Unspeakably Large

I'm dreaming of Utah, of places I've never been, like Canyonlands and Arches. We were discussing beauty in the world and I felt limited, which I am, as are we all. Animal, vegetable, mineral... makes no difference in the end.

Roads traveled linger in my mind like atoms scattered across an ever-expanding universe. Those not traveled gnaw at me, call to me like the Sirens. I would go there if I could, perhaps even to my death.

The last thing I see might be magnificent, or it might be mundane. But then, there is magnificence in the mundane, even if we do not always recognize it. We just need to look more closely, pay attention to the right things (assuming we know what those right things are).

But we're dwelling too much on endings. Beginnings are also worth remembering, for they are our launch points into a larger world. They only hint at what lies ahead, when we may feel both excitement and fear at the unknown.

Then again, is there really a difference between beginnings and endings? If every journey is circular (from the universe, back to it... never having left, in fact), then points along the loop are arbitrary both in position and in sequence. They could easily be changed without consequence. Yes, minor differences would arise, but in the end (or beginning) there is only everything around us.

At this point I must mention that I'm completely sober as I write this. My mind wanders into weird areas of its own accord, without chemical assistance. It's a blessing and a curse.

Meanwhile, Utah continues to exist, largely unexplored by me. The same can be said of the entire planet or even universe. Space is unspeakably large, so I'm led to believe, though I can neither confirm nor deny.

Bad Case of Loving You

We had a regular gig at strip mall dive bar in Chula Vista, between a 99 cent Chinese restaurant and an all-night laundromat. Across the parking lot was a Denny's. We parked and loaded our stuff out back. About ten yards separated us from the retaining wall that kept drunks out of the adjoining apartment complex, which probably had enough drunks of its own.

The bartenders were cool, mostly women. At least one of them had done hard time and provided good anecdotal evidence that rehabilitation could work. The bouncer was a mountain of a man who rarely lost his cool, and for good reason. We made friends with him and the women serving drinks. You never know what will happen in a place like that, and you want as many people on your side as possible.

First set is always “oldies” (Beatles, Eagles, softer stuff from the '60s and '70s). Second set is AOR (Tom Petty, .38 Special, etc.). Third is dance tunes (“You Shook Me All Night Long,” “Play That Funky Music,” “Brick House,” etc.). Fourth is straight-up shitkicker music (Steppenwolf, Judas Priest, Bush, White Stripes, anything aggressive).

There's grandmas, bikers, gangbangers, tweakers in the joint on any given night. Some folks fall into more than one category, and most get along well enough, even after a few too many.

One night we're playing as usual and this couple at the corner of the bar nearest me (stage right) starts getting into it, just yelling at each other. It gets physical as we're wrapping up a song. They're right in front of me as we start the next song, which I sing: “Bad Case of Loving You.”

Doorman jumps in, hauls them away. I eventually stop laughing long enough to blurt out the first line.

Insufferable Bore

Another thing that pisses me off about the book I'm currently reading is the quality of research. It's bad enough that the author displays an almost limitless lack of adventure and the same amount of self-pity. Never mind her strange obsessions with coffee and food, and the fact that she belittles her more interesting travel companion at every opportunity. Forget her didactic tone, her purple prose.

Even aside from all that, she just plain gets her facts wrong, which maybe isn't too surprising given that she takes the time to complain about how she once spent eight whole hours researching something. While looking for more information on her subject matter, about whom I am now genuinely curious, I've discovered that she has probably gotten the nationality of her subject wrong. I'm in no position to confirm or deny this, but here are some other gaffes:

• At one point she decries an event as being “archetypically American,” which would be fine except that the event in question occurs in Canada. She actually repeats the error later in the same paragraph. The author is from Australia. Or New Zealand, whatever.
  
• I flipped to the back of the book to see how much more there is to read and stumbled across a familiar line: “Isn't it pretty to think so.” I immediately recognized it as Hemingway and thought it was from The Sun Also Rises (it is). She even mentions the sunrise in her sentence leading up to that quote, which she then attributes to Fitzgerald.
  

So yeah, if you complain about doing research and can't tell the difference between the United States and Canada or between Hemingway and Fitzgerald, I have to assume you're making shit up.

She got a government grant for this. And she's an insufferable bore.

There's Always Stuff to Do

The question becomes one of how much you can cut out of a thing and still have it be that thing. Or in a perfect world, a better version of that thing. What is needed, what isn't? Signal or noise, wheat or chaff.

So you keep cutting, and the thing may get worse before it gets better, but you trust that you'll end up with what you want. Sometimes you get lucky and it actually works that way.

Other times you end up with a mess. Okay, then. Make something else out of that mess. In which case it doesn't become a better version of the thing, but rather a different thing altogether. Hopefully a better thing than what you originally had.

