Summary of BetterWorld: A Concise User's Page

essay

(I once called this concept of creating the final and best social system for humanity 'Bruce's Perfect World'. Realizing my ego needed less massaging I dropped my given name from the title and it became 'Perfect World'. Enough cards and letters (okay, emails and Tweets) convinced me that it COULDN'T ever be 'perfect'. Now I'm calling it BetterWorld and I'm sticking with that moniker. For now.)

I tend to meander. It's just the way I write, splashing my ideas willy-nilly across the page. To encapsulate the mania and collect my thoughts neatly for you I'm putting all the notes for Betterworld right here, in bullet-point fashion, within three main topics.

1) Elimination of specific capitalistic or democratic systems no longer needed in BetterWorld;

2) Merits of living under the social system known as BetterWorld;

3) Methods or steps taken to reshape Democracy into BetterWorldism.

BetterWorld will Eliminate:

• Money

• Ownership

• Government

• Imprisonment

• Advertising

• Hierarchy

• Waste

• Pollution

• Most competition (including professional sports)

• Dominance

• Politicians

• Hunger

• Most disease and illness

• Redundancy and duality

• Irrelevant and substandard products

• Busywork

• Accounting

• Spying to gain upper-hand

• Religion

• Superstition

• Familial priority

• The 'blame' cycle

• Speculative or unprovable concepts

• Tolerance for ridiculous and unresearched claims

• Individual daily driving

• Loopholes and preferential treatment

• War

• Corporate takeovers

• Corporations

• Corporate status

• Intolerance

• Ignorance

• Persecution

Deleting the above 'faults' from our current social system leaves room to add new, logical patterns of modern socialization like these:

Merits of BetterWorld

• No homelessness

• Free medical

• No poverty

• No hunger

• Scant obesity

• Scant psychological disorders

• Scant illnesses

• 10-20 hour workweek

• 'Family' approach to conflicts

• Scant unappealing occupations

• Free full education

• Constant job placement

• Computer accessibility

• Redesigned education system

• Redesigned merit system

• Freedom from religion

• Freedom from intimidation

• Freedom from fear

• Constant countrywide support

• Vast reduction in accidents

• Freedom to practice art

• Job typing and matching

• Sexual freedom

• True child-friendly society

• Highly green: ecologically responsible

• Athleticism encouraged using a vast array of programs

• Natural, fresh and delicious foods

• Vegetarianism not encouraged

• Meat consumption reduced

• Free door-to-door public transportation 24/365

• Frequent vacation time

• One person one vote; directed voting

• Cooperation replaces competition

• Emphasis placed on science, inventions in new tech, species advancement

• Practical designs for stellar expansion of species

• Interaction encouragement; social preparation

• Open exchanges encouraged

• Increase in robotic assistance for dangerous tasks like mining, radioactive work

• Adaptation of 'eternal lives' through software

• Work on life elongation

• Renovation of city into clean and modern spaces

• Reduced childbearing to goal of 1 billion worldwide

• New crops for modern usage

• Clean energy; elimination of petroleum products

• New building practices and materials make structures much more durable

• New long-distance transportation-- airless levitating railroad tube exceeds 15,000 mph.

• Free modern attractive lodging for all

• Relocation encouraged

• Job switching encouraged

• Vastly reduced alcohol/drug use

• Vastly reduced noise pollution

• Reduced air traffic

• Near 100% automated recycling

The above conditions will fall into place once we take the following steps:

Method

• Secure initial funding as a private loan (500 billion)

• Secure land (200 square miles)

• Obtain secret status

• Demilitarize project

• Secure & location-shift like-minded volunteers with top skills

• Purchase machinery to build city and infrastructure

• Build initial, temporary city nearby

• Develop city control software

• Develop human skills testing program

• Develop modern education program

• Design city utilizing modern concepts

• Develop new materials

• Build final city core components

• Create renewable energy power source

• Develop self-cleaning city priorities

• Develop internal transportation

• Move citizenry into new city

• Continue to draft qualified citizenry

• Begin outreach programs into other cities under corporate banner

• Sell outer cities on benefits & savings of new education

• Train all children in nation under new education

• Sell energy, new materials to outside sources; use income to repay loan

• Create vast, automated farm network; give surplus food to needy

• Offer needy free housing/education/training in gated local communities

• Train needy and comb for qualified citizenry

• Create robotic machinery plant

• Build robotic mining machinery using 'vine' approach (tracks from surface to multiple veins for moving machinery and ore)

• Find and tap ore sources

• Structure city enrichment/entertainment programs

• Increase support to outer cities

• Offer replacement confinement programs for outer prisoners & retrain

• Design & build stable geothermal power plant

• Create tremendous scientific research facilities for cutting edge information

• Offer changeover designs for outer cities and assistance with construction and maintenance

• Design individual voting system to replace government

There. No meandering, no tangent-chasing.

But also, no explanations. Explanations are below, in a section I call

Explanations

The idea that BetterWorld can bring about all these changes seems unbelievable, until you take one important fact into consideration:

The conversion process will take at least a hundred years. A century. Maybe two.

Slow changes will be made year by year, month by month. The people who are against BetterWorld will be dead of old age before BetterWorld is fully implemented, leaving it free for the others who grow into it from birth and know no other system, and the ones who originally fit the BetterWorld concept by nature. Enclaves of stubborn, greedy and selfish people will be left behind to live out their strife-filled existence in relative comfort, enclaves that will be razed after the last member has passed.

Betterworld will come into being with the effort of a few like-minded people with a wide variety of expertise: Scientists in every field of human endeavor, experts on the human condition, empathetic and tireless believers in the cause. Building a secret (at first) city to live the BetterWorld way and iron out any flaws in the system will make way for outreach programs to other cities through benevolent shell corporations a la United Way, providing hope for the needy, housing and food and education and training, easing stress and reducing crime. New believers will be found and trained to work within each city and over time, conversion of the entire city to BetterWorld becomes more likely. People will be enticed into a volunteer program which offers all the perks of success in the old system: better housing, more free time, quality medical care, abundant food. Labor is then freed up for more logical work, and competition becomes impossible as low quality producers are revamped to make better products and other wasteful or pointless practitioners are eliminated (like excessive packaging or the 'pet rock').

Slowly eliminating punishment and replacing it with training frees up a lot of man-hours as court jobs, confinement jobs and capture jobs are phased out. Wide scale directed learning slowly weeds out harmful beliefs to modern society, like superstitions, religions and wive's tales, freeing up even more man-hours, labor which is better served in the overhaul of human infrastructure and environmental clean-up.

Reduction and ultimate elimination of money as a trading medium and ownership of products relaxes the entire system. Rather than individuals fearing others who might 'steal' their 'belongings', a logical and computerized distribution of suddenly plentiful resources guarantees each human has what they want, when they want it. Educating each individual logically prevents their upsetting the balance with an unnecessary hoarding instinct. People won't be clamoring for the best music system or window treatment when all products are constructed of top quality and are freely distributed.

