8/12/10: Alex Bay, NY

Interstate Forest

Waking up, the first thing I noticed was that the heat and humidity had mercifully relented. Second: I was becoming efficient and streamlined! I'm not sure which I was happier with, but both combined for a good start to the day! Even so, matching Wednesday would prove difficult but early-on, Thursday felt like a old, comfortable pair of shoes. I was back with my old friend Interstate, this time I-81, and within 15 minutes of joining him I was northbound.

My first ride was, surprise, a single woman! A rarity indeed! Elaine was a no-nonsense Mennonite, continuing the religious theme, in her 30’s, and had absolutely no problem letting me know who she was or what she thought. She knew exactly where she was taking me... rather I liked it or not.... conveying in clear, concise terms that she knew best. I liked her! (In this limited dose!)


Elaine dropped me off 15 to 20 miles north on the far end of Pulaski, and after another remarkably short wait, I was on my way to Watertown Center with Steve, who is apparently a big deal in the ATV world. He’s president of the largest ATV club in New York State, courted by politicians actually seeking his endorsement, which he exploits knowing that his organization carries weight. I had no clue that off-roaders held sway in government, but he pointed out that a huge amount of New York land is “public”--supposedly forever. With that much land, providing off-road trails for ATV enthusiasts is a big deal. It was a fascinating, short conversation that also included how best to possibly utilize these “public lands” between Watertown and Massena!


And... Steve was huge! 6’ 5” & 350 pounds. Not much intimidates him -- physically, politically, or otherwise ! Beyond that, he also had an interesting story, including hitching around the country for a couple of years.

Steve’s Watertown Center exit sucked! Little traffic and hard for people to pull over. But, the friendliness of these upstate New Yorkers was further impressing me! After 90 minutes, I had another ride with another Steve through the rest of the largest town on my path not named Syracuse: Watertown. He took me to where highways 11 and 37 split, eventually to angle northeast along the St. Lawrence River toward my adopted destination: Massena.

It was now 4pm and I needed real food. A cheap diner's double cheese burger later I filled my water and joined Highway 37 to supposedly hitch. However, the food had done its job and, against my better judgment, I felt ready to walk again. Unfortunately, my heel was plotting a vicious ambush. Within 2-miles the useless pad had slipped and my previously pesky blister went nuclear. It was clear: this was going to emulate Maryland’s and be a significant problem. By now I was out in the countryside so easily found a place to sleep but, once again,  moments before disappearing to camp, along came a ride. One that started the old familiar falling dominoes of amusing, frustrating events that would write the next couple of days and provide one of my more--unique--tales.

Jamie was yet another single woman. I was amazed, until I realized that she was in the Army and stationed at Ft. Drums. Jamie made it instantly clear that she wasn't afraid of hitchers telling me in a matter-of-fact tone, “I know how to kill you with my bare hands if I need to.” I liked her immediately. She was in her mid/late 20’s, originally from Tucson, had recently rotated back from Afghanistan, and on her way to Alexandria Bay where she chose to live rather than on base.


Alexandria Bay is a small-yet-busy tourist town along the shores of the St. Lawrence River and this particular weekend was The Pirate Festival. Pirates? On the St. Lawrence? Really? From where? Cannuckistan? Did they steal booty for the Quebec Liberation Front? Whatever. It sounded like fun and Jamie was quite accommodating, offering to give me a quick tour of town and the party. Alex Bay reminded me of some of the towns along the East Coast and in the Northwest, and more than a little of some towns on the Gulf Coast. The party looked like fun, and under normal conditions I may have snooped around. Unfortunately, I had my backpack and Blister McBastard to tend to.

I'd previously noticed Keewaydin State Park on my map. It's situated near where I’d turn northeast and thought it may be a great place to camp. If I could do it for free. But, Mr. McBastard made a place to rehabilitate more important than a few dollars so I gagged my inner-miser for the moment.
Jamie dropped me off at Keewaydin’s gate and before she had time to turn around I had met Gus, a young, hefty, freakishly friendly park worker puttering around in the park’s pickup. He went FAR out of his way to greet me and with such enthusiasm I assumed he was selling something. But, when I told him I was going to camp and asked how much it was he said, "Well, no one's there, so fuck it. I guess you get a free site!" He then drove me to my campsite in the state’s vehicle!

