(This file was forwarded to me by a friend deep inside Homeland Security, so deep that he if he were to issue a memo denying he existed, it would be accepted unequivocally. I share it not in the interest of national security, but just because it's fun to mess with the government.)

File T09-1138HS-0503

ATTN: Domestic Supervisory Attachment, Homeland Security, White House

RE: Transcription of TC-00284, recorded 05-01-09 by Operator 329-G4, Homeland Hotline.

Operator: You've reached HO-HO, what is the nature of this call – reporting an immigration violation, witnessing events that could be considered detrimental to the security of the homeland, discovering potential threatening memorandum combing through trash of suspected Syrian neighbor, the rental of a movie or purchase of a book considered unpatriotic, impure thoughts regarding terrorism--

Caller (unidentified male, voice pattern consistent with that of Anglo male, 37 years old; regional accent suggests terrorist leanings): Uh, you know, how long is this going to go on?

Operator: … foreign plans to overthrow the government, bioterrorist plots to raise global temperature more than 0.3 degrees in the next five years, the creation and distribution of Social Security numbers for the sole purpose of obtaining jobs in the landscaping or the hospitality industries--

Caller: OK, wait, hold on, look, none of those, OK? Hello? Is this a real person or a recording?

Operator: This is the Homeland Hotline, HOHO, I am operator Steve.

Caller: Good, Steve, that's great, but I really want to get down to business.

Operator: Just a few more options. If this is about taking five ounces of gel or liquid aboard a jetliner, exceeding federal requirements by two ounces, you may qualify for our amnesty program guaranteeing swift deportation to any of the following lawless or liberal countries where that kind of violation still flies: Sudan, Iran, India, the Netherlands--

Caller: No, look, you better listen and listen closely. Because if you don't pay me one million dollars, I am going to bring this country to its knees.

Operator: Excuse me sir? Is that a threat.

Caller: Hmm, yeah. I thought I made that pretty clear, what with the whole “Bring the country to its knees” part.

Operator: I'm going to have to get my supervisor--

Caller: No, you're not. I'm not going to be on the line long enough for you to trace me.

Operator: All due respect, but Caller ID allows us to--

Caller: You think I didn't know that? You think I'm gonna threaten the government without first dialing *69 to block the call.

Operator: Clever.

Caller: Yes. Now listen, because if you don't follow my instructions, the United States you knew will no longer exist.

Operator: Go on. Oh, I should remind you this call is recorded and may be monitored for customer-service purposes only.

Caller: You think I buy that? One time I called Dell and they said the same thing, and after spending 20 minutes detailing my problem the guy transferred me and he asked me what the problem was, and I said. “Hey, genius, just rewind the tape you made for customer-service purposes” and you know what he said? There IS no tape. And calls are NEVER monitored. It's all bullshit. They don't give a damn, hiring people in some far off countries getting paid one dollar a day to shuffle you around so when you have to repeat your story for the 27^th time you are just so tired you slam--

Operator: Threat?

Caller: Huh?

Operator: You said you were phoning in a threat.

Caller: Yeah, that's right. Unless you meet my demands, I am going to send my son to school tomorrow. Public school. Where a lot of kids go.

Operator: That's … good. We here at HOHO believe that a strong education leads to positive indoctrination and thus a greater inclination to keep an eye on neighbors and report suspicious activity, like the building of 13-foot ladders when it is well-known that current border fences are 12 feet.

Caller: You don't get it. My boy has a fever, is coughing and is achy.

Operator: Jesus, you don't mean … you can't possibly be thinking …

Caller: That's right. Odds are pretty good he's got swine flu, and I am not afraid to use it.

Operator: Good God in heaven, man, you can't be serious.

Caller: I most certainly am. Unless I am paid two million doll-

Operator: You said one million.

Caller: Huh?

Operator: Earlier. You said one million.

Caller: Really?

Operator: Yeah.

Caller: Well, just play back the tape.

Operator: Damn.

Caller: And now the price is three million. Got that? Three million dollars or tomorrow morning, I send my son to school. And just in case you think I'm not serious, every time he coughs, I've been admonishing him about covering his mouth.

