts as it turned out but of course, those fabricated by victimist-thinking, creating little make-believe scenarios, and then letting them become a framework for an outlook on life and identity. Pathetic? Yes. The annoyance stemmed from just REALIZING how fucking pathetic and misguided it really was. This is obviously an important conclusion, but it also opens up what could be Pandora’s Box. Inside the box: "What is next? Have the travels of the last year and the visions of future adventures sprouted from within this rusted, rotting framework?" Tough questions to ask, but they obviously needed to be. I was afraid that this was the source of the misgivings about setting out again.

Chris and I had a good conversation around the 25th where we candidly discussed the future and what it was each of us was hoping to do. I did not let on about my questions, and thankfully so because things were rapidly changing. He had begun making a ton of progress bouncing around Denver, having several discussions with Robert, the Post-Apocalypse class teacher I had met in March, about a pseudo plan that was developing. This “plan” entailed riding with them to San Francisco then Seattle on what sounded like a bit of a boat scavenger hunt. Yes. A boat. Penny (Robert’s girlfriend) and Robert had made plans to quit their jobs, hop in their veggie powered, self-contained blacksmithing van, and head toward the Northwest, presumably to seek out like-minded people and begin unplugging from what is viewed a steadily collapsing system. A system that at the same time is clearly closing in on all sides. The boat? A sailboat that would eventually be capable of sailing at least to Central and South America, and at most crosses oceans. The trip to San Francisco would be to network with friends-of-friends who would “be more than happy to teach us to sail it.” This conversation shot my energy level through the roof and we quickly found ourselves scheming ways to re-connect in August heading toward Wendie’s place on the Olympic Peninsula in Washington State, perhaps via the Bay Area. It slowly became apparent that perhaps I’d had enough of wandering for wandering’s sake. Now maybe it was time to get busy building something. Building what? Well, THAT IS for another post. Sorry Steve-O!

After this conversation, things seemed back to normal and we tentatively set August 4th as a date that would see him depart Denver for his “week alone in the mountains.” In the interim, we could discuss ways to meet somewhere. Somewhere like Boise, and Lynn’s place? Penny and Robert’s ideas triggered further discussions about my friend Amber in San Diego. She has continuously suggested that she “may” be interested in joining us if /when we venture into Mexico, or further. She holds dual citizenship, speaks fluent Spanish, has WWOOF-ing experience in Italy, and would be a huge help to a vagabonding troupe of gringos speaking next to no Spanish! Amber’s trouble is her family, and the fact that she is 21. No problem for me, since she does not act like a ditz, but she has traditionally been torn between going to school and living her life. Her family is also Hispanic, so there is a pressure to remain close to family. A pressure that Whitey does not always comprehend. This sent us on wild conversations about possibly meeting Penny and Robert in places like Moab, Flagstaff, Taos, or anywhere else, that may put the four of us on course toward San Diego.

Toward the end of the month, these “plans” began to get a bit more complicated due to the simple and obvious fact that we are four people who hate making plans. The obvious question then is how do four people in three different places (Penny and Robert are bound for S. New Mexico 8/9) connect… without plans?

Are you seeing a lack of cohesiveness here?

Friends, this is the aforementioned “Limbo” and a good example of your author’s feeble attempts to manipulate the fates; forgetting…again…the all too familiar reminder to, all together now, SIT DOWN & SHUT UP!

On August 1, 2009, your humble scribe would be grabbed tightly by the metaphorical throat and slammed into his seat, complete with duct tape around the mouth and wrist to force further introspection that is more genuine and a long overdue--but now possible--evaluation of purpose and ego. What will follow is for me easily the saddest and most dramatic event to date, including 2008. You folks in Denver and Colorado will take a keen interest in this when it's finally posted.


I did it to you twice Steve. In radio, they call these teases! In Te Noscestan, we call it preventing an overload.

7/7/09: The Gestapo Comes to Kalamazoo

Chris decided to leave early to walk the 3-miles to the Kalamazoo Greyhound station, while I opted to wait to see if Brian came home. True to form, Brian returned maybe 10-minutes after Chris had left and we both had a chuckle at his impatience. Five weeks now, and these 10-minutes are just unbearable? Brian agreed to drop me off, and after a quick goodbye chat with Joey, who was still at work, we were off to find Chris and get our tickets. We found him huffing down W. Main, and after quick hugs, we got our tickets and propped ourselves outside for the 45-minute wait for our bus to Chicago.