I liked that Gus immediately!

As I was setting up the Origami, Gus returned. This time with  friends. Bill and Liz. We had a nice chat at my campsite and they invited me to walk down to the river to watch people and the sunset. In desperate need of a shower, I declined but assured them I would look them up when I was done. I looked, but after a complete loop of the campground I saw none of them and figured they were lost to history.

 

As I dozed off in this remarkable setting beneath the stars, my spirits were soaring despite my now-massive blister. I felt "connected", as though I had recaptured some of '08 & '09's magic. All of this set the stage for an enigmatic and phenomenal Friday.

Journal excerpt: "good things are happening, especially with that "Law/Rule of Agreement". I never intended to come to Alex Bay but this place is a gem! I love the park...and am finding a new stride. Love walking, but these [heel] blisters! Ugh! Hope to get out early to avoid the rangers again."

**Footnote: the Rule of Agreement is a concept similar to the Sidecar and Sit Down and Shut Up. It is essentially the first rule of improv -- never disagree or attempt to change the "script/storyline" that's "handed" to you. Adapt. Relinquish control and the illusion that you're writing and performing the script solo.

8/11/10: Mexico, NY

Dave

Rather than risk the toll road, I decided to just go around Syracuse, first via Route 14. Initially, I thought this was a mistake because of the odd vibe sitting on the side of the road! But my first (nameless) ride came quickly, took me the eight to 10 miles up the road in Lyons, and after that I was fine and this interesting day was underway.


It was again quite warm and humid and, no longer used to the humidity, I spent a couple of hours enjoying Lyons Library’s air conditioning! Despite the heat and out of sheer laziness, I left Lyons without getting water and although I never ran out, I nearly did and the combination of forced-conservation and the afternoon heat zapped me.

When I finally found shade along the side of the road to rest I was thrilled, but only there for a minute when John pulled over. I was quite happy to see him stop-- knowing full well that he had likely relieved me from the task of fully confronting my own troubling laziness! John took me the rest of the way to Highway 104 and after stopping for gas (where I filled up with too much water) deposited me at a crossroad a bit east of Walcott, 20-some miles from Oswego.

I didn't know it at that time, but John was beginning a temporary mini-theme. He was open about his Christianity, but struck me as someone who did more than just “talk” it and unlike those multitudes who solely practice on Sundays, presumably when God's watching!

Many (most?) Christians I've run into seem to wear their Holy Costumes so that all may see their supposed “righteousness” they are; displaying their Christianity--advertising it to the extent that memorized, externalized scripture allows. When it comes time to act and actually show Christ’s love & compassion for the downtrodden, they typically morph right before my eyes into something less than Christlike and much more self-righteous. Again, I'm no theologian but there's a word for it in the Bible: Hypocrite. We all know how The Jesus felt about hypocrites!

"Hey, hypocrites!"

Although my exposure was limited, this was NOT John. Through our short conversation, he struck me as a man who lived his adopted principles, and I respect that. If only more people would!

John

  

After this, I felt like I was hitting my stride. I was more efficient and had learned the lesson of laziness...again! As I set off on foot east down Highway 104, the blister was getting worse, but I just felt like walking; like I was doing what I intended to do despite the pain. I passed through the little hamlet of Martville, a little town I liked alot, stopping to wander through the old cemetery situated next to a clockmaker’s place. Some of the stones in the cemetery date back to the civil war, and the fact that there was a clockmaker’s shop right next to the cemetery added to this little town’s warm, antiquated feel.

After Martville, I was fading. The blister was at the point where it was nearly unbearable up hills, yet I kept going even though I knew better.