Operator: You don't mean …?

Caller: Exactly. With each cough, billions of swine flu germs are hurled into the atmosphere, health-seeking missiles delivering a cough and overall achy feelings to anyone within several feet.

Operator: You monster!

Caller: Me, a monster, in a country where routinely, food-preparation workers leave the restroom after merely RINSING their hands, making a show of it and yet using no soap? Leading to many, if not dozens, of people contracting food poisoning at Herman's Hummus Hut, and I had to miss work for three days while puking my guts out?

Operator: So that's what this is about? A personal vendetta?

Caller: Not anymore. It's gone beyond that, especially when Herman refused to take the tainted hummus off the bill. Herman will pay, you will pay, the country will pay.

Operator: Even if you do carry out this nefarious plot, even if your son gets past the vigilant school nurse on duty--

Caller: Tomorrow is Tuesday. She only comes in Thursdays.

Operator: You've thought of everything, haven't you?

Caller: Yes. And there's more. After school, I am going to take my son to the mall.

Operator: You wouldn't!

Caller: I would. And am. By the time he touches, but does not take, samples at Chick-Fil-A and Cinnabon, he will not have washed in hands for more than 24 hours.

Operator: Have you thought this out? Do you know what you're doing? You are subjecting complete strangers to a virus that may keep them bedridden for days. Has the world hurt you so much that you need to lash out like this?

Caller: There's one more thing.

Operator: Dear god, what might that be.

Caller: We're flying.

Operator: NO!!!

Caller: Oh yes. And we have not one, not two, but three layovers. Each in large cities.

Operator: This can't be happening.

Caller: Yes it is. And did I tell you my son has a penchant for hugging strangers? He'll just go up to pretty much anyone and give them a big old hug. Which, now that I think of it, isn't really as cute as it was when he was 4. But, anyway, unless you transfer 10 million dollars into my account--

Operator: Ten? But you said – oh, never mind.

Caller: As I was saying, unless that amount is wired into my offshore account by 8 p.m. today, you are risking the relative health of dozens, if not more, throughout the day tomorrow. And as the infected spread it to others, a governmental overreaction will result in the closings of schools, malls, airports … the list goes on. You might as well put a “Closed Until Further Notice” sign on the Statue of Liberty.

Operator: You've made your point. I will start putting the money together now. Really, should only take a few minutes, I know there's some leftover bailout money around here somewhere. Hey, Sam, can you check the filing cabinet over there? No, third drawer. There, good. How much? Great, thanks.

Caller: (door slam, background conversation, unintelligible).

Operator: Sir? Hello? Hey, look, we got the money. Sir?

Caller: (Unidentified woman's voice, unintelligible).

Operator: Sir?

Caller: You're kidding. The flu? The regular flu? Was he sure?

Operator: Sir? What's that about a regular flu? Your son has a regular flu?

Caller: No no, swine flu. I swear, it's swine.

Operator: Sir, I think our conversation is finished.

(Caller logs off – investigation pending on HOHO's possession of petty bailout cash)

My advice to anyone who takes a rock-climbing class -- trust your shoes. Special rock-climbing shoes, which are like slippers with a rubber sole and are uncomfortably tight, can adhere to any gap. crack or nub found on a rocky face. Trust me. When you are roughly 50 feet up and are at about an 80-degree angle, and both hands are pinching tiny granite bumps for support, you must have faith in the shoes, since all that's keeping you up are your big toes purchased upon a couple of rocky protruberances that feel as firm as a three-foot ledge (and that is what you tell yourself as you cling precariously).

My son and I took a day-long course from REI, scaling rocks in the McDowell Mountains in far north Scottsdale. After about an hour of learning techniques and scaling a boulder, we were ready to challenge Headsmacker (or Headclobber or Headwhacker -- it was aptly named as we would discover later), a climb to the top of a granite slab.