Individuals will be educated to their natural talents and steered away from learning for which they have no facility and which then provides no service. Often several areas of expertise emerge and future employment is keyed to these talents, allowing a person to cycle between multiple occupations, bringing excitement to work, eliminating the boredom of repetition and increasing the breadth of experts in every field. Jobs which are considered 'bad' are given top priority for redesign, either modifying the job to make it more palatable or increasing the automated component, i.e. waste treatment or trash pickup occupations.

War will be considered a last resource, because it cannot be eliminated until the entire planet operates under BetterWorld, so defensive capabilities will continue to be produced. Believing all human life is valuable, including those of the 'enemy', defensive methodology will be created which cripples offensive capability without harming human life, all while a compromise contingent offers nonviolent solutions to the conflict.

Because so much individual business travel occurs through redundancy and poor resource allocation, computerized flow charting stringently streamlines and matches city needs to localized resources. No longer will a specialized workman have to cross the city to reach a job when another qualified workman lives a block away. Creating an efficient and thorough public transportation system eliminates traffic, pollution and stress. Eliminating private vehicles eradicates registration and insurance nightmares, parking and traffic tickets, endless repair bills. A city motor pool allows anyone access to a vehicle for travel between cities, but autonomous control of the car means virtually no more accidents, injury and death.

Much of business labor currently lies in tracking: the materials, employee hours, product quantity and locations, and of course the money. In a directed computerized allocation design, raw materials can reach their destinations without storage or accounting, so that only the products

which are currently required

are created. The mountain of paperwork which follow any money path disappears when money does, eliminating many dull and unrewarding office jobs. Of course, direct money jobs disappear as well: Bankers, collectors, accountants and bookkeepers, cashiers, lenders legal and otherwise, armbreakers.

Religion, sex, physical health orbit around each other in a complicated mess in today's society. Religion attempts to interfere with human sexual desire and limit it to childbearing within a sanctioned pairing. Human desire is crushed down and causes unnatural behavior. The stress of modern society causes many to become too exhausted to maintain physical fitness. The pressure outlets of vast food resources and passive entertainment take their toll on the body, bloating it and prompting unattractiveness, reducing the chances of sexual gratification. BetterWorld promotes reasonable work hours, healthy food, physical entertainment and welcome sexual contact, while reducing the number of children created by these congresses to reverse and stabilize the bacteriological growth of the human race. Better health leads to trimmer bodies, happier people and greater sexual interest.

Eliminating the lies and misinformation coming from most controlling religions allows the citizenry to blossom like flowers. No longer will the unlikely and unproven 'Heaven' and 'Hell' govern individual behavior; knowing that both good and bad exist in the now as literal heaven and hell overlapping our reality will spread the realization that all of our actions have immediate repercussions, both good and bad. The religious 'out' of asking forgiveness at the moment of death so that one's soul can live in bliss for eternity morphs into a nonsense story like the Tooth Fairy or Santa Claus, greed-based stories which pass into the collective unconscious as ultimately damaging to the minds of our children.

The standard model of allowing our children to create their own micro-society amongst themselves will be scrapped as it becomes apparent that our earliest memories tend to guide our entire lives. All child behavior will be subject to constant scrutiny, either through adult intervention or modern computerized caretakers which assess every social interaction for learning potential. School changes drastically when free-form playtime and it's hazard potential is replaced with careful virtual exercises designed to make children aware of the synergy surrounding other's emotional responses to their actions, and only when the lessons have become ingrained are children encouraged to interact in group situations.

Teenagers are a special problem because new hormonal levels cause irrational behaviors during the change to adulthood, and special programs will be implemented to help them make that transition, while preparing them for the new expectations of adulthood.

The methods we currently use to transit from childhood, to the teen years, to adulthood, to our senior years are seriously skewed by the outdated value systems we employ. People are placed in a virtual pecking order and settle into their life roles, almost invisibly arranged into 'worth piles' from which they can neither escape nor alter, setting up a lifetime of disappointment, fear and anger. Often emotional safety valves blow, causing damage and tragedy to our society, propelling the misery forward into a bleak future.

There is a better way.

Copyright 2011 Bruce Ian Friedman

Back on the Road... For Good

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I have tended and picked, watered and trimmed, cleaned and refilled. I have fertilized, pesticized and euthanized. Above it all, I have sneezed.

And sneezed.

Holy crap have I sneezed. What time wasn't spent in the sudden expulsion of lung air was occupied fighting to regain it as asthmaesque symptoms seized my racked frame, leaving me hypoxic and wan.

Still, I LOVED IT!

After all, allergic has been what I am, for my whole life. If I could put a number on the total sneezes I have emitted since birth, I'm certain it would exceed the number of tissue boxes stored at the Scotty warehouse. It might be higher than all the people on Earth with colds at this very moment, and at least twice the times I have covered my mouth. No apologies, no regrets.

Sneezing is more than an affliction for me -- it's what I am. If I were a dwarf in Snow White's court (I'm several inches too tall for dwarfism, you bastards) I'm sure she would have dubbed me 'Horny'.

You didn't think I'd go for the obvious answer, did you? Tut, tut.

Regardless of the allergic reaction, I found the last few weeks of 'farm school' to be immensely gratifying. I really dug the 'fieldwork' education. All of my teachers were knowledgeable and patient and taught in slow, repeating sentences. There were no quizzes or tests. Best of all, they believed me when I told them, every time, that my homework had been burned to ashes. And it was, my friends, it was.

Have I learned everything on the subject? Not in that short time-- there's a lot of finesse that only time will teach. But have I learned enough to begin my own successful 'vegetable' garden? Yes, oh my goodness yes. But will I?

We shall see, oh curious ones.

But I have imposed on my host families for far too long. Yes, I've repaired everything that was broken in their homes. Yes, I paid my own way, and contributed to the households. Yes, I became the de facto dishwasher, and maid, and even manny. I cooked meals, and made fresh morning coffee, and stayed out of the way when my presence would have been awkward.

Still, this boy knows when to skedaddle. And skedaddling time is here. So, three cheers for me.

What's next? I've given that question a fair amount of brain power. I've thought about my reasons for vacating LA in the first place and what has changed over the past month that would cause an alteration in my master plan. I have pondered over my various and diffuse environments to select one which suits me-- the NEW me. And the answer which keeps coming back and back although I try to ignore it... is that I don't much like traveling alone. It's boring. There are, like, a hundred hours in a day to fill up, in between morning shine and bedtime. Sure, I take several hours at a wi-fi location in the mornings to chat with friends via laptop (and what a godsend it has been); I have my cell phone with me and can communicate throughout the day with people; but I'm sure you know that just does not convey the same closeness, the same sharing, as having a warm body in the seat next to you.