As with Ed the day before, when I started looking for a place to sleep a ride came. The sun was dropping as I climbed into Dick's van while learning that he had passed me a few hours earlier and, rather than just go home, had chosen to come find me because he felt "guilty". I found that astounding. Astounding that someone would put forth the unprovoked effort to find a perfect stranger just to give them a ride when no one would know better if they didn't. Let alone after two hours! It seemed clear that, like John, Dick was yet another person who lived his principles when no one was looking. For me, that's near the pinnacle of character.

Dick was a classic. A no-nonsense, straightforward, no-words-wasted man who looked to be in his early-to-mid 70’s. And, by the way, the clockmaker whose place I noticed in Martville! We had an interesting conversation about his trade, and when I exited the van, Dick reminded me a whole hell of a lot of Jack from my trip through Idaho in 2008. I also had the distinct feeling that perhaps I would be surprised with the people of New York by the time I left.

Dick suggested I avoid Oswego and instead go to Fulton and take Route 3 through Mexico to I-81. With the blister worsening I thought it a good idea to hitch I-81 toward Watertown and Massena, where I had once been on the air... but never seen! (explanation coming) In addition, US-11 runs parallel to the interstate so if I changed my mind walking would be figuratively painless. All this made sense, so when Dick offered to take me clear to Fulton, I agreed.

Dick dropped me in a less than ideal spot, and although I needed to walk a ways to find seclusion, I was reasonably sure Wednesday was nearly through for me and it was imperative that I find a place to sleep.

Inexplicably, I passed several more-than-suitable spots in order to find that ever-elusive "better one." Had things ended differently, I would have attributed that to my troublesome indecision. However, things worked out perfectly when Dave pulled over, unsolicited, said he was on his way to band practice, offered me a beer, and a 10 or 15 mile ride toward Mexico.

Had we had more time to hang out, Dave would've likely turned into one of the more interesting people I've met. As I chugged the cold beer, I listened to his views on society, culture, economics, politics, and where he believed things were going. This near-monologue reminded me a great deal of my conversations with Chris, and select few others.

Although I am now on the alert for what I term Anarchist Theorists & Intellectuals, I was impressed when I learned that Dave actually owned land nearby, was learning to farm it, and had contemplated a barter system in the area. He seemed to have an abhorrence for politics, but was yet another upstate New Yorker I had met that day who lived their principles at least as much as talking about them. Fascinating indeed.

Dave's initial offer to take me to Mexico turned into a ride a few extra miles to the interstate: I-81. As I jumped out of his car and snapped a picture at the truck stop, I had an odd yet distinct feeling of loss and hoped I would hear from him again via the website.

The sun was nearly down at this point, but there was nearly a full woods between the on ramp and the interstate so camping was a breeze. In fact I probably could have stayed undetected for a month had I wanted to! 

R.I.P.

8/10/10: Trumansburg-Moscow, NY

Monday night’s deluge gave way to Tuesday’s sun and its accompanying humidity! For most of the morning, I organized, repacked, and lingered in the woods trying to recall how to function out of a backpack and contemplating my route north. I could either follow the more scenic, but rural/touristy, road along the shores of Lake Cayuga, or turn west toward Trumansburg and Route 96.

Wanting a library (and to avoid tourists), I decided on the latter. With that, I crossed the road to the campground for water--much,to the chagrin of some of the paying campers--and was off.

It was a mile or so to the Taughannock Falls upper vista point, all uphill--nearly killing me, but the views made it worth it. As I finally began descending down hill and towards Trumansburg, I noticed that I hadn't noticed the shoes; they seemed to be functioning quite well with no sign of heel-blisters nor any other discomfort besides sweat. If I was going to walk more, as planned, avoiding blisters was critical!

A few miles to the west lies Route 96 where I turned north into Trumansburg, a quiet, quaint, typical little upstate New York town. After a quick break at an ice cream shop, I found the library, uploaded pictures and checked e-mail.