The first part was easy, a scramble up a short boulder to an overhang (where, yes, you inevitably would smack your head). Then the tricky part: Hoisting your leg over to wedge your left foot into a crack, then twisting your body while swinging your right leg as your left hand sought a grip, any grip, at the top of the crack where it slimmed to a very narrow crevice. One the left hand was set, attention was focused to the right foot which needed to find, well, anything.

This is where the rubber really came through. (A note on the shoes -- worn without socks, they were like a second skin and damned uncomfortable, squeezing your toes into the kind of point that only the high-heel warriors of the fashion runways could endure for more than 10 minutes.) On my first of two climbs, my right foot scraped rock as I removed my left foot from the crack, thus slipping about four inches before coming to a stop about a half-foot from the drop-off created by the overhang. Yes, I was tied in and belayed by Megan, climbing professional, but still ...

Had I stopped there, where the slab was "thin" as Megan had warned earlier (that meant very few available holds, and I really wish she had not told us that), I would have frozen. Megan and colleague Jason shared many wonderful stories later about climber who refused to budge, becoming so scared that they had to be physically removed from the rock, fingernail scraping as they were lifted. But even when petrified, bad things can happen. As Jason said, "I've seen something come out of every orifice. Yes, even that."

So I focused on the next handhold, scanning the granite for anything and, as I stepped up, put full trust in the shoes to stick to any protrubance no matter how slight (and all were slight, save for a three-inch-long bump about halfway up that was the perfect resting point -- at the time it seemed so generous you could do jumping jacks on it).

Once past the thin area, it was relatively easy with enough bumps and indentations to successfully maneuver to the top (you can see what I saw in the photo looking down at the people looking up).

As happy as I was to make the climb twice, Bryson would ascend four times, the last two taking more difficult routes (rather than using the tilted boulder as a starting point, one climb started on a steeper, smoother rock face, while his last involved a difficult climb up a narrow crack, leading to an overhang that required precise hand and leg movements -- it was impressive).

I would recommend rock-climbing to anyone. Just make sure you have the right shoes.

 
Bryson won his first match as wreslter this year. OK, this is just a test of the Picasa add-a-photo blogging system. If this had been a real blog entry, it would have been way more interesting.

There is very little reason to engage in a baseless discussion of a meaningless TV show. Particularly when that show devolves into the most ludicrous situations even as it touts the “gritty realism” of modern-day terrorist-inspired warfare.

But the fact there is very little reason to engage in such a debate only fuels the fire because there is nothing like focusing a passionate argument around made-up stuff, defending your position with logic and example (as I did), or ridiculous patter that falls apart after just a few seconds of examination (as my friend Monty did).

Here is our recent e-mail debate on the merits of the Fox show 24:

Me: speaking of sucky, did you ever watch 24 this year?

Monty: yes, i've been watching "24." i actually am really into it. if you expect plausibility, it destroys the experience. i mean, in the world of "24," this is now the seventh crisis to hit the u.s., almost like having a 9/11 every other year. if you let the stupidness wash over and envelop you, it makes the show a lot better.

Me: dude, i was a pretty decent 24 fan, and i could even put up with the totally outrageous stuff (as when the female fbi agent, rather than describe the ugly yellow utility van used as a getaway car, waits to get its plate and of course is caught before then; or when she finds the most wanted man in america holed up with a small invading force -- how'd he get thru immigration anyway? -- and the fbi dude in charge tells her it will be 15 minutes which is pretty horrible response time given the fictional equivalent of saddam hussein has just shown up). But when the general and his cronies are able to swim to the white house via the potomac, well, you know, maybe i could go along with that. but when they broke down the first wall to get in -- i can just imagine the conversation that took place among those who may have renovated the white house many years ago:
"so everything is up to code now, but i gotta tell ya, i'm still a little bothered by that possible entrance off the potomac. i mean, everyone can break down that wall, there's no rebar or anything."
"well, first of all, how is anyone gonna find it?"
"we did file those blueprints at the public library. that pretty much spells it out.'
"sure, but no one's going to see those. whoever goes into the public documents section?"
"maybe, but i still wish the first page wasn't a big drawing of the white house. really brings attention to it."
"ok, how about this. let's place a bunch of laser beams across the hole. if anyone crosses them, a bunch of alarms will go off."
"that seems pretty good. and we can run power from that junction box right in that same room."
"yeah, that will work. we'll just have to label it 'laser security' or something on the panel so no one switches if off by mistake."
"perfect. problem solved."
so as soon as the general cleared the laser array, marched in and started shooting secret service officers, who merely stood as attention as they were gunned down, i switched it off. 24 is -30-.