Add to that the recent realization that I am OLD. Okay, not old, but certainly not young. My head shows much more scalp than I prefer, what hair remains is tinged with grey, I'm paunchy and wrinkling and I hurt in places that, as a young man, didn't even exist on my body.

Why is that important? Because it's dawned upon me to my horror that I've become one of the invisibles... the people whom you don't look at if you can help it. Being an invisible makes it that much harder to get along as a person traveling solo. People don't rush to do you favors anymore (not that they ever DID; I'm just saying); pretty young women fail to look at you as potential bed bouncers; and cops don't hesitate to issue that ticket even beyond the flapping of my once-thick-n-lustrous eyelashes (that hasn't happened on this trip yet, thank goodness).

I don't know how aging people before me have gotten through it! Do you think I DON'T want to sleep with that long, flaxen haired willow NOT looking at me from across the restaurant? Oh, I do, I do. It's just that, at this point, it would take a Herculean effort to achieve. It's not like young attractive women have floating thought balloons above them filled with helpful revelations like 'I have daddy issues' or 'I nut for a guy with a gut' or even 'I want to fuck that wrinkled old 'tard and make him my sugar daddy'. Especially not the last one... I couldn't be a Nutra Sweet daddy at this point. Not even a Cyclamates daddy (remember that one?). I could possibly pull off a Saccharin daddy... but you know that there would DEFINITELY be a bitter after-taste to that relationship:

"Can I go shopping, honey-bunch?"

"Sure! Here's a 20. Hit the 99 cents store... bring me back a Nutty Buddy."

Yuch.

So what have I learned? That traveling around the wide, wonderful world with nobody to talk to is roughly akin to having hot, sweaty sex... with a mannikin. There might be lots to ooh and ahh over, but there's nobody to hear it.

That's why I'm mounting the saddle of my frumpmobile and pointing it south, towards my home. This trip is officially over. Save for the next 20 hours in the car, that is.

Is that really it? Is my great 'Freedoming' over? Have I collected enough data for my own version of Kerouac's 'On The Road'? Well... nothing Earth-shattering. Certainly not the Great American Novel-- more like a Dummy's Guide To The Pacific Northwest-- If You Don't Know What You're Looking For And Don't Mind Completing The Trip Having Not Found It.

Blast. At least it was a summer away from the computer. Oops... I can't make that claim, either. Took the damned thing with me, in the form of an easily rechargeable notebook. On an aside, am I the only one who thinks the natural course of events in the miniaturizing of computers HAS TO BE their implantation within us? I'm certain we'll soon live in a future where if I should want directions while I'm driving, I need only think of them and they would somehow appear clearly in my field of vision;

or if a lovely young woman asks me a question of ANY difficulty, a Google search within my brain would pop out the amazingly correct answer for me to impress her. Not that it would; with my computer purchasing skills I would probably end up with a slower baud rate than everyone else on the street and would still be hearing the sounds of dial-up ringing in my brain as that handsome young guy with the speedy MindMac provided her with the info, and then his own info. Drats, foiled again!

In an attempt to salvage this not-quite waste of a summer, I throw a query online: Would somebody like to join my rapid drive to the City of Angles? Oops, I meant to write Angels. Nobody will notice, I'm sure.

My first response comes quickly: "Where is the City of Angles? THE PENTAGON?"

Ho, ho. We got us some smartasses in Seattle, I see. The other posts are more promising, and I settle on one who seems the most mature and responsible. We settle on a time in the morning to meet; he's going to get a ride to my part of town. Good, good.

An hour after the meet time and eight phone calls later I find him hung over and apologetic on the other end of the line. I'm not giving up on him. I say a fond goodbye to my Seattle hosts and drive to HIM. He won't answer the door but answered his phone: "I'll be right out."

Five minutes.

Ten minutes. What the hell does 'right out' mean to this dude, anyway?

Fifteen minutes. I go back to his door and knock again, this time less politely. He answers. He's young, perhaps 25. Tall and reedy thin, a mop of bushy light brown hair, VERY rumpled. Looking past him into the apartment, I can see it's typical for a student: Broken, disheveled furniture, piles of festering clothing bursting up from the floor, half the doors sporting fist-holes.

"Sorry." Accompanying his apology came a burst of last night: Sour beer, spicy chips, vomit. Morning breath. I winced.

"Nice to meet you. Got a toothbrush?" I was irritated and pulling no punches.

"Sorry, sorry. Yes. Be right back." He tripped on a t-shirt, righted and pulled himself into the bathroom. "It was an impromptu goodbye for me," he yelled through the damaged door, words slurred by toothbrush movement. "I was helpless to say no. They left an hour ago."

"I see." I said, sounding like my father disapproving of my own troubled youth and checked myself. What did I care about this guy, besides where his life intersected mine? "Let's just get on the road, okay?"

The door opened. "Yes, let's." He dove into a pile of clothes and I realized that was his CLEAN mountain. He stuffed them into a series of plastic shopping bags and said, "Done. Let's go."

Finally. We swung into and out of a fast food joint and then popped onto the 5, where we would remain until hitting the artery leading to San Francisco. I wasn't getting a rider all the way to LA as it turns out-- he needed to get to San Fran, but some quick recalculating and a new plan was in motion. "We'll stop for gas and to switch drivers, and with luck should pull up to your uncle's pad at around midnight."

Then it was us, alone, two near-strangers trapped in a rolling metal box, shoulders a foot apart. Let the learning begin. I quizzed him for awhile and found out he was a quiet young man, considered and intelligent, though a strong candidate for some ADD study. Scatterbrained was a good descriptor for my young passenger. I tried to help, as any good obsessive-compulsive would but I just made things worse, so I backed away slowly and waited. Watching him attack his literal baggage from a safe distance, sending items askew, I was reminded of nothing more or less than a dog frantically digging a hole. At every gasoline stop the back hatch was up and tearing plastic bags were askew, emptied, as he searched for a document or a garment or a piece of electronic equipment. Eighteen hours, I thought to myself. This guy can't just take a nap or bring a book along for a lousy three-quarters of a day? But whatever he needed, it was the most important thing in the world for him, and in eighteen hours I'd never see him again. Zen wisdom prompted acceptance, and so I waited patiently for his every search to conclude.

We had a couple of other stops, to revisit my previous hosts and thank them again, and to share a meal and take some photographs. I had planned for this and timed everything, but the consistent searches were slowing us down. Lunch at the first home became an early dinner by the time we arrived. My other host family was also planning to feed us, and because they were just an hour down the road from the first, guess what? We ate two meals.

Now stuffed and driving, Asleep At The Wheel became less a band that occasionally showed up in rotation on my iPod and more a very real and dangerous possibility; we scrutinized each other's driving until the effects of overeating passed.