Unfortunately, on the other side of town I began to feel the familiar signs of an embryonic heel blister! I had forgotten to put antiperspirant on that problematic left heel that morning- hoping it would help prevent these- and now I was left to simply pray it wouldn't worsen. Thanks to a well-placed Dollar General outside of town, I picked up some V8 and canned food, set up shop on a picnic table, and spent the next couple of hours writing, drying my feet and the Origami, and cursing humidity!

I debated hitching but food, rest, and the antiperspirant trick helped! I walked a few more miles until Ed picked me up--unsolicited--on the other side of a tiny unmapped town just as I began considering looking for a place to camp. He attended college in Ithaca, stayed at what he described as a "communal" house, and was now on his way home to Rochester. He and I talked about civilization, and Net Neutrality's likely demise at the hand of Google & Verizon. It reminded and reinforced to me that as a general rule, there is absolutely nothing of higher importance and priority to the people inhabiting this planet than wealth.

45-minutes later, Ed literally dropped me off at the New York Thruway; a truck stop at I-90 and Route 14 near Waterloo. I found a place to camp in a woods close to the Thruway and elected to wait until Wednesday to decide rather to hitch the toll road (illegal) or continue north along Route 14. I knew that I wanted no part of Syracuse. In fact, I was willing to go all the way around it if I needed to!

Setting up my little camp was MUCH more efficient this time, despite the fact I needed to be much more stealthy. The repeated packing/ unpacking/ organizing had beaten me back into my routine... and I was happy for it! Packing in the living room is fun, but I always end up figuring out the best way to organize by doing it! There’s a lesson or a proverb in there somewhere...

8/9/10: Ithaca & Taughannock Falls, NY

Although I'd spent only two of the previous nine weeks at home, Monday morning's all too familiar comedy-of-errors was a stark reminder that my pack had been little more than an extravagant suitcase since late-March!

That was about to change.

As I showered, methodically packed and re-packed, and finally walked out of Buttermilk Falls State Park toward Ithaca's mysteries, I expected to be cursing my own stupid, out-of-practice "mistakes" as much as anything! Thinking back to Santa Barbara '08, I chuckled knowing it was sure to continue for a short time then thankfully pass!

Aside from the limited information Alex had given me, I had no idea what to expect of Ithaca. She had told me about Cornell, the waterfalls dotting the area, and Lake Cayuga, one of the Finger Lakes, whose southern shore was on the northwest edge of the city. She also described what she saw as an ignored and lingering racial/economic segregation; something she found intolerable.

Alex assured me the night before that she'd call me early Monday afternoon and show me around a bit of Ithaca. I hoped, but doubted, she would so was quite surprised to hear from her shortly after 1 when we decided we'd meet at the library.

I'd spent the morning trying to decide between heading north along Lake Cayuga toward Lake Ontario then Vermont, or east to Cooperstown and the Baseball Hall of Fame, then thru the Adirondack's and into Vermont. I had no inclination either way, so I resolved to let Alex secretly decide. Wherever I ended up that day, that would be my nudge & inspiration. Sounds like a song.

As I walked north toward the downtown library, a navigational error-that-wasn't led to an extra two or three mile walk. It wasn't the only time in New York that a failure to ask directions would cost me, but part of the "plan" (ha!) for New York-Maine was to get on to the back roads and walk more,  so I enjoyed this and quickly realized how much healthier I was.

Did you know walking's easier without smoking? Go figure.

Once I finally got downtown, I realized that what little of Ithaca I'd seen reminded me a bit of Asheville, NC.

Alex suggested Taughannock Falls State Park, which is on the western shore of Lake Cayuga and would launch me north. After a mile-long walk along the stone river bed, we were at the Falls watching Milkshake entertain the masses, and eventually on our way back for our final goodbyes.

I remembered telling myself when I was trying to decide between the bus and Craigslist that the deciding factor was that I'd meet more interesting people. Indeed I had, and I was glad for it. I really enjoyed Alex!

Taughannock Falls

 

Taughannock Falls

It began to pour just after Alex returned to Ithaca and, since it was already after 6, I found a nest on a hill by the campground adjacent to the park and resolved to get a jump on Tuesday.