Monty: anyway, "24." you do realize that if you've watched it this long, you've given up any claim to being outraged. to attack the latest plot twist as "just too unbelievable" is to admit that you've been ok with every other preposterous turn of events the show has thrown at you. at this point, complaining about the unbelievable is like watching a porno and saying, "you know, i was ok when the super hot chick greeted the pizza delivery man at her door wearing nothing but a bathrobe. i was fine when she pulled him into her apartment, threw the pizza to the side and started sucking his dick, which happened to be abnormally large. i also felt it was quite possible that he would then fuck her in a variety of positions for roughly 20 minutes without his manager or other employees wondering where he was. but when he came on her face and she pretended to like it, i just felt that was too unrealistic and, frankly, ruined the whole experience for me."

Me: while i agree that 24 is preposterous and has been since its inception, there is a line you still can't cross (not gonna go into your porn argument because a) it's invalid and b) no one watches for plot). Even in the most outlandish of shows, they stick with rhe reality they have established. in lost, even with time travel and moving islands and shit, not once have they introduced a parallel universe, or that john locke is in a coma and all of this is in  his mind. because that shit would not fly in a world where certain parameters have been established. in the terminator chronicles, the terminators have not yet sent a robot back to the 15th century to kill the defenseless squire who's progeny eventually would result in john connor; nor have they sent back an army of terminators to the first century where they could easily wipe out humans in about 20 minutes. because none of that fits into the established reality.
i can give 24 miles of leeway, as when it takes 15 minutes to reach the world's most wanted man ("hey, i just stumbled across osama at a burger king in terre haute -- 15 minutes? well, ok, but it looks like his order is coming up now so you might want to send in a few local cops even though you and i know they will be nothing but bullet fodder"). i can forgive how bad guys fire 349 bullets at jack and miss, then he pops up and gets 5 kills in 5 shots. i can even allow for how you can get anywhere in DC (or los angeles) in 3 minutes. but a back door to the white house? with laser beams guarding a gap between two walls? from the potomac? no. not even close.

Monty: my porn argument is totally valid. you say that no one watches porn for plot, but in the next breath you suggest that people watch "24" for realism? i mean, that's my point right there: complaining about the lack of realism in "24" is like lamenting the poor structural narrative of "pump friction." basically, you're mad because you just wanted to see fucking and sucking, and then they snuck in a chick getting two dicks in her ass, and you were like, "hey, i didn't sign up for this! no way! they crossed my arbitrary line!" we're talking about a show where, for an entire season, a president was holed up in an underground bunker -- which, for some reason, is now totally unneeded, even when DC is under attack and the president's own life is in danger. the only "parameters" of "24" are these: chloe can hack into anything; major events occur only at the top of the hour, give or take one or two minutes; and if you want to make it out of here alive, you're going to have to do exactly what jack bauer says.

Me: also, your last attempt at a 24 argument makes it clear that your knowledge of the intricacies of the prn film is rather alarming. dude, you know more than most porn directors. did you write one at some point? if not, you should. seriously, you just might have a career in the porn industry. behind the camera, of course.  we do happen to agree on the essential truths of 24, though i would add one more; you get romantic with jack, you signed your death warrant. but as far as plotting, your porn argument still falls apart (and please don't send another porn scenario -- i get it). because you watch a porn for maybe 5 minutes. then you lose all interest. you just don't care anymore how it turns out, or who's involved, or what is going to happen. until your interest is rekindled in another hour or so, and that has nothing to do with the porn plot. 24, however, is based somewhat on our reality as it established during its first season (which i think is still the best). i was even willing to really give the series some leeway when people were hacking into valuable US targets via some device that kinda looked like a PSP. but really, writing in a secret entrance to the white house to let terrorists inside was weak and lazy. that is directly from the george lucas school of writing, when luke sent a torpedo down the air vent of the death star ("what, they blew up the death star? it wasn't even paid for yet .. uh huh, a vent? are you shitting me? a fucking vent? it was a goddamned mini-planet, what the hell did it need a vent for? ... oh, EPA regulations, fine, but did you think maybe it shouldn't have led directly to the core? maybe a couple of kinks or something?")