His first effort behind the wheel came with the precaution, "I haven't driven in years." White-knuckled and staring through sweat-soaked hair I could see he needed to relax, so put on some cool driving music, some forty-year-old light jazz by George Benson. Eventually he stopped hitting the brakes and gas simultaneously and settled into the task. Now it was my turn to stare wide-eyed at every near miss and lane stray during the soliloquy of his life, accompanied with wide hand gestures and long bouts of eye contact.

"Watch the road, not me, pal," I insisted, doublechecking my seatbelt and verifying my car had a passenger side airbag. He didn't kill me or destroy my car and I was grateful for that, but there may be a few hard-to-shake nightmares coming up in my near future.

I made one error I should have handled prior to the trip. One of my headlights had gone out, even though both hi-beams were present, so instead of changing the bulb I told him to just drive with the hi-beams on.

Big mistake. We were on the 5, the most congested north-south artery in the west, a roadway packed with truckers. Talk about OCD! Those boys are in a club of their own, and you ride alongside them at your own risk. Break one of their rules and pretty soon every one of them are onto you. Thank you CB radio! I could imagine the conversation... well, without knowing trucker lingo I couldn't, but it probably sounded something like this:

"Yeah, we got a christmas tree rolling at mile marker three six five... box 'em in, ladies!"

I'm only guessing a car with brights would be called a Christmas Tree. Maybe an Angry Poodle would be more appropriate, I don't know. In any case, my poor ride-along was treated to some terrifying behavior for about fifteen miles. First, a truck rode up on our ass and seared our eyes with his high beams. It was like the fire of God the Punisher. When our beams remained high, uncooperative, they began Phase Two. I call it the Squish.

In a concerted effort, two more trucks pulled up. One got on our left side, and the other on our right. The guy in back began pulsing his high beams, firing them like Photon Torpedoes. "Speed up!" I shouted, making another mistake. These truckers weren't done with us. The matched our speed and were counting on it, because in a few seconds a fourth truck in front of us slowed down, fell back and closed our only avenue of escape!

"What do I do what do I do what do I do?" my rider stammered, obviously freaked out. I figured we could be pushed around by our jailers or fight back, and I was getting pissed.

Even though I was clearly wrong.

And though it was a suicide move, I told him what to do.

"I can't!" His wide eyes proved him honest-- I believed him. That's why I did it for him. I threw my leg into the driver's well and jammed on the brakes at 80... okay, 65. Still fast.

The truck behind us reacted with a professional's hone, and blue smoke poured from his wheel wells to avoid us. As I suspected, he didn't have time to CB my plans to the other truckers and they pulled ahead, opening up a hole you could literally drive a truck through. I pointed and he took over, gassing it away from our blue-collar bullies and off the freeway, right at an exit.

I won't lie. There were long minutes of hesitant breathing and staring straight ahead as we assessed our lives to this point and forward, double-crossing our deals to God and simultaneously thanking the powers for this continuation of our lives. I let out a whooshing breath right then, turned to him and said perhaps the smartest thing I've said this whole 'vacation':

"What do you say we get us a headlight?"

The Bi-/Semi- Debate

essay

Thursday July 22, 2010

Friday July 23, 2010

Saturday July 24, 2010

Sunday July 25, 2010

Monday July 26, 2010

Tuesday July 27, 2010

Screw the daily post-- I'm now looking at a weekly. Maybe even semiweekly… or is that biweekly? Or am I trying to say semimonthly? Where is my damned dictionary? Oh, there it is… that icon right there. Interesting! Semiweekly is twice a week, while biweekly is twice a week OR every two weeks.

Well, how the hell does that make sense?

Anyway… where am I supposed to begin?

For one thing, it's more busying than you might imagine joining a dad and his kids up in the boldt of Hum. Especially if there is no school in session and his children are not enrolled in day camp. The kids, aged 8 and 12, need to find something to do other than mindlessly stare at television all day and night. Not that they would mind, thank you very much -- it has been all we could do to tear them AWAY from the idiot box. When we do, the first place they tend to go is the second and even more destructive moron machine -- the computer. Yes, it's true -- all manner of electronic entertainment is available here in the beautiful and rustic Redwoods, and just five miles from the beach. Sadly, the beach doesn't seem to be much of a draw up here on the Northern coast -- the crisp and constant breeze tends to stiffen even the hardiest of nipples. Not really conducive to laying on a towel soaking up the rays. Want to get a tan up here? Try booking a spray booth in a salon. Or, up here in the farm community of Humboldt, one could always tend a vast indoor garden -- those full spectrum HPS lamps will empinken the reddest neck. Not really entertainment for tweeners, though… although give them a couple of years and we'll revisit the issue.

It has been a challenge. One technique that seems to work is keeping them up past their bedtime. The next day they roll out of the room, yawning and bleary-eyed at the crack of noon, which really cuts down needed scheduling. But then when they are awake late at night there's nothing for them to do but watch the TV and abuse the computer, and we find ourselves coming full circle.

What to do, what to do? We burned up an afternoon one day by putting them in bathing suits and telling them to wash our cars. With their naturally adversarial relationship it became less of a cleaning chore and more of a splash match, with one dominating the hose and using it to distract the other while the other tried to recapture it with well-timed and soapy sponge bombs. Their dad and I meanwhile set up two lawn chairs well away from the water's range, downed many mojitos and agreed on politics. We would have argued, but we both shared the same viewpoint -- the best thing to come out of two Schwarzenegger gubernatorial terms was eight years without any Arnold movies. Oh, and his well-meaning bankrupting of the state made passing of the upcoming marijuana legalization measure much more likely. About damned time, I say -- nobody should be in prison for being mellow.

You might not realize it, but things are expensive up here! My friend wasn't an elaborate home cooking chef, which meant that our meals were mostly taken in restaurants, and to keep within my budget I've had to buy a lot of sides and tap waters. Heh, heh... me eating sides -- how silly is that? I partook of all the various specialties which rolled within my eating perimeter. I got a burrito at Hey Juan Burritos, the only death-metal taco stand I've ever been to. Although it cost 50% more than my local place in LA and they didn't serve chips and salsa it was delicious nonetheless, and the clientele were worth the price of admission alone. They were almost exclusively ex death-metal rockers, ironically balding and paunchy and carrying their babies in around-the-neck hammocks covering the faded band names on their stretched-out black tees.

I got a sub at this little hole-in-the-wall sandwich shoppe called, appropriately enough, the Hole-In-The-Wall Sandwich Shoppe. Again I overpaid by half, but I have to admit it beat the hell out of the Subway meatball sub. The bread was fresh and crunchy, the sauce was rich and tangy and the meatballs were mouth-wateringly delicious and the size of horse testicles. That's big, for those of you who haven't held a pair of horse testicles in your shaking and sweaty hands.