My apparent idiocy continued to toy with me. It took way too long to set up with me forgetting where I'd put things then, when found, I commenced with my special brand of maddening silliness such as covering them up so as to immediately "lose" them again!  "Everything in its place, dumbass!"

I was thrilled to be beneath the Origami, but I was sweaty, clammy, wet and beyond frustrated with myself. I knew it would get better, but that wasn't top of mind that first night hearing what sounded like Noah's Flood outside!

8/6-8/8/10: Santa Fe-Ithaca, NY

After spending June and most of July sequestered away in Michigan, and then another two weeks back in New Mexico, August's arrival sent me spiraling into "do something...anything" mode.

Purely motivated by a lack of divine inspiration, I took aim for the last three of the lower-48 I'd yet to visit: Maine, New Hampshire, and Vermont and after a few days of mental wrangling I chose to forgo the 60-hour Greyhound Marathon to the Maine-Canada border in favor of Craigslist's Rideshare.

Departure day was Friday the 6th with Elissa, a pleasant 60-something latina from Santa Fe on her way to see family in Denver. She was almost the perfect Rideshare: no haggling over money, flexible on the departure, and drove fast with very few stops! It was quite uneventful, and entertaining in that I was treated to watching her drive AND smoke a bowl through Colorado Springs; skills I can only imagine!

In Denver, I began coordinating with the bullet-train of this cross-country adventure: Alex. She too was flexible on when we could leave, which made everything possible in that she was willing to wait until late afternoon. Once I was in town, Alex needed time to connect with and pick up Scott, another Ridesharer, so we decided to meet at REI where I could entertain myself until Rapture if needed.

I had chatted with Alex a few times during the week, so we were vaguely familiar with each other when we met for the first time. Driving an older Subaru Outback and with a small dog in tow, my initial instincts were to categorize her as a 20-something hippie, but it didn't take long to learn that would have been a massive miscalculation.

Alex was returning from Denver to Ithaca, New York to stay with her grandmother for reasons she never offered, and I never asked. In fact, we never asked each other a whole lot. I still have no idea how old she is.

Scott was in his early 20's, from near Albany, smoked insane amounts of pot, and was pleasant and genuinely nondescript. He was traveling to random spots and meeting a friend in Davenport. Nothing about him stood out.

Everyone seemed to click quite nicely as we settled in for the Friday night ride across Nebraska and Saturday's Iowa crossing to Davenport, which naturally included a reunion with the Iowa 80. Alex's corgi, Milkshake, and I shared the backseat and, aside from having to pull off for a thunderstorm in eastern Colorado, the ride was smooth and quite enjoyable.

Nebraska Sunrise

Familiar Ground

Alex & Scott

Milkshake

Things got interesting in Illinois. Alex was in no hurry to get to Ithaca, so I offhandedly suggested I contact Leslie in Chicago to see if she wanted to join us for a couple of drinks. That never materialized, but set the stage for an entertaining and spontaneous couple of hours.

Alex detests toll roads, and once past Chicago, that's what you get if you want to cross Indiana and Ohio quickly. We decided to say, "fuck quickly", and more importantly, "fuck their nearly $30 in tolls."

Fun Fact: Indiana SOLD their told road to another country, so the tolls don't even go to the state.

An alternative is to take I-94 into Michigan. Alex wanted to stop somewhere in the state to have a beer, and my initial suggestion was Battle Creek where I hoped my old radio friend, Bobby, was hosting karaoke. He wasn't and, unable to reach anyone else at the last minute, we left I-94 for US-12 to find the first decent hole-in-the-wall to have an "authentic Michigan experience." That ultimately led us into Edwardsburg; a place that's positively "Pure Michigan"...whatever that is.

With visions of rednecks dancing in my head, I was mildly concerned about stopping at a random bar on a Saturday night in backwoods Michigan, but it quickly became obvious that they were the ones who needed to beware.

