CONTINUED FROM POST BELOW

The only thing I knew about Colorado, other than it was mostly mountains (and I was fairly sure Denver was the capital) came from John Denver’s Rocky Mountain High. Yes, I liked the song (still do). And he made it sound like a cool place, being reborn and all.

Made sense for me, what with my sudden epiphany. It was time to reinvent myself, to take a risk. I had to venture toward a place I could not see, placing trust in my own abilities rather than sit back and let life come to me. Yeah, that had paid off pretty well at this point. Here I was with a college education and no bills, and a rent-free place waiting for me.

But if I were to remain, I would get complacent. This future, the one that awaited me in my hometown, was pretty clear. If I didn’t find a newspaper job, well, I could work behind the counter of Shop ‘n’ Go, as I had the last two summers. Minimum wage, medical benefits, spending downtime with some quality adult magazines. The I’d send out another batch of resumes waiting for something to land on my lap.

Or I could get off my ass. Carpe diem, so to speak (not that I would actually say that because even I wasn’t that big a doofus).

The decision had been made, in those few seconds at the urinal when Mr. Hayes gave me his “So what the fuck are you gonna do with your life?” look.

I was going to go to Colorado. That’s what.

As time went on, it made more sense. A few months ago I had sent out 50 resumes (job hunting was such a pain in the ass before the Internet and monster.com; you really had to work hard on sending out meaningless crap that had about as much chance landing you a job as winning Powerball). I received five replies, if you count the one sent by the Portland Oregonian, which returned my resume with a form letter that said, in essence, “Dude, we so want to kick your ass for wasting our time with this.”

Ten percent got back to me, zero job offers. I could have done better if I’d stood on a street corner with a sign that said “Will write for food, and a beer every now and then.” Even if I’d had any wind in my sails (effectively deflated by Mr. Hayes), I knew I was dead in the water at that point.

Shop ‘n’ Go looked likely. Unless I did something drastic. Like pack the back of my car and drive to Colorado.

There was only one problem, and his name was Harry. I was not sure how my dad would react to my decision, though I new it could be summed up in two words: “Not well.”

I said nothing to him that summer as I finished my studies. The grand plan was to steal away in the night, for I was nothing if not a coward. I discounted that scheme once I knew how difficult it would be for me to put my stereo in the back of my Datsun B210 hatchback without help (this was in the day when the measure of a man was taken by his stereo speakers, and mine were massive, making up for shortcomings as Hummers do now).

No, I would tell my dad when he came to help me move back home, the day after school ended. How tough could it be? My dad had always wanted the best for me, and did what he could to make my wishes come true.

What he never realized that sometimes, those weren’t my wishes.

It was a gorgeous summer day, sunny and not too hot. An ocean breeze blew in gently from the Pacific (god, how I took the weather in San Luis Obispo for granted). I had taken my last final exam the day before, had said goodbye to friends, promising to keep in touch forever (no idea where they are now), and woke that morning early to start putting my things in milk crates I had collected over the years.

By the time my dad arrived, everything was ready to go. We worked quickly and silently. Me, wondering what my next few weeks were going to be like; my dad, happy his son was coming home.

I placed my last crate of albums in the car (now crammed with enough vinyl to fill maybe one-tenth of my MP3 player now). My dad reached for his car key, reminding me to follow him along Highway 101 during the four-hour drive home.

“Dad, one thing. I’m, uh, I think I know what I want to do.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, after I get home.”

“No need to worry about that now, son. Look, take some time, a few weeks, your mom and I don’t mind. She’s even going to help you with your resumes.”

And he reminded me once again how close the local paper was, that he would not be surprised if something opened up there in a few months. “You’ll be fine, trust me. You’re good at what you do. Even if you don’t get something right away, it’ll happen. Have faith in yourself.”

“I’m going to Colorado.”

I’ve always believed that the faster you rip off the Band-Aid, the less it hurts.

In most cases, anway.

“You’re what?”

“I had a talk with my advisor and I know you want me to—“

“Colorado? What the hell is in Colorado? You’ve never been to Colorado. You know it’s cold in Colorado. How many newspapers are in Colorado? Do you know how far it is from here to Colorado?”

My dad had just said “Colorado” more times in those few seconds than he had in all my 21 years combined.

“It’s just that I need something different,” I said. “I need to shake things up a little.”

“Well, this is certainly going to shake up your mother. You know she’s expecting you home for a while. Baked cookies last night for you.”

I had no words for that. I simply stood in silence.

My dad did too. Then he jammed his car key back in his pocket, turned and started walking.

“I need to think,” he said. He disappeared behind the wall separating the apartment complex’s parking lot with the train tracks that probably ran all the way to Colorado.

I went back to my apartment, sat on the carpet, leaned against the wall. Waited.

When he came back about 30 minutes later, all he said was, “Let’s go” and we headed back to Concord. By way of Highway 101.

Four hours spent wondering if I was doing the right thing. When we pulled into the driveway, the garage door opening, my mom waving from the front door, it was clear.