Eww. That even grossed ME out.

We went to Los Bagels, a bakery-cum-sandwich shoppe featuring my favorite baked good, the croissant. I lie like a Frenchman (what does that even mean?) -- they didn't serve Frenchmen. The bagels were only 80 cents each, but turn them into a sandwich and you were looking at a car payment. Well, maybe I exaggerate a little. (a point of fact: when I started working in the bagel place on Main Street in New York City at 13 years old, bagels were just 8 cents each!) Again, the food was tasty, and of course, small-town friendliness existed everywhere. I had to be talked town from my belief that every shopgirl was hitting on me, though. "That's how they speak to everybody around here," my friend assured me. I wasn't convinced… I swear she said, "Good morning! How may I hump you today?"

We went to a cheap Italian restaurant and an expensive Italian restaurant. Oddly, the menus were the same at both. The only difference was, at the expensive place they wore suits and at the cheaper place they wore sauce. Oh, and the prices were the same, but the fancy place added corkage fees. At the cheap place we had to pay for the lap dance, but the sauce stains were free. Again I lie… we had to pay for the sauce stains.

We even dined at an all-you-can-eat buffet featuring Oriental food. I don't know what kind of food Oriental is but obviously they do, because that's what they were called: Oriental Buffet. It looked like every buffet I've ever been to. Steam tables and stacks of plates, every third one featuring a crustacean shell permanently stuck to the surface. The food was surprisingly good, and the price was surprisingly more reasonable. Plus they had three flavors of Oriental soft serve ice cream; vanilla and chocolate and a third flavor, choconilla.

So all we did with the kids this week was wash cars and eat. That kind of filled up the days. Oh, we managed to take in nature, which at least kept the dog's nose busy-- the kids were too busy arguing to notice. We went to a lovely marsh with lots of plant and animal life and hiked around the big pond. When we got to the far side I read a sign which explained that these were man-made water features which were a natural way to clean the waste water from all of Eureka's toilets. So that's what that smell was! Actually, all the worst stuff had been filtered out miles away in a treatment plant that turned the solids into fertilizer for the vast farming industry all around here. These ponds were stocked with bacteria and other life that thrived on this water, converting it into something people could use to play horrible practical jokes on their neighbors. Truth was, the bay smelled more pongy than the ponds did.

We took a small trip forty minutes away to walk the protected paths in Giant Redwood forest. It's always fun to cavort among those enormous trees, crashing through the underbrush like the thoughtless humans we are, destroying delicate and endangered species, all while frightening bears and lions away from their goal of claiming the kids. An opportunity missed, I tried to convince my friend. He refused to yield on that issue. Wuss.

I was given a chance to farm, Humboldt style, and I learned a very important lesson after that day: I'm allergic to nature. One look at my horribly swollen, disfigured face not only scared the kids but taught me that some farm products which were fine when you burned them were much more toxic when you rolled around naked in a room full of them. A forty hour allergy attack taught me I was more a consumer than a producer, unless I wished to invest in an environmental suit with its own oxygen supply. I opted out. Maybe there's a place for me in the timeshare business, selling vacations to nonallergic people so they can roll around in farm product like pigs in slop. I'm in the middle of research… I'll get back to you.

Days have gone by and yet I write mostly about eating. Well, that's what is important to me, I guess. Perhaps this is a clue which will lead me to my as yet unrevealed goal-- is my direction:

Sous chef?

Roach coach?

Eating contests?

It's a big question mark to me.

I guess it's okay to end this post weakly. Or maybe just SEMIweakly.

Maybe a Daily Journal ISN'T So Do-able

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Wednesday July 21 2010


Until now, I have been alone. Alone in my thoughts, alone in my actions. It's an experience I have to recommend, at least for the experience of spending that much time with yourself -- you can learn something about your passions and fears and tolerances when you have an uninterrupted stream of alone time.
On the other hand, when you are a guest in a house with kids, a dog and another adult, things can get BUSY. And my last two days were a nonstop flurry of busy… the parental kind. You find yourself in the middle of an endless array of needs presenting itself as children. Is there food in the house? Is everyone safe? How do we get these kids off the bigscreen for a few hours? And what the hell is that smell? I get ahead of myself.
Monday was mostly alone time. I touched up the house again, making sure it was perfectly clean -- to show my host he was right to trust me with his home, and to present myself in the finest light possible, because observing a man in tattered and stained road clothing hardly inspires a white-glove test. I picked up some caulk and filler in local McKinleyville to make the wood repair that much closer to finished, and of course to walk down the aisles of a huge box store. Well, it turns out there's no Home Depot or Lowes or even an OSH (Gosh, no OSH?) for a hundred miles in any direction. And while traveling that distance to pick up a pipe wrench doesn't seem to faze anyone up here, for me it's comparable to going to San Diego from LA, just to eat at a Pick-Up Stix. No thanks, I'll jump across the street to get a spring roll at Johnny Wong's instead. So I walked up and down the aisles of the biggest hardware store I've ever seen, a thing called an ACE. Box stores, move over! It was so much fun there I went down EVERY aisle, every row, and every shelf. Man, were they detailed in their inventory -- for example, they have an entire section dedicated to charcoal! A quadrant in a section for just hunting supplies! And the whole back wall was reserved for tent pegs! Okay, I lie. But they had eight different types, and that's nothing to spit-shine at.
I walked out of there with two big bags of stuff. Nothing I needed now, but you know, I'd use them at some point, right? Scented lamp oil has a multitude of uses... even without owning a lamp, can I get a hullo?
Polished and gleaming, I waited. And hung out. And waited some more. I remember they said they'd be gone for a couple of days. A couple is two, right? No, actually a 'couple' is an imprecise term used for when you don't want to be nailed down. I realized I could be waiting a l-o-o-n-g time, up here where time moves at a different rate and the guy who got married a 'couple' of times actually had EIGHT ex-wives (not my friend, just an example).
Fortunately, for him a couple meant two, and they pulled up to their home, 'the lumberyard', around 5. General greetings ensued and I helped them unload. I find it interesting that the first person to notice my handiwork was the sweet little 8 year old girl. "You straightened up!" she said, and I swelled with pride.
"Yes, I did. And that's not all--"
"I know because now I can't find my Crocs. Where are my Crocs?" she finished scathingly. Sheepishly I pointed to her new section, feeling a mite foolish. Why should they notice? I was just being self centered. But then the compliments really started pouring in.
"You threw away my torn cloth? I've had that torn cloth for ten years!"
"Does this repair seem discolored to you? Why is it discolored?"
"You used all of my Pledge? It was supposed to last all year!"
I was bursting with pride. Then my friend said "Thanks." That, or, "Thanks but no thanks." Either way, I was in my own little world of appreciation, and they were spreading rose petals before me as I walked.
"I can't believe you touched my stuff!"
"What are you, a girl?"
"Dad, make him leave!"
I swelled with the touch of love.