There were maybe a dozen people in the bar, along with a karaoke host-- who was sitting by himself, ignored--until Alex arrived. A few songs later, the bar had an influx of her energy, people were laughing, and although I didn't hear it, Alex later told me that the townsfolk had equated me to Bill from True Blood. She assured me it was an enormous compliment and it offered quite a perspective into how people might see me on the road!

US-12 is always maddeningly slow, even at night. So, Alex relented and rejoined the foreign-owned Indiana Toll Road in Elkhart. We slept for a few hours at the nearby service plaza before entering Ohio, and leaving the toll road in favor of US-20 early Sunday morning. That route took us past my sister Michelle's house, making for a nice out-of-the-blue Sunday surprise.

We had lunch in Cleveland before joining one of my favorite roads anywhere: US-6. Chris and I had ridden this way with Stacey from Massachusetts to Ohio last year, and since it was daylight, I enjoyed it even more this time.

I've never spent much time in rural Pennsylvania, and I have a special disdain for Philadelphia, but the intoxicating landscape dotted with Leave It To Beaveresque towns made me think I had found the Land that Time Forgot... or at least been sucked into Pleasantville! I don't typically make recommendations, but if you get the opportunity, take US-6.

Coudersport, PA

Once off US-6, into New York State and thru Elmira, it was nearly midnight, and we were quickly in Ithaca. Alex dropped me off at Buttermilk Falls State Park, we made arrangements to chat the next day,  I collected my things, and after 2-days and 2,000- miles, I set up the Origami and began the arduous task of re-learning how to live out of a backpack again...

7/13/10: Upon Further Review...

A famous singer once said that when you start explaining yourself, you’re fucked. Another wise man also said, “Hope floats, but so does bullshit!”

With the help of friends over the last couple of months, I’ve come to several conclusions. Counter to our claims, truth & honesty are NOT highly regarded! Most would prefer insulating their image and feeling good at any cost—reality be damned. People go to remarkable mental, verbal, and physical extremes to avoid any challenge to often fictitious personal narrative. Protecting these narratives has inadvertently become the dominant theme of the past year.

The Sabbatical

In May, I removed the Cambria-Monterey posts and explored a new direction. I miss the exciting, happy “days of discovery”; meeting people who were (clearly!) conjured up by a Purposeful Universe just for me! Unfortunately, I spent the winter slowly dissecting that philosophy and wondering if it was just a new spin on old mysticism. Was I simply plagiarizing existing doctrine, adding myself, then claiming it as "my own"? Probably, and that rattled me because it spoke to my own pesky tendency to narrate from ego, and to Azzie's credit, he served as the mirror reflecting this.

I hoped to recapture some of the excitement lost since last June, and to that end began believing my own concocted narrative while internalizing some old, familiar criticisms: "arrogant, unforgiving, judgmental." I wondered: Had I engineered or attracted these things, as Chris might claim? Had I attracted these "negative" experiences simply with a preoccupation with negativity? I actually began to think so for a few minutes. "Hope floats, but so does bullshit. The trick is knowing the difference."

Perception v. Reality

I’ve said it before: Reality is NOT subject to the whims of self-delusion. How you choose to interpret or disguise reality does NOT alter reality itself. A pacifist army of clever hippicentrics have shown their egocentric friends that blurring the line between perception & reality conveniently makes life...easier! Eventually, they learn to completely corrupt facts by mainstreaming infantile notions like: “your reality!” If I close my eyes, you go away!

There is no Reality-on-Demand! Somewhere, there ARE concrete answers. To everything. Whether they're incomprehensible or we simply choose not to see them doesn't matter, they are there. Reality is not subject to our wants, needs, or beliefs and therein lays the problem. People willingly base their vision of reality on narratives and beliefs, rather than basing their beliefs on reality while committing to see it authentically.


People gleefully construct rationalizations (narratives) while speaking from a position of "want" rather than one of fact in order to hold their Happy Zone! What results from this process is our "narrative." Each of us, at some time or another, blatantly refuse to see reality as it actually is. I’ve known this for a long time. I also understand that some people simply must exist dependent on these fictions. What I didn’t realize is the degree to which some desperately clutch to these narratives. Part of my own "floating bullshit" was thinking that people wanted to see this at work in their lives! Ha!