As I was sitting outside smoking, a Kalamazoo bicycle cop rode up and let me know that “Smoking is prohibited at the Kalamazoo Transportation Center. Do... you… have… ID?” he asked rather sheepishly.

Here we fucking go again!

I had checked before I had lit up to see if there were signs posted. As I looked again, I confirmed that the no smoking signs were ambiguous at best, cleverly hung to imply that it was prohibited INSIDE the building, while there was nothing beneath the area where the buses board; where we were sitting. As I was pulling my I.D., I asked sarcastically if it had occurred to anyone to make the smoking policy, you know, clear?

After he called in my stats and discovered that I was indeed warrant-free, he astoundingly decided to confirm my suspicion: this is intentional! An excuse to give these equivalent of rent-a-cops, who apparently can't be trusted with cruisers, the “probable cause” they need to ID anyone criminal enough to be smoking a cigarette! He confidently declared that I could have been a “murderer from New Mexico” for all he knew and that he had “arrested 167 people this way over the last year alone!” Using this pathetically veiled “Papers Please!” method? I could not believe my ears. A bicycle cop was actually bragging about his own personal implementation of a pseudo Police State in Kalamazoo, or at least the parts he could pedal to!

The cops in Maryland and Tennessee had at least been smart enough to conceal their true motives, although they were no different than this guy's. This "cop" then acted a bit indignant, offended even, that I would question his tactics suggesting that I act a bit more “professional” (compliant) from now on and carrying himself as though I were lucky just to have had my privacy violated and not to have gotten a ticket to boot. A ticket I SURELY would have dragged his ass into court over.

As Goering-on-a-Bike peddled off, reminding me of Reno 911's Lt. Dangle, I was of course steaming. I cannot believe what this country is becoming; how even the most basic right to privacy is being butchered in the name of an illusion: “Fatherland Security”. While Chris had typically been less offended than I, even he was dumbfounded at this brazen display of fascism, asking repeatedly "Did he REALLY just say that?" For a state that's hemorrhaging it's population like a hemophiliac, I found this stunning on multiple levels. This was the perfect sendoff, and I was thrilled to finally be re-crossing the Mississippi that night.

PS: While Stalin would have been proud of their enforcement of the "smoking policy" and "Paper Checking," there was absolutely NO security when it came to loading baggage beneath the bus!

None.

Go figure...

7/3/09: Meet Mike

Getting up at 10:00 after the late night was rough, but once I was packed and had dropped off the extra stuff at my mother's, we were on our way to Coldwater...a good hour later than "planned." The idea was to meet up with Mike at the familiar Big Boy around two or three o'clock. This would provide us with a few hours to eat, drink coffee, and plot. We said our goodbyes to Bob in the parking lot, and as Chris put it, let him get back to his normal life. I had spent a lot of time with him over the past month, and I remember thinking that it was nice to still have a friend or two like that! Thanks for everything, Bobby.

After we had stuffed ourselves on burgers and coffee, we moved outside and were talking about how neat it would be to hitch a plane ride, when I realized that I actually had a friend who owns a plane and reportedly likes taking people up for rides! I instantly envisioned an extravagant hop across Lake Michigan, or even a simpler one from Kalamazoo to South Bend. I was quickly on the phone to explore possibilities. Through these discussions it also became apparent that staying in Michigan may be preferable to northern Indiana, not wanting to deal with toll roads. I decided that if all went well, I'd ask Mike if we could ride with him back toward his home in Charlotte, since Battle Creek and I-94 were on his way back.

Mike arrived around 3:30 and snuck up on me! I had become rather oblivious to my surroundings by then and was looking for a different car than the one he had driven, so when I looked over and saw a silver sedan pull up I was a bit shocked when I recognized him. This took me back to meeting Shelly for the first time at the end of May. There's no protocol for these situations; no prescribed dose of pleasantries to administer when you meet a brother for the first time. I'm sure he was experiencing the same things as we shook hands, hugged, and looked each other in the eye for the first time.