Our first outing together was lunch, and for that we travelled to nearby Eureka, to the Chinese restaurant Gonsea. Pronounced 'Gone Sea', we were told it meant 'congratulations'. Whether for picking a fine restaurant or for surviving the food I couldn't be sure yet. My past experience with small town Chinese places have left me wary. I remember Beef with Broccoli which was served with asparagus and hominy. I remember something called fried rice which was actually brown rice and paprika. Worst of all I have experienced duck sauce made of ducks. So I was justifiably concerned.
The rule of thumb when visiting restaurants featuring foreign food was to check the clientele for faces of the region. A mexican restaurant filled with whites and asians bode poorly, for example. So I looked around. Not an Eastern face anywhere. Not even in the wait staff. Uh, oh.
The food came. Well, it mostly came… three of the four meals showed up… and the last one arrived halfway through the meal. It was the starving teenage boy who had to wait, and watch us eat, and drool. To torture him, we wouldn't give him any samples off our plates -- that's how you're supposed to treat teenagers, right? Eventually his lunch arrived, and in true teenage form he was done before the rest of us anyway, begging for more food. He concluded by eating half of his sister's plate. And I do mean the plate -- he bit into the china.
By the way, their menu featured both Chinese and Japanese food. I guess they figured asian was asian. They'd likely put pizza and gnocchi on the same menu because white is white. So the kids had sushi while the adults had more traditional Chinese fare. Paid half of what the kids meals were, and had leftovers to boot. Not being smug -- just pointing out value to our age-restricted brethren.
Next was the obligatory walk through 'old town'. There were beautiful old buildings built at the turn of the century for, I'm told, the timber barons of the day.

So the rich were assholes even back then. Interesting. Lovely small shops presented themselves, hawking everything from bagels and soup to candles and crystals. The signage showed care and design expertise. Nowhere was a building permitted to fall into decay -- not in the town center, anyway. Back in the middle of farmland I saw a multitude of buildings which had had had their day in the 20's and were now all but collapsed in on themselves. Why people don't offer to dismember (dismantle?) dismantle them and utilize the ancient lumber for a thousand practical applications surprises me. Maybe that's my calling -- prettying up the landscape as a 21st century timber baron, using 19th century timber.
But not today. Instead of designing the next big business we hit a nice old thrift store (can you believe the kids had no idea what a thrift store was? The best comparison the older one could come up with was a pawn shop) and after a few minutes of pawing around all the cool stuff, both had found something they fell in love with, and were thrilled with the economy of it all. "99 cents for Nikes?" the teen exclaimed incredulously, and walked away with several pairs before I reminded him to try them on. Only one pair fit, but boy, was he thrilled! I looked for a belt to replace the one I had left back in LA but alas, my size was not to be found. Which was surprising. There are MANY people MUCH fatter than me -- how is it I can never find any belt larger than a, say, 34? And did you know that when they call a belt a 34, they are measuring from tip to buckle? A 34 can fit a size 30, tops. Where are all the normal people belts? So, no belt, no rope, not even an old wire hanger to help hold it up. I could do nothing to keep my shiny pink ass from exposing itself but stick my hands in my pockets and clasp my fingers together… and doing that looks not so vaguely pornographic, like I was valiantly working on a hopeful method of penis extension.
Now it was Northern California beach time. Sure it was 65, gray and windy, but at least it wasn't sleeting. Truly a perfect beach day. For them. Still, I stolidly joined their freezing exploits, jacket flapping wildly, me unable to secure it because my hands were performing an important task in my pockets and if I took them out, I would surely be accused of flashing and end up on a sex offender list somewhere. But we had fun anyway. There was a lot of stick throwing and rock collecting and molted crab exoskeleton crushing and sandy hill climbing and waves avoiding and dog chasing (did I mention we had the family dog with us?) Hours went by and miles passed, too. Suddenly we were just outside of the parking lot, up on a hill and I joked that my friend's car was on fire -- I could see a trail of black smoke in the sky.
Well, we established pretty soon that it was in fact NOT his car which was on fire, but one of the beachside bungalows a half mile away. A stiff wind sent the smoke almost horizontally and fanned the flame, which shot up several stories in angry orange cowlicks. The next bungalow downwind was in real trouble, and it seemed the fire engines had no idea how to get there, as the roads were narrow and unlabeled and bordered farm after farm before an occasional line of homes would appear. We watched in morbid fascination as the cottage roof went from red to black, erupting in billowing and viscous black clouds.
A pillow of shining white smoke emerged. Ahh, success! The fireman had discovered their target. Soon the whole structure creaked gratefully in the cooling flow and its structural neighbors stood smoky but strong and for the moment, safe. We departed and headed towards home, stopping only long enough to satisfy a sudden desire for flame-charred meat products.

The next two days were a torrent of activity. I remembered how my own child, now 20, needed scintillating input all throughout the day when she was a tweener. Multiply that energy by 2, add to that the factor of boy with insatiable curiosity and no personal safety zone and you understand what I mean. Imagine a gross of superballs being shot from a cannon into a small room with concrete walls. The resulting fracas resembled the infinite paths these children followed to satisfy their hungry minds. And we, their middle-aged and somewhat clueless caretakers, were dragged along for the ride, a high-speed emotional rollercoaster ranging from delighted amusement to baldfaced surprise to outright panic to catatonic exhaustion. In other words, normal life for parents.
What we actually did is a matter of some speculation, as events sometimes overlapped quite intricately. Walks became shopping events as they sidestepped into meet-and-greets; the twelve year old boy would be looking at girls while the little girl would be looking at sipping backpacks. Pizza and ice cream and hamburgers and fruit-by-the-foot fell into their mouths in regular spans; bathroom breaks meant a sometimes stressful search for facilities followed. And always we'd keep one step ahead of the chalk officer, who I guess is cheaper than a meter maid? The sign says 2 hour parking and we'd drive off as he was writing a ticket for the car next to us. There was a precision to my friend's timing which bordered on the mechanical.
And as always, evening entertainment in a modern small town usually means media. Movies, TV shows, video games, Skype, web pages, newspapers, books, cell phones, texting. A hundred years ago only one of those existed… what on earth did they do for fun back then? Tip cows?
A more lively solution for the adults presented itself last night, as my friend invited a few of his local friends and their musical instruments to come by and play for the night. Hours of fun bluesy rock ensued, entertaining as all get-out. We should've passed out handbills. We could have filled the parking lot with pick-up trucks and tractors for sure! I kid. But it was really fun, falling somewhere between a Charlie Daniels concert and that scene from Deliverance. Not the one with the pig.

Soo-ey.