Monty: the porn scenarios come from the howard stern show. he has these porn stars on, and since it's on satellite radio, they can get as graphic as they want (and no, mailee is not in the car when stern is on). there's stuff i don't even want to hear about, much less see. anyway, i'll probably keep watching "24," if only because i don't know when to quit.

So that was it, an obvious end to the discussion, pretty much a victory for me as Monty admits he watches 24 for no discernible reasons other than it's on. And while the debate was meaningless, it was cathartic. And thus very worth the time.

VOID



“Goddamn it, Vince, get in here, these corns ain't gonna scrape themselves.”

No, they sure weren't, Vince knew. Nor did her toenails cut themselves. Or her eyebrows pluck themselves. Or tampons buy themselves.

No sir, they sure didn't, no matter how hard Vince wished for it.

“Sorry, hon, I was just-”

“Just nothing, like usual, now get your fat ass in here, Jeezus, how many times do I ...”

Vince let her voice go to Jello in his head, this spongy mass of words that globbed together in a kind of nothingness that made it all tolerable.

He went into the bathroom, caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Wrinkles deeper under his eyes, hair higher on his forehead, and his jowls sank low enough to create a narrow chasm just underneath his chin.

Not always like this, no sir. Up until 10 years ago he was in pretty good shape. Not quite the kind of guy people would mistake for being captain of the football team when he was in high school, but he could walk up a couple of flights of stairs without gasping like a fish out of water.

He opened the cabinet below the sink and thrust his hand into the cleaners, the brushes, the stained clothes, all the crap that usually takes refuge in areas rarely seen during the week.

It was somewhere here, the new pumice stone. Damn, he's just bought it a few weeks ago, knowing how the last one was wearing down to the nub, Glenda's corns winning the weekly battle of flesh vs. abrasive.

Words burst through the Jello.

“Kee-rist, Vincent, I ask you one simple goddamn thing, please, they're done soaking and you know how they'll get in another few-”

The words again vanished into the amorphous black void he kept within his brain for moments as this. Survival mechanism, his therapist said. Well, when he went to a therapist. Until Glenda said she wasn't paying for advice for any free-thinking holier-than-thou sonuvabitch making more in an hour than most people make in a week.

As if he were spending any of his wife's money. She hadn't held a job in 15 years. And if there were any spare money Vince was making between two jobs, it went to a bed, or a clawing post, or another case of canned tuna for Bubbles, Glenda's cat.

Where the hell was that pumice stone? His hand swept the back of the cabinet, knocking aside cans of air freshener and stain removers.

Nothing.

“Hon,” he called. “I can't find the, at least I was pretty sure that a couple weeks ago, I swore I picked one up, but I think-”

“Vincent, you never freakin' think, that's your problem. Spit it out, what the hell is wrong? And you better not tell me we ain't got a goddamn stone cause I told you about that just the other day, make sure it's in decent shape because this has been a real bad week and I was gonna-”

Vince balled up the words again and shoved them into the void, a move so natural that he never really thought about it anymore. If he had, he might realize it was quite a talent, to make bad things disappear like that, shoving everything into some sort of soupy glop and draining slowly away.

He withdrew his hand from the cabinet, knowing he could search all day and never find what was not there. He closed the door, stood and took a deep breath.

Glenda was not going to be happy about this.

He entered the hallway, took a right and paused, looking through the doorway of her bedroom --which used to be our bedroom, he thought, but that was, what, four years ago? Five? He would wake her coming home late from his second job, she said, and she needed her nine hours. Never asked if he would mind. Came home one night to find the bedroom door closed and a note on it – “I left a pillow and sheets for you in the den.”

And she did just that, in a tidy little pile on the couch. Where he's spent nights ever since. Which was fine, since he hadn't been attracted to her for, well, long before moving to the den.

Something about removing a woman's corns kills any romantic notions that may try to rise from the dead every now and then.

Taking a deep breath, he walked into her bedroom where she reclined, as usual, in the leather chair he picked from a catalog at work, rewarding him for 15 years. She stroked Bubbles, who was curled in her lap, her pale blue frock pulled above her knees.

“Hon, I couldn't find the pumice stone, but I'll go get one-”

“You damn sure will, Vincent G. Wurrbach, you dumbass, not that it's gonna help me a whole lot since I gotta do a resoak now, and you know damn well the water's cold ...”

Void. Done.

Vince turned, left, made sure he was out of sight before checking his watch. 9:30. And he had to be up in six hours for work. And it was going to take 30 minutes to get to the CVS because they lived in the middle of nowhere, the only place they could afford on his two salaries. And of course the builder went belly-up less than a year after they moved in, so the seven homes on their street now faced an expansive weed-choked lot where, if you looked closely, you could pick out the ribboned stakes that marked out nothing more than the vision of a neighborhood.

Vince opened the door to the garage, patting his back pocket to make sure his wallet was there. Yup, and should have a few bucks, if he remembered right.

He opened the door of the Volvo, its hinge letting loose a creaky protest. Settling into the driver's seat, the vinyl snapping as it accepted his full weight, Vince closed the door and backed down the drive, crimping the wheels as he entered the street. Clutch down, he forced the gear shift into first, pressed the gas and waited for the engine to catch up.

As the Volvo inched ahead, he turned to the left to see if it was still there. But he wasn't even sure it qualified as an “it.”

He'd noticed it maybe two weeks ago, leaving for work in the pre-dawn darkness. That morning, he was encouraged by this new look, thinking it signaled some new construction (which he realized was incredibly stupid, it was not as if they could erect a wall overnight without anyone every knowing.

The sky wasn't right. Looking across the field, he noticed the stars disappeared, well, too soon, as if the horizon had been raised 10 feet.

A trick of the darkness, perhaps, but he noticed it again the next night, and the next. Only the horizon was rising more and more, the blackness getting taller.

As Vince reached the corner and turned right, heading toward the parkway into town. The clerk at CVS said nothing when he dropped the pumice stone on the counter, since he added some cold medicine to “justify” a late-night run (the one thing he would never run out of was cold medicine).

After pahying, he grabbed the bag and headed back home. It was after 10, and sleep was likely another hour away, once he was done with his chore.

Turning onto the street, his right foot slammed down the brake pedal.

He finally realized what was happening,

The darkness wasn't getting taller.

It was coming closer. That black line of, something, was advancing.

As he turned, his headlights panned an inky wall of nothingness. Looking down his street, it seemed the homes were facing the edge of the world. To the left, normalcy. To the right, a void.

A void, Vince thought.

He suddenly felt comforted.

Minutes later, as Vince bent over his wife's feet, pumice stone in hand, he could honestly say he was not surprised by the deep, hollow and thunderous knock at the door. Once, twice, three times, each echoing in the night.

Vince's voice was calm as he looked into his wife's startled eyes.

“It's for you.”

Ever since Bryson was 6, his birthday gift has included a coupon book from dear old dad. Typically he receives 10 or so. Some are consistent (each year, two or three allow him to trade the coupon for a purchase, which is a lot cooler than a gift card because it's good every where they accept cash from the Bank of Dad, which is everywhere). Over the years, he's received coupons to get out of one chore for free, to do one thing he really wants to do with no excuses from dad (including transportation), a dinner at a place of his choosing, and a “I know I messed up, I really don't want a lecture” coupon, good for one “Leave me alone” moment. Bryson will