It was Colorado.

My parents eventually got used to the idea. Never really accepted it. This wasn’t the way to accumulate a nest egg, to be careful, to be safe. No, this was just too risky.

Two weeks later I was ready to go. The Datsun was packed with all my earthly belongings (and they were, in order of importance, the stereo, 17-inch color TV, and clothes).

My dad left for work about an hour before I hit the road. His was a morning ritual – shower, shave, cook two fried eggs to eat while sipping coffee and reading the paper, put on his tie and coat, and get in the car.

He called to me as he was putting on his tie. The scent of Old Spice was still strong.

“You know we’re going to miss you,” he said.

“I know.”

“And you know that we think it would be best if you stayed here for a while.”

“I know that too.” I’d been dreading this moment for two weeks. Not because I was terrified of my decision (I was), but because of what the last words of my father might be.

“But you’re set on this, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

Finished with his tie, he pulled on his coat and reached into an inner pocket, withdrawing an envelope.

“There’s $600 in there,” he said. “Even though we disagree on this, we’re always going to support you. We will always be your mom and dad. Call from the road, let us know you’re OK. And you get out there and do your best, OK?

“We’re proud of you.”

We hugged. Not another word was said as I slipped the envelope into my back jeans pocket. I walked to the front door with him, watched as he got in the car and drove away.

This really was real.

I was going to Colorado. With all my stuff in the car. And $600 in my back pocket.

TO BE CONTINUED

Destiny rarely hovers between urinals, since it is full bladders, and not fate, that brings men together.

Yet my life changed in the men’s room.

It was the spring of 1979. On a Friday, if I remember correctly (and I do, much of those few minutes remain very clear – destiny is like that).

I had to go. I don’t particularly remember having to urinate, but my location leaves no room for doubt.

I likely was taking a quick time out from my job as co-editor of the Mustang Daily newspaper at Cal Poly-San Luis Obispo, a university whose proud alumni include All-Star shortstop Ozzie Smith, NFL coach and commentator John Madden and musical satirist Weird Al Yankovic (who has a connection to that men’s room where my life changed – perhaps it is a room of fate considering how it changed his life as well – but more on that later).

It was a small men’s room as men’s rooms go – two urinals placed uncomfortably close together, just to the left of two sinks, with two stalls opposite the sinks. An odd arrangement as I think about it, since in the hundreds of men’s rooms I’ve been in since then almost always had more stalls than urinals, a mathematical formula likely a result of time management. You can probably figure that out for yourself.

I’m not sure who arrived first on that Friday afternoon, but either way it was seconds apart because in the end Mr. Hayes and I would zip up and wash at roughly the same time.

Mr. Hayes (to this day I still call him that, though he has insisted many times that I call him Jim, which looks just as unnatural in print as it does rolling off my tongue) was my advisot. My mentor. My god. (Not “my god” as in “oh my god,” but really and truly a man that I worshipped at the time).

Even now, 30 years later, I don’t know how old Mr. Hayes is (yes, he remains with us, a blessing), so I’m not sure he was back then. But he seemed ageless. So probably early 50s.

Like most journalism students who took their calling far too seriously, I hinged on Mr. Hayes’ every word. Many times I would hand in a story, typewritten on long sheets of yellow paper, with faith that every word was as good as it could be. It would return dripping in red, a victim of Mr. Hayes’ Jack-the-Ripper editing, his marker a scalpel manipulated with surgical precision. And then it all came clear how truly pathetic I was (one day, as he returned butchered stories to students who had so carefully raised and nurtured them, he grasped mine from the pile with just his thumb and forefinger grasping the tiniest corner as one might handle a soiled diaper – no words were needed).

As I said, Mr. Hayes was, and still is, a god.

An thus, in the spring of my senior year, we met in Room 226 of the Cal Poly Journalism building, where two years prior Weird Al Yankovic lugged his accordion and practiced (and some believe recorded) what would be his first hit, My Bologna (played to the tune of My Sharona, which seems to obvious now).

The year was almost over and although I had enrolled for the summer session to finish up my last few required courses, the talk was about the next step – graduation and the real world.

So I was not surprised by Mr. Hayes’ questionb.

“So Scott, have you decided what you’re going to do when you leave here?”

“Yeah, I think so,” I said, still facing the wall because it seemed the right thing to do. “I’ve got summer session, then I’m going to go home and probably stay with my folks while I look for a job.”

My parents not only approved of this plan but suggested it. Something about “nest egg.”

“Oh, OK. Do you mind if I ask you a personal question.”

Didn’t seem odd considering where we were. “Sure.”

“Have you ever faced a challenge? I mean a real challenge. Something that changed you, made you take a completely different direction than one you’d intended.”

“I, uh, I’m not sure, I—“

“How did you come to Cal Poly?”

“Oh, I knew since I was a freshman in high school that I’d be coming here because my dad’s friend had two daughters who went here and he always said how—“

“Why journalism?”