If not? Well, try again. Keep trying. Add, subtract, change. Probably swear a lot. If you're like me, anyway, maybe shake your fist at the world. That always helps. Make a mean face, show the world who's boss, or at least who you like to believe the boss is.

Get it out of your system, get back to work. Read a book. Play with your dog. Go for a walk. Do stuff. There's always stuff to do.

* * *

Speaking of books, I'm reading a travel memoir written by a woman who has chosen to give herself the most unsympathetic narrative voice imaginable. She whines about everything: the eight whole hours it took her to research something, the coffee she drinks, the food she eats, her less boring companion who drives her crazy by not being a complete stick in the mud.

It reads like parody in parts, but she's dead serious, which makes it even more amusing. I have a feeling the companion will not survive the trip, and we'll be stuck with the narrator by herself.

You Got My Order Wrong

I ordered a chef's salad and the waitress came back with shrimp salad and an admonition from the chef that they don't make shrimp salad on weekends. First, you got my order wrong. Second, your chef's instructions to you have nothing to do with me. Third, you are the restaurant owner's stepdaughter so ignore those first two points.

* * *

The parking garage was crowded, as mall garages often are. A woman waiting for a spot was taking up too much of the lane and I couldn't get around her, so I stopped to wait for her to take the spot. When it opened up she kept looking at me but wouldn't move.

I pointed at her and at the spot, to let her know that she should go ahead. She kept looking at me but wouldn't move. Finally she threw up her hands and drove past me, leaving the spot empty. With her out of the way, I could continue forward. Presumably someone else took the spot she'd wanted.

* * *

In a different parking garage, in a different mall, in a different city, I pulled over to let a woman pass so I could turn around and go back the way I'd come. Instead of passing, she decided to sit and watch me. Then she honked her horn and yelled, “You don't suppose to park there!”

First, I know that, which is why I'm not parking here. Second, you're not the police. Third, go around me like a normal person would.

She didn't go around me, so I couldn't come back they way I'd come. Instead I had to go all the way around the garage and head out the other side, which is not where I wanted to be.

Where did I want to be?

Stuff in the World

You must have been in Hawai'i, me wandering down India Street looking for something to eat or drink, finding both. It was sunny outside, as it often is in this part of the world, except in the summer when tourists visit and are disappointed by the predominant cloudiness.

They eventually return to Wisconsin or Germany and tell friends how wonderful it was here despite the weather. Maybe they saw pandas at the zoo or took a harbor cruise and shivered in the stiff breeze that they weren't expecting. By God, it was wonderful!

I was watching these people have the proverbial times of their lives as they strolled down the street and popped into shops, supporting the local economy by paying too much for pedestrian items, thank you very much. There were dogs and bicycles. Some stopped to sit in chairs on the sidewalk. The people, that is, not the dogs and bicycles (the latter would look especially silly in a chair, although now I want to see it).

The food was, as the tourists would say, quite wonderful. Crisp thin crust, melted cheese so hot it burns the roof of your mouth, ground meats, fresh veggies. The beer was also wonderful because all beer is wonderful, especially the kind they make in this part of the world (although Wisconsin and Germany are also home to fine beer).

After lunch I continued walking and watching, overhearing snippets of conversation along the way in many languages, most of which I didn't understand. There were a few clouds, though not as many as when our poor tourist friends came to visit that one time.

I missed you, as I always do when you are gone. But I found things to do, as I always do. There's a lot of stuff in the world.

Bagels

Bagels. Goose eggs. Zero, zilch, nada. Whole lotta nothin' goin' on.

The trick we must play on ourselves is to believe that we can learn and improve with effort. Fake it till you make it, as they say. We try new things and are transformed. Even if those changes may seem slow at times, they do occur.

We drank some of our first batch of homebrew last night, a porter. It is not particularly good, but it is particularly ours, made with our own hands. We could at least taste the effort.

And since this is all one giant experiment, we played with our food. Take some shredded coconut and brown it in a frying pan. Toss in some vanilla extract, some almond extract. Dump all that into a French press with the beer, and voila, it's a totally different drink. Still not particularly good, but now in a way that tastes more like amaretto.

The process reminds me a lot of writing or making music. Yes, eventually you'd like to end up with something resembling what you intended to created. In the meantime, pay attention to the process and make tweaks as needed, enjoying the mistakes made along the way. Some of those mistakes could lead to new and exciting discoveries: an unexpected twist of phrase or flavor combination.

None of this is revolutionary, but it's good to be reminded every now and then that such things are not only possible but likely given enough time and effort. So the sooner you start and the more you apply yourself, the better your chances.

This is what we tell ourselves as we try to fake it till we make it. The alternative is to do nothing at all, but there will be plenty of time for that before we know it.