The struggle it seems is to simply cut through our own "floating bullshit"; to “Know Thyself” through a commitment to at least trying to find pure truth. Resigning ourselves to a flawed perception as “the best we can do” is intellectual & spiritual laziness. There are things we’re not capable of understanding, just as cavemen couldn’t explain thunderstorms 10,000 years ago. However, our inability to comprehend did NOT mean Thor really hurled lightning bolts! Nor does it mean the universe shape-shifts to the whims of “your reality.”


Shouldn't people embrace “I don’t know” rather than applying ridiculous egoistic explanations?

Moving On

Things are finally transitioning, and I’ve decided to re-post and finish the Azrael’s story as well as the rest of March. Azzie, to his credit, has obviously proven to be a powerful mirror and the experience is bearing fruit, although it’s slightly bitter.

I’ve repeatedly agonized over what to share and keep to myself. I’ve struggled over better and more important people than The Reaper; people such as Chris, Andre, my father, and The Hens. Considering that I’ve sacrificed each of these relationships as a result, EVERY person I’ve asked agree:

1. He chose to leave me in Monterey without warning.
2. I offered the chance to tell “his side” of the story.
3. He declined.
4. Fuck him.

Despite this (and his threats) I actually believe Azzie’s well-intentioned but inadvertently hoisted himself atop a pedestal when he hitched his wagon to Jesus's mule, began doing newspaper interviews while soliciting money with his "righteous calling" as a marketing tool. These create expectations that are tough to meet, and rightfully so. Rather than an unquestioned pat on the head, they command an accountability from anyone saddling the camel to ride the Bible to a “book deal”. If thinking so makes me an “arrogant jackass”, so be it. I’m not running for office, and I'd rather be an asshole than a hypocrite. I’ve been threatened by tougher and called worse by better. Intentions aside, I said in another post that Azrael strikes me as someone co-opted to play the part of a walking billboard; an unpaid extreme traveling salesmen. In retrospect, I see no reason to amend that.

Finally, I should clarify what many of you have surely noticed. While the places and events are real, Azrael/Rael is a fictitious name—he’s the first I’ve offered the courtesy. I’ve stripped his image from my site because I don't want to promote him or his cause. Nor do I have an interest in personally embarrassing or humiliating him.

Yet, I believe this story should be told because he serves as a powerful example and insight into humanity and the short-comings of the many we wrongly hold in excessively high esteem. He is Santa Clausification personified.

At least Azreal believes in something and pursues it. However, for us the trouble with idols, heroes, and role models is that as soon as we believe they’re special, it can relieve us of the responsibility of ourselves being the people we imagine. We can choose to live through our heroes rather than live ourselves, and can resign us to waiting for The Miracle; “someone or something to show you the way.”


What if it was taught that no one’s particularly remarkable, there’s no need to try to be special because we’re all equally, fundamentally, and hopelessly flawed…thus equal? How many MLK’s would arise from their couches?

Good luck, Rael. I hope you find what you're after and you were right about one thing: We are all flawed human beings. Thank fukkin' God.

Enough of the happy-happy, joy-joy shit. I now resume my role as The Master Realist…

Gone Fishin'

Over the last year, this blog has degenerated into something that's now bordering on black, with a negativity swirling around it that has literally begun to suck the life out of me. It seems that this began about the time Chris and I arrived in Michigan last year, and for the last few months, my posts, while historically accurate, were unforgiving in their observations & insights and becoming outright brutal and mean-spirited. My sincere (and unsolicited!) apologies to my sisters, Pam & Kim, as well as Andre, Cody, Chris, Wendie, Ray, and Karen. Be assured: I don't like that guy, either.

This hasn't felt right for a long time. I obviously need to unplug, and re-evaluate what it is I'm doing and why... and I need to do that without feeling I need to check in with you!

Thanks for your readership and support, I'll be back sometime...