“I, well, I took journalism when I was a sophomore and really liked it so I knew since then—“

“Have you ever suffered a tragedy that really shook you? Your parents are alive, right? Anyone close to you die, something that made you question what the hell was going on in your life?”

“A couple of years ago my dog died. But I was here when it happened and my dad called—“

“So, really, you’ve lead a pretty easy life. No big surprises. Things turning out the way you planned.”

“Yeah, I guess.” I suddenly felt very guilty.

“Have you ever thought about shaking things up? Turning things around? Going somewhere that’s going to make you uncomfortable?”

“Not really, no.”

“Because I’m going to be honest with you. I’ve seen hundreds of students come through here. Some of them have God-given talent. Everything they do, it just comes to them. Hardly any effort at all.

But others have to really work at it. They struggle and the fail and they get back up again. But every time they fall, they see what happened. They stand up again, a little stronger. Only they don’t realize it. All they know is they keep falling. But I see it. I can see them getting better and better. You know which one you are?”

“I guess I’m—“

“You don’t have a fairy godmother who’s going to come down from the sky, touch her wand to your dick and suddenly make it 12 inches long. You’re not that kind of guy. You have to really work at it. And the last thing you need is to be comfortable.”

And right then, I knew. Looking back, it seems the moment for which the word “epiphany” was created.

At that point, my life changed.

TO BE CONTINUED

No need to wait for Thanksgiving to wait for people to carve some stuff up, How about the way Obama turned McCain into tiny pieces of red-state meat? Obama's acceptance speech was magical and, more importantly, presidential. He knows to make things work he has to reach out, even to the roughly 18 percent who thought Bush did a great job, ranking up there in denial with James Gandolfini's belief that one day he will be one of the 10 Sexiest Men Alive as named by Cosmo.

I am not surprised that there are many red-stater who still insist the vote was a travesty, unable even to see the historic nature of how a member of a race once enslaved, then trod upon, then threatened and segregated, could rise above it all and lead the world's most powerful country. I'm not mad at those people, I simply feel pity that they let their arrogance blind them to a world-changing event. It's fine to feel frustration your man didn't win, and many Republicans on TV and Internet certainly are voicing that frustration. But many of them are at least conceding some good can come out of this (while the rest of us reasoned folk are looking forward with great glee to the next 8 years of Obama rule). Yet there are still those conservatives who seem to think life as they know it is over, that nothing good can come from a Democratic administration. And I remind them, as they reminded all the whiny liberals over the years, you are always free to leave. Beware, Mexico has some pretty stringent immigration laws. You might want to call ahead first.

That said, can't say what I took more satisfaction in -- Obama up there in front of 100,000 Chicagoans giving one hell of a speech, or seeing Sarah Palin standing beside McCain as he conceded (though I must admit, he was extremely gracious in defeat). But there was Palin, her mouth shut, smiling, and you know she is dying inside. Because now she has to go back to the subarctic and work hard to keep those oil companies in check, companies who pay every Alaska resident nearly $3K a year. But at least I know she'll be vigilant for Russian attacks, keeping an eye to the sky for intruders and shouting, a la Herve Vellachaiz in Fantasy Island, "The planes, the planes, from Russia!! Oh, wait, never mind, looks like United."

Pundits last night were saying that the start of the utter Palin collapse began with the Katie Couric interview and how she insisted that, yes, she kept an eye on Russia. Even though twice Katie allowed her an out, asking if she was sure. "Oh yeah, Katie, you never know what that Vladimir Putin will do, but when he does it, it will be over Alaska, and we'll be America's first line of defense." To which Putin no doubt was thinking, "Why would we waste good bombs on wilderness, one with just enough people to elect a narrow-minded beauty queen who undoubtedly would pass laws against premarital sex and yet cannot even enforce it in her own household? It's not even worth sending a hockey team to Alaska, let alone an army."

Not that McCain would have won even he had not make such a ridiculously mavericky choice. He is now out of touch with 52 percent of Americans, people who realize Iraq had nothing do with 9-11 (nor did ever have any weapons of mass destruction), people who want a leader willing to reach out to other countries to address problems diplomatically rather than one who puffs up his chest and acts like a schoolyard bully and then sends others to fight and die for misguided idealism, people who are tired of tax breaks for the rich, people who think the answer to energy problems lies in conservation and renewable resources rather than raping the environment for fuels that are running out, people who think everyone deserves quality healthcare. People who are, for the most part, rational.

Came across a story the other day on The Onion, and the headline it ran a few days before Bush's inauguration said "Finally, the 8-year national nightmare of peace and prosperity is finally over." The editor said it was never his intention to be prophetic. Yet there you go. And now our real 8-year national nightmare is over.

Yes, McCain would have been better than Bush. But an 8-year-old prone to temper tantrums would be better than Bush. The war, the economy, the mortgage mess ... Republicans don't deserve any more chances. Last night, most of America agreed.