Mike is shorter and a bit stockier than I, but then again so is the poster child for Feed The Children. He reminded me of myself when I was living in Denver. And eating. I had seen pictures and at various times had felt like I was looking at my younger self, when I wasn't shaving my head. He seemed to be a low key, honest, up-front person. I sensed no bullshit about him and, as we all know by now, I respect that. Standing in this parking lot were two brothers who, up until less than 48-hours ago, had been just abstract ideas to each other. We were now real. This was VERY cool! There was a good vibe and I was glad for it.

Mike had brought his 9-year old daughter, Ally, and her mother Bobbie with him too. Ally is a beautiful, blonde, bundle of energy! I knew to expect that she'd be quite shy at first, but that didn't last at all. Pretty soon she was resuming her task: relentlessly tormenting her mother. It was obvious from the start that Mike adores his little girl, and has no trouble showing it.

We spent an unexpectedly, almost inappropriately long time in the parking lot smoking, chatting, and recollecting before we finally went inside so they could eat. The story telling and questions continued as we learned more about each other and our pasts. Mike has a creative streak in him, just as Shelly does. He loves restoring cars and works at a body shop. I also was horrified to learn that he had nearly been killed not too long ago, barely getting out of the way yet having his right ankle essentially shattered by falling steel . I thought to myself, "What if that had happened? Why the hell are we in this situation again?"

The original "plan" (ha!) had been for Mike to drop us off in Angola, IN where he would pick up 4th of July fireworks for his family, then head home. I submitted my revised Battle Creek proposal after I figured out we were getting along well, and he agreed. So it was on from Coldwater to Angola for munitions and cigarette shopping. The conversations continued as we made the 20-minute drive down I-69 and the longer we hung out, the more we seemed to have to say and were at ease. No pretension; no bullshit. "Why the hell are we in this situation again?"

Fireworks and cigarettes in tow, it was time for the 40-minute drive back north, toward Battle Creek and the Te-khi truck stop on I-94. I wasn't exactly sure what our next move would be, but I had friends in the area and even if we were stuck, there were ample places to hitch and/or camp. More importantly, it wasn't far out of Mike's way. He said repeatedly that he felt "weird" about just dropping us there. I did my best to reassure him, saying that this is "what we do", and not to worry, although I did appreciate the concern. What I envisioned as a quick drop off turned into yet another 30-45 minute conversation, in yet another parking lot! I had to laugh at the mild, typical concerns that I'd had about not having anything to say to each other! This was great! After taking some pictures, shaking hands and hugging again, they were off. As I watched him drive away, the reality that we may not see each other for a while, or often enough, set in. We had obviously connected on some level, and I was actually sad to see him go. "Why the hell are we in this situation again?", I asked one last time.

Meeting Mike was the perfect, unexpected possible ending to the "Eastern Phase" of this little adventure. He was the one that I had, unfairly, held the least hope for based on "old intel," and I rightfully and religiously have been chastising myself for making any judgment at all. I should have permanently learned that lesson with Lynn. One thing I've had reinforced repeatedly over June, and now July, is that I need to get my own answers and draw my own conclusions. See the world unfiltered. I have written a lot about that, but find myself failing at some important times. To do that, I need to eliminate preconceived notions, or at least suspend them. Thankfully, Mike decided to do that with me and I'm glad I chose to listen to Shelly when she encouraged me to try to contact him. They unknowingly threw me a rope and rescued me from my own shortsightedness. In the process they helped me to reinforce this lesson and shrink it down from an abstract "social" concept to a tangible, applicable "personal" tool. Maybe I've helped them in that respect too.

The smell of diesel exhaust triggered feelings of familiarity after Mike left. I felt oddly back in my comfort zone, and immediately called Shelly to let her know how things went. I then gave Joey a call in Kalamazoo to tell him what has been going on. He almost immediately offered to come and pick us up. Less than 2-hours after Mike dropped us off, we were back in Kalamazoo, where this eventful Michigan excursion had started a month before. Unfortunately, the plane-hitching idea fell through, but not for a shortage of interest! Adam's plane was in the shop, but otherwise said he would have loved to fly us out of Michigan! Maybe next time...