Doing What I Know

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Sunday July 18, 2010

At 5:30 last night I said 'bye to my friend and his kids. At 6 his house was straightened up. At 8 both his and my laundry were done. At 8:05 I threw together a little dinner for myself (beanie-weenies). At 8:15 I made a list of everything that needed repair or improvement at his house. At 8:30 none of his doors squeaked anymore. At that point I briefly considered finding an establishment to party in, then retracted the idea. I know what can happen to a stranger in town. They put an APB out for any stranger driving with a BAC of .01 or more-- it's easy pickings. I opted to drink at home with my pal Bush. Bushmill's.

At 8:31 I made myself a Bush and soda. Don't let anyone tell you I work and drink. No. I work, THEN I drink.

At 9 I made another. Did you know Bushmills began in Ireland in 1608?

At 9:30 I made yet another. Smooth and mellow, I can honestly say that whiskey still tastes like battery acid -- after 402 years, you'd think they would have figured out how to filter the bitter out. Nope.

At 10 I watched Hulu until my eyes bled. Then I crashed.

Then I woke and disconnected the exercise wheel from the hamster cage. Noisy nocturnal buggers. They think they're smart, making all that ruckus while seemingly safe in their cage. Maybe I'll stretch the bars wide enough to let the cat's paws in… then watch the action. Well, first GET a cat… then watch the action. Maybe I'll sell tickets.

First, sleep.

Up early again. I could watch the sunrise, if it weren't overcast. But just 'cause I'm in the land of woo-oo doesn't mean I have to act like it. SO, no crystal meditation for me. My magnets are only used to hold stuff on my refrigerator. I dye only my hair, and then only brown, not multicolored. And DEFINITELY no tying.

What I DO do (heh-heh, I said doo-doo) is go into Arcata (pronounced, I was emphatically told, ar KAY ta, not Ar CAH tah… nor even Al Queda), find about 6 stores to buy everything on my list. It can be confusing. One store sells a pound of rice for $1.79, the other sells it for $5.69. Eventually I've hit a grocery store, a supermarket, a food collective, a hardware store, another hardware store and a lumberyard (which sold the $5.69 rice).

Now loaded with purchases (I'm like a girl that way) I staggered back to get busy. First breakfast (the most important meal of the day). No details, just good advice. Then I get started in earnest. Several hours later, I've finished it all. Busted fixture, replaced. Skinny fluorescent bulbs, installed. Unlockable back door, lockable. And I was most proud of the small carpentry job, because I made it happen with ridiculous tools. The front porch has turned posts holding up the little roof. One post was missing its 'shoe', exposing all the ugly connections.

My job: wood cobbler. And I had to do it with nothing but a pair of scissors, a rasp... and putty. Somehow I made it come together, and look serviceable at that.

I always wanted to put an addendum to the old saw 'Poor workmen blame their tools' that related to the opposite situation, where GOOD workmen accomplish miracles with even crappy tools... but, ever the budding wordsmith, I could come up with nothing snappy.

Poor workmen blame their tools, but good workmen call them fools? Nah.

Poor workmen blame their tools, but just need to go to school? Uh-uh.

Good workmen use good tools? Yech.

Like I said, nothing.

Now I'm done and I can relax. The problem is, I've BEEN relaxing. Everything I've done is fun for me. What to do now? Maybe something I don't like?

Nah, that's stupid.

Or is it? I don't like walking -- I think I'll take a walk. My friend's back yard is not so much a yard as an old lumberyard, only designed by a frustrated skyscraper architect. Acres of former storage buildings were laid out behind his house, which was probably the front office once (since an old faded sign above his door says 'Front Office'). Now devoid of anything building-like above ground, all that remain are concrete pads and sawed-off I-beams. But some of the concrete pads are three feet thick (when normal pads are 4 inches), and the I beams could have supported Godzilla's nest. All leveled and discarded, I wondered why the buildings couldn't have been kept and used for something, like storing brown star remnants, perhaps (alluding to the overbuilt quality, again… hah, hah).

Anyway, I thought I'd walk through it. Oddly, the concrete floors are not at all level, like the buildings came as an afterthought. No matter. I walked until I had to climb, and then I climbed, level after irregular level, and then I reached the gravel.

There was a pile of gravel in the middle of all this, three to four stories tall in places. Why it was there baffled me, but I was tired of second-guessing the past, so I tried to run up it like I used to as a kid. Panting and wheezing moments later I had to admit I wasn't a kid anymore. Plus, not only couldn't I get up the pile, I couldn't get above my own head -- just kept sliding down again. Next challenge… after I empty my shoes.

A hundred or two yards away, standing strong and forbidding, glared the treeline. It stood foreboding and would not be breached, and so of course I had to try breaching it. I strode with confidence away from the ruined lumberyard, through the scruff and towards my goal. The land dipped and a muddy lake stood between us. Not to be outwitted, I walked the shore until I stood on the other side, triumphantly. For a very short moment.

For what I thought were closely entwined bushes between tightly growing trees were in fact closely entwined BRAMBLES between tightly growing trees. Nah, I wasn't going in there… the forest had won, and I hadn't even put up a fight. What a pussy.

Back at the front office I relaxed in a steaming tub. Man, that wore me out! That was one busy 38 minute walk. I wonder how much weight I lost?

The Great Escaper

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Saturday July 17 2010

It's 3pm and I'm in the cool hippie town of Garberville, stopped because they have a free WiFi (out of the 342 locked ones). Are you noticing the same trend I am? Should I rename this trip Operation: WiFi? Let's wait a bit before resorting to something so drastic. Let me take you back in time to this morning, and the reason for today's post title.

In what is becoming more the norm than the exception I arose before sunrise. It's not that usual since I'm hitting the sheets before midnight and I've rarely needed more than a few hours sleep in a row. With nobody in the camp awake at all I saw no reason to hang out and so packed up and left. Nearby was the famous town of Mendocino, truly a Northern California original boasting lots of interesting architecture and lots of pricy restaurants, and no sidewalks to speak of. I began to set up my breakfast service in a vacant parking lot in the middle of town, but in 10 minutes time there wasn't a space available -- seems I chose the parking lot of a popular eatery, which hadn't yet opened when I stopped.

So as not to take their business away I drove instead to a nearby 'Coastal View' stop, again alone in the lot, and began prepping my breakfast meal. No sooner were the onions and peppers diced than a hitcher walked up to me and said, "It's my birthday… what's for breakfast?" He looked like what I figured a northern Californian should… long hair and beard, mismatched and unkempt clothing employing every color on the wheel. On another road I might have been worried.

Here however I said merrily, "Let me kick the oven on and I'll bake you a cake."

He snarled and said, "So you think that's funny?" pulled out a Luger and shot me between the eyes. I died instantly, regretting my stupid sense of humor as he rolled me over the cliff and took my rig.

Fortunately it wasn't 'turn my thoughts into reality day'. What he actually said was, a little surprised, "You got an oven in that thing?"