3/22/10: Monterey, CA-Marinate for 24 Hours

Monday was quiet, and understandably a bit difficult. As I began to reflect over the previous few days, a cold realization set in about how I had gotten here, and the ensuing isolation and introspection called into question many things. I reflected back to just 4-days earlier, and how everything had felt “right.”

NOTHING felt “right” now.

I was severely disillusioned, and seriously questioned my both my motivation to, and purpose for, traveling this way. Powerful ideas were bubbling beneath the surface, but for the first time in memory, I honestly wasn’t sure that I cared. I eyeballed Greyhound and Amtrak as easy escapes and access to a much wanted reset button; had either had a terminal in Monterey, there’s no question that’s exactly what I would have done!



I was obviously still annoyed with being left in Monterey, but also again felt guilty. I had to acknowledge at least a mild, grudging respect for Karen and her, for the most part, forthrightness. While we were Exxon Valdez-grade oil and water, at the very least I never had to question where I stood with her, and shew deserved credit for that. I posted a message to her Facebook page apologizing for the way things turned out and wishing her well on the trip east.

Coming to terms with Ray, of course, was not so simple and I was in fact in the embryonic stages of yet another personal and literary Rubicon: questioning what I would (and would not) share about this bizarre experience.

You'll recall, I had also sent him an email the night before plainly (and emphatically!) expressing how I saw things, and offering him the opportunity to tell me what had happened, if in fact my “assessment” was inaccurate. After offering NO indication that anything was amiss before vanishing, I thought he at least owed me that. I decided that if that never came, all events were fair game, and I would be completely honest in offering my lone perspective of them. As I said before, to me "reactionary explanation" is the textbook definition of "offering excuses."

On Monday, and for the near future, I wanted to believe that there was more to this insane development than clashing with Karen. Even faking after-the-fact indignation would taste better than this! Honestly, it was probably also ego. I didn’t want to believe I had come all this way chasing his published hype and my private narrative.

The universe tried to jump start me a bit through a nice conversation with a cool guy I met at McDonalds. He too was amazed that I had been left after coming all the way out here and asked what happened with them, but we both laughed when he stopped himself and said, “From where you sit, it probably doesn’t matter, does it?”

He warned me to be careful around Salinas (gang activity) and encouraged a northerly route along the bay toward Santa Cruz, explaining that it was a college town, had a hostel, and that I’d be more likely to find the “right kind of people.”

I bounced between the notions of hoofing his way, and heading due-east from Monterey toward Salinas and 101, while also learning that I could take public transit all the way to either San Jose or San Francisco if I chose.

In addition, I have a sister, nephew, and niece all living in Fresno and I hadn’t seen any of them in 15-years, so this seemed like an interesting and unexpected option, although I wasn’t sure I was up for the drama. My girlfriend astutely explained that while Ray & Karen would leave a putrid taste in my mouth, a trip to Fresno may be exactly what the doctor ordered to salvage something positive from this trip. While I saw the logic, I wasn’t feeling it. This entire escapade now felt like a failed abortion of a trip, and I its doctor.

Beyond that, and another comical “Vern” moment that saw me needlessly scampering around like a Desert Storm commando that evening, Monday was quiet & somber.

There was never a conscious decision to stay in Monterey another full day. I just did. When Karen responded to my well-wishes as soon as that evening, even offering advice on things to watch for as I presumably headed north, I knew they'd had access to Internet, Ray had chosen to ignore my email, and I’d likely never get even the courtesy of a direct explanation from him. He and Karen both knew I would write about these things, and he was choosing to remain silent--presumably leaving it to me alone to tell the tale. Until the tale was told, that is! Stay classy, San Diego...

As I reflected on just how much I wanted to share, I wondered: what did he think I would write? Did he assume they’d be fake yarns of Kumbaya, S’mores, and wholesome family living? I wondered: had he, in the glee and positive glow of the post-Slab City and “Ray's Camel” moments, passed my link along to others who may be shocked to read of his actual, unfiltered exploits? And, believe it or not, I began putting an excessive amount of thought into whether or not I should care...