Being back at Brian & Joey's was a study in short-term contrasts. I began to compare where I was just four short weeks ago as opposed to now; only beginning to feel twinges of the effects of June. I was mentally exhausted, numb, and feeling an odd, nervous contentment. My only nagging concern was rather I was being just as shortsighted with Mike's sisters, Pam and Kim, as I had been with Mike. I had yet to see any indications otherwise and, quite honestly, I was too mentally cashed to go hunting again anyhow. That might have to wait...

6/29-7/2/09: Sit Down & Shut Up

Sunday night around the fire was profound. Chris and I had discussed several times how difficult it is to grasp the concept that we as individuals are NOT the center of the entire universe, despite the fact that our eyes make it seem we are! When serendipity or "fate" is discussed, it's often from the perspective that these events only involve or happen to us, or because of us. That's the ego at work, and oftentimes we forget the obvious fact that others also make decisions and live their lives, thereby affecting the paths presented to us. Their application of freewill sometimes requires us to simply sit still until they play things out. With my ever evolving mastery if the English language, I describe it as being put in a state of limbo and told to "Sit the fuck down, and shut the fuck up!" Ever the wordsmith, I.

If you're unable to let go of the ego's need for control, this limbo it will feel like confusion; you'll be unclear about which path to take. There's a simple explanation for that: It hasn't been decided yet, or you're waiting for someone else on the path to come to you. There have been several examples of this, both this year and last, with the most dramatic this year being with the Church Lady the day Chris's mom decided not to pick us up in New Jersey. Last year's preeminent examples were in McCammon, ID and Randleman, NC. Chris and I have talked at length about it, but it has been one of the most difficult lessons because it requires continuous neutering of the pesky ego: a practice in patience. Sunday, we remembered it and decided to put it to the test. We resolved to sit still and let things happen, while eagerly anticipating Wednesday to see if some dramatic event would unfold. That's exactly what we did.

Monday was spent playing softball one last time, and again sitting around a small campfire chatting. Tuesday was even less eventful, except for yet another campfire. The conversations on these days, however, were quite enlightening. This was a time for us to both reflect back on the past 3-months, and begin to finally grasp exactly what we had experienced as a whole, AND to apply some lessons and ideas as we move forward. Ideas about the next phase became a bit more clear as we chatted about Denver, Santa Fe, Boise, Seattle, Portland, San Francisco, England, and even Mexico. Most significantly, we decided to tell someone about this revelation on Sunday. We told Bob we were going to sit tight until Wednesday, thinking something significant was going to happen. If nothing happened Wednesday, Bob would drop us off in Indiana either Wednesday night or Thursday morning. All that was left was to see if it did...

Did it ever.

My brother Mike responded to that 10-day old Facebook request. I immediately sent him an email telling him that I was planning on leaving VERY soon, but that if he was interested I'd love to meet him and would arrange my "schedule" around it. Shit, that's WHY I'm here, after all! He replied that night and said he was definitely interested in getting together before we left, but needed to find out if he was getting a three day weekend for July 4th. If so, we could get together Friday. He wouldn't know until the next day, but after chatting for an hour or so on Yahoo, it was clear that I was going nowhere just yet-even if I needed to wait thru the weekend.

I really liked Mike. Through our little online chat, he and I traded a few stories as we began the now-familiar process of comparing notes, and hitting it off quite well. His reminded me of the response I had gotten from my cousin, Dewey, when he first found out I was related to him. This was NOT the Mike I expected, although to be fair, he's also easily the sibling I knew the LEAST about. I got his number, and made arrangements to call him Thursday night to see about Friday. I immediately called Shelly to let her know what had happened, and of course she was thrilled.

Thursday was understandably a bit restless. I devised a scheme where we could possibly meet Mike in Coldwater rather than Hillsdale on Friday, and would ask if he could drop us off in Angola, IN where I-80/90 comes through. If Mike couldn't make it, perhaps Bob would get us there instead. Either way, we could get on the road Friday.

I finally drafted the email to my father, which I had mysteriously been putting off four four days. I laid out the time line of events, and exactly who I had been in contact with and for how long. In it, I could now also tell him that Mike and I were in touch, and possibly getting together. I hoped that this email didn't reverberate too much, but at least it was the truth. At least now people may be able to speak freely, if they choose to. That can't be a bad thing, and neither can the man knowing who stands where. I sent copies to Shelly and Lynn, and decided to let Mike know when he called. After this, all there was to do was prepare to leave and wait for 7pm to roll around.

Mike did indeed get the day off. Friday was a go. I was stoked. I've never had a brother and I was about to meet one...and apparently a very cool one at that. We had a nice chat on the phone, and he liked the Coldwater/Angola idea. He asked if he could bring his daughter, Ally, and her mother with him so that they could all go fireworks shopping, since they were going to be in Angola. Another niece? Hell, yeah!

Thursday night was a going away party of sorts. We had another fire in Bob's yard, and drank a whole lotta beer. Ian and Travis hung out for a bit, as did Bob's neighbors. No phones were sacrificed, so it was a good night, yet it was obvious that I was ready to go. Somewhere around midnight I mentally checked out of Hillsdale. Unfortunately, I didn't check into bed until 4:30!

6/28/09: An Afternoon With Dad

Shelly and Chris had reconnected in Delta and as I waited for them to pick me up for this Sunday meeting, I was simply ready to get on with it. The thought, "Why does this have to be such a production?" was foremost in my mind, plus I was interested to see how the three of us would interact and see how it would compare to our brief meeting in 2000.

We deposited Chris at the place of his own choosing, the woods, then Shelly & I made the 40- minute drive toward Marshall, chatting about how we had gotten where we are and the possibilities of where we were all going now as adult siblings. It has been obvious from the beginning and more so as time went on, that there were cavernous inconsistencies between assumptions, realities, and expectations. Who knew what? Whom had talked with whom? My one hope for the afternoon was to annihilate these gaps, and be sure that the three of us at least were on the same page so as to be able to act from a position of fact. If I could somehow do that, I would be happy.

We arrived at the restaurant in Marshall ten minutes early for our 2:30 meeting. As 2:45 came and went, there was still no sign of him. We couldn't imagine him just standing us up but I confess: the thought entered my conspiratorial little mind! Shelly began making calls and discovered that there had been a mix- up on the time! He had arrived at 1:00 and apparently sat there for an hour, leaving 20- minutes before we arrived. He had gotten rid of his cell phone, so had no way to contact us on the way up. He was not pleased! Great.

Shelly was not giving up. She asked him straight out if we could just drive up to his house in Charlotte. As she was asking, I was cringing. I didn't like this idea! It felt like I was invading someones home, but to my amazement he was fine with the idea. It was up to me. This was a surprisingly difficult decision in the sense that despite the effort I had put in and that this may be my last opportunity, there was an urge to "cower to the moment", and just let it go. To my credit, I caught myself and saw it as it was happening. I had berated a perceived "lack of courage" just the day before, and now was on the verge of providing my own example of just that, and my very own "glaring hypocrisy." It's easier to be critical from the outside, isn't it?

For my own self- respect I HAD to do this, and I needed to do it for Shelly. After a quick beer, we were off to Charlotte. The rest of the drive was light hearted, even loose. It quickly became apparent how silly this all was, and I resolved to just have fun. Neither Pam nor his wife, Mary, were at home so it would just be the three of us having a nice little visit. I also figured he's be in his element; perhaps a bit more relaxed than the guy who was "sitting at the end of the bar drinking beer" as the waitress put it. That could help ease things a bit.

My father is an ex-Marine who has recently retired after running various DHL terminals for a number of years. I was just slightly nerved up as we arrived, but that quickly evaporated as we walked in the door. I shook his hand, told him it was nice to see him again as he smiled and returned the compliment. There was no obvious tension as the three of us went out to the back yard and began chatting. He did, however, seem a bit at a loss for things to say, as you can probably imagine. What do you say to a son you have spent less than an hour with, and that being 8-years ago? It was rather comical when he asked "What are you doing these days, Todd?" My typical response seemed a bit inadequate, so I quickly stumbled through the basic answer of "Threw my stuff in a backpack and am traveling around." He had NO idea what to do with that, and I'm glad! But, through that, I quickly discovered that we have a couple of significant common interests. The topics of traveling and New Mexico gave us the opportunity to get to a comfort zone.

Norv owns an RV and loves the southwest; New Mexico in particular. He and Mary have a spot in Las Cruces that they like to visit and he claims that he would retire there if Mary would. Our shared affinity for New Mexico goes beyond that, and is on the edge of creepy. He told of a trip he had taken through it as a young man, and how he had just gotten "hooked by it." Something that has stayed with him for the rest of his life. I then chuckled as I recounted how in 1998 I had taken a drive from Des Moines to Phoenix, through Santa Fe, and been completely hooked. "I WOULD move there one day!" And I did, in 2004. Don't laugh too hard! There's a "frequency" about New Mexico; one that grabs A LOT of people and just wont let go. These are just two examples of a story that's repeated surprisingly often. He's also not all that impressed with Santa Fe beyond what he called "Old Town"; the area around the Plaza where the Santa Fe Trail ends. I didn't ask, but I doubt this old Marine has much to offer the pretentious, bourgeoisie hippies on Canyon Road either!

While he was showing and narrating the picture DVDs, I learned that he had stayed in Espanola while I was literally living 5- miles away in Pojoaque. He had been driving on US-285 within 1/10 of a mile of my house. Visiting Buffalo Thunder Casino. As I saw his pictures of the Santa Fe Plaza, church, and the Palace of the Governors on his TV, it struck me how insane this whole drama REALLY has been. Really, why are we here? That would be for Shelly and I to discuss on the drive home. We wrapped up our visit by watching the Tigers beat the Astros on a Brandon Inge 9th-inning home run. I thought that was fitting too, sitting on the couch chatting baseball. It happened that he was planning on being in Colorado in August, so I offered my connections at Coors Field to get tickets if they make it to Denver. Norv had said he was contemplating extending that trip up to Boise, also in August. I told him to keep an eye out for a big red and black backpack. I think he thought I was serious, that made me chuckle a bit!

After a tour of the RV and snapping the first and ONLY pictures of us together, I got permission to get his email addy then Shelly and I were headed back to Hillsdale. Getting those pictures meant a lot to me, as did the fact that he let me come into his home. That's not something to be taken for granted, and showed me something. I had been mischievously praying to Jeebus that Pam would happen home just to see the look on her face. Alas, Jeebus would have none of my shenanigans.

There were times during the nearly 3- hours that he had the look of a man who wanted to say something. That something obviously wasn't "get the hell out of here!", and for whatever reason just couldn't quite do it. Quite honestly, it spoke volumes as it was. I can only speculate what these "things" were, but the looks occasionally reminded me of Chris's father that afternoon in Springfield. The conversation was relegated to the superficial, but for once with me that was fine. It was great for what it was, and I learned quite a bit.

Shelly and I went to Arby's to make up for our missed lunch, then had much to talk about on the way home. I told her that we had just done something very significant, and that it was shared experiences like these that turn "siblings" into "brothers & sisters." It had occurred to me that exactly that had just happened. Shelly was beaming, and was thrilled that we had some success while I was here. Norv had shown her something, too and she appeared to have gained a new level of respect and affection for him. I was happy to see that, and glad that I was perhaps serving more of a purpose than that of the "Classroom Disturbance!" More on that to come...

We continued our exercise in pasting together the growing pieces of information, and I decided that I'd use this new email address to be sure that he knew exactly what had been going on since 1994. Who met whom when, etc. Shelly and I had begun to draw the conclusion that he was possibly in the dark over exactly what was happening beneath his feet. I wasn't going to perpetuate that. Plus, I wanted to show a bit of the "respect of direct honesty" after the man had let me into his home.

Once Chris was picked up, we said goodbye to Shelly again, for the 4th or 5th time! We quickly stopped in to let my mother know how it had gone, and soon Chris and I were on our way to Bobby's to let things sink in. Bob was at work all night, so the two of us sat around a small fire drinking beer and chatting about what had happened not only today or the past month, but the totality of events since April 13th. This phase was seemingly closing down, and from the Veggie Bus to today it had exceeded even our lofty expectations. If we are not even three months in, imagine the next 12!

It seemed that I should now be free to head west, but we both noticed a sense that we weren't quite done just yet. For once, we noticed the sense of limbo as it set in, and it felt centered around Wednesday. We decided to do a little experiment, and just relax for the week to see what happened, if anything, on Wednesday. We even told people about it beforehand, just in case...

6/22- 6/27/09: Relaxation & Regression

This week was as close to a time machine as I'll see in my lifetime. Chris had stayed in Ohio to frolic solo, so I was back in Hillsdale alone staying with Bobby with no real ties to my current life, except for my backpack. It was funny to see my old habits take over as I essentially let go and re-immersed in the enigma that is Hillsdale. It was out of the question to stay with my mother after the week before, so the time warp was completed by staying at Bobby's house, playing softball, and drinking beer. A lot of beer.

One troubling aspect of this month was the frequency in which I was drinking. Another was the amount of money I was spending. The two were closely linked. The drinking was all in good fun, but there were indications that it was also in small part due to the fact that I was having trouble coping with the intensity of all the events of the month. My entire concept of who I was and where I had come from was steadily changing, and integrating all of this was understandably difficult, but it bothered me that I chose alcohol as a means to cope. Never a good sign. On the bright side, there was no drama, nor were there any Random Acts of Stupidity! Just good times reminiscing with friends, smoking cigarettes and suffering hangovers.

Summer finally arrived in full force with temps in the mid-90's and Monday and Tuesday were spent playing softball. After three games in two days, I realized just how young I wasn't anymore. I was fine while playing, but as it was with baseball, my recovery time was pathetic! Thank God for ibuprofen and beer. It felt good to be playing ball again, and I ran into many people I hadn't seen in years. Softball it seems has replaced the bars as the social mechanism of the area. The softball fields are now where you go to see people, and there are many to choose from. I finally got to spend a little time with my cousin, Dewey, who along with his father was the first person from my father's side of the family to actually embrace me as "family." They did this way back in 1996, and for that simple fact I will always respect the hell out of them. Several of my old teammates now have wives and children, and a few have aged drastically! It was at times a sad, sobering reminder of just how much time has passed.

I had also quit eating... again. I've been battling weight loss the since leaving New Mexico at 165#. Toward Wednesday, I was noticing an extreme lack of energy, headaches, and dizziness. Obvious symptoms of malnutrition, but I had simply forgotten about food!! How the hell does that happen? By Wednesday, I was getting ridiculously close to 150# (153#), looked like a corpse, and had had enough of this folly. I began eating everything I could get my hands on! My weight fluctuates wildly at times, and by Saturday had "ballooned" to 157#...still too fucking scrawny for me. Hard to believe I was 200# in 2006.

Thursday night was spent around another bonfire. I was paid a visit by another blast from the past in the form of Ian. We had a nice chat and it was fun, except for the fact that after Ian had left, I was thrown in Bob's son's wading pool. With the heat and humidity I probably would have enjoyed it, except for the fact that my cell phone was in my pocket. I initially thought I had just soaked it, but when it dried out the next day, I discovered that I had also shattered the LCD screen. Not only could I not use my phone, but I had also lost all of my contacts! This...was not good. Luckily, Bob had a spare Sprint phone lying around, so after a quick trip to the local Sprint store I had a phone again. The other phone works fine now, I just cant navigate it except to play mp3's. Hopefully the contacts can be retrieved Monday.

Friday night I spent with Dave & Bonnie eating pizza at Baw Beese Lake, traipsing thru my mother's abandoned house, and chatting up folks at the bowling alley. Through Dave, I learned some of the methods that people are using to cope in the economic cataclysm that is Michigan. Many people are telling the system to go fuck itself. They're trading labor while working for straight cash for friends; friends that wont outsource their jobs to Mexico. I had also heard about a state "re-education" program for "displaced" manufacturing workers. The problem is that they only "re-educate" people in what they deem to be "approved vocations." These "approved vocations" are, to a great extent, service industry fields and when I heard "approved vocations" I immediately thought of the old Soviet Union. That was a nice visit, and I'm glad I got to spend a decent amount of time with them. Again, too much time had passed.

This was a nice, relatively calm week that served as a place holder for bigger events to come, and reminded me a bit too much of the good ol' days! By the time Saturday rolled around, I was mentally preparing to head west after the meeting with my father. I have been here throughout the month of June, and had a great time. I even toyed with the idea of sticking around until my class reunion on 7/18 and trying to use some contacts to find temporary cash work, but in the end decided against it. It's time to refocus and get back to the task at hand...whatever that may be.