"Hah, just pulling your leg. Grab a rock and have a seat. I got an omelette and bacon rolling."

We spoke as I prepared. Turns out he was employed as a farmer, it really was his 58th birthday, and he wasn't really going to horn in on my breakfast. I protested that I had plenty of food and could use the company. We talked as I prepared, but when I cracked the eggs he excused himself. "There are people waiting for me at So and So's Restaurant. They're throwing me a party."

I smiled knowingly. "Happy birthday, Clovis." (His name wasn't Clovis-- I think it was Mike) I realized that the other parking lot where I began to set up was the restaurant where he was headed. Small world!

I finished, cleaned up and left, heading for blue skies. The low clouds which had been hounding me for three days made the temperatures comfortably cool, but gray and depressing, and I was ready for a change. I checked the map and realized in a couple of hours the 1 would be veering inland and would be swallowed up by its big brother, the 101, so I planned that route into the GPS girl and let her talk me through it. She wasn't helping much, though -- she really needed an unobstructed view of the satellites to do her job correctly, and the thick fog wasn't helping. So instead she kept telling me to take a sharp left at hairpin turns high on cliffs. I ignored her obvious murderous intentions, preferring to take the road in front of my eyes.

I still wanted to sit by a beach, even in this overcast condition. But I passed, of all things, a McDonalds! I haven't seen one of those for a hundred miles, so postponed my desire. Free coffee here I come!

"We can't give refills if you've left the restaurant, sir." She was young but already had the disapproving look of the farmer's wife in that famous painting.

I grumbled and shelled out $1.09 in dimes and pennies. 4 dimes and 69 pennies. I got my coffee and sat in back. That's when I noticed somebody using WiFi on their laptop.

WIFI! I ran to the computer and sure enough I was connected to the world. I sat inside, surfing the net without getting wet, drinking coffee after wonderful coffee until that same disapproving girl came up to me and sternly pointed at a sign: No Loitering-- 30 minute limit.

I checked the time. I'd been there for 32 minutes. "Wow," I said. "I didn't know you owned the place."

"My dad does," she clipped, and tapped the sign impatiently.

I smiled. "Well, then let me order something." I already had breakfast, and they were now serving lunch, anyway. "I'll have a strawberry sundae." I handed her another $1.09… this time I made her count out all 109 pennies.

I stayed for another hour and then left… my stomach was feeling floppy. Karma can be a bitch, but mostly she's right. Or maybe the owner's daughter had put Metamucil in my ice cream. I found a beach just a few miles outside of town and decided to take a nap. It was cold and gray, but the obsessed Northern Californians were romping about in swim trunks and bikinis like they were sweating in 120 degree Vegas, but I rolled myself up in blankets and grabbed 20… six times.

Finally feeling more normal I got back on the 1 (now called Icicle Highway… at least by me) to its inevitable conclusion, ending at a town called Nowheresville. Actually Leggett was the name… but being amidst ten million million trees, it only resembled that remark. The 1 had meandered away from the coast, climbing the mountains and then descending the other side, and the temperature had changed drastically. Plus, I could now see the sky and Miss GPS could too, and knew exactly in which direction she was heading. "Go back to the coast… please!" she begged, but to no avail. I was heading somewhere and nothing would stop me!

I thought the road along the coast squiggled incessantly, but it didn't hold a candle to here -- I swear, at one point I went around the same redwood six times. Either that or I just got confused because It was a 'giant' redwood (yes, we were in that part of California now).

From Leggett it was a short 23 mile hop to Garbersville, which of course took an hour because of all the near-death scenarios. At least there was some degree of disguise along the coast so that when I was approaching a dangerous cliff or a bit of recently 'repaired' road it wasn't immediately obvious. Not so here -- here I could see the toothpicks and Jenga blocks used to rebuild a vertical 200 foot washout of the mountainside where the road once was, and is again, immediately. Okay, it's the Army Corps of Engineers and they build the most durable and huge constructions… but it still looked scary dangerous, as if a single stiff breeze could blow its base of playing cards away. If it happened at all it happened after I crossed and I wasn't looking back, nohow.

Arriving in Garbersville I immediately noticed several things. 1) I had to pry my stiff white knuckles from the steering wheel; 2) the temperature had gone up even more and was now hovering near the boiling point of lead; and 3) we must have crossed into Humboldt county, because everyone was wearing tie-dye. Especially grandparents. Even the bikers seemed mellow -- they had put mufflers on their Harleys so they putt-putted along like go-carts. I lie about that -- they were as loud as ever, but the noise resembled the encore at a Grateful Dead concert. I lie about that, too.

I was driving slowly through town like a police cruiser looking for pot users. I had a different motive of course… I was looking for free WiFi and when I did, I parked, triumphant. Sadly the only available parking spot was in the blazing sun, and over the course of the next hour my left arm browned like a Christmas turkey. No matter. I made all my contact calls, uploaded several days of posts and watched interesting people walk past, usually holding a beverage of alcoholic nature. Not judging… I was THIRSTY.

I called my contact to the north. He had mentioned he would be incommunicado for a couple of days. I of course recited the Brian Dennehy line from '10': "Where's Communicado?" After he stopped not laughing he said he was taking his kids camping for a couple of days, so I knew I couldn't reach him, but I figured I could leave a message and he would call when he heard it. The message? "Remember I said I had your address? Turns out I only had your IP address." Oh, that computer humor.

Well, he didn't answer as I expected, but moments after I hung up he returned the call! "Wow, you have reception in the woods?"

"I haven't left yet."

We talked a little bit and it turns out he was leaving in a little while. I told him where I was and he bet I could arrive before his departure time, so I took his address and accepted the challenge. I got into town exactly one minute before deadline, drive up to the address… and stared at an open field.

A more paranoid person would assume that he gave me the wrong address on purpose, that he was blowing me off in the rudest possible way, that he had no intention of allowing me to stay at his place for the weeks or months we had talked about earlier. An insecure person would agonize over giving up their life back in LA over a sham. An apoplectic soul would have become enraged at that moment and set fire to the town.

I am none of those. I called him and said, "I'm here… where's your house, pal? I'm standing in front of an open field-- is it built beneath the ground, or is it perhaps invisible?" He repeated the address. "Yep, that's where I am."

"I'm gonna walk out into the street," he suggested. I looked left. All signs calm. I looked to the right. A tiny figure was standing down the road.

"Is your address in the 500 block… or the 600?" I said when I drove up to him (that tiny figure WAS him).

He looked sheepish. "I keep doing that," he admitted. "After all, I don't write to myself."

We hugged hellos, all of us. His kids had grown, and his son's voice had changed with advancing adulthood. My friend showed me around the house, said, "Sleep anywhere," and left with a wave, shouting, "We'll be back in a few days. Make yourself at home." Then they were gone.

Alone again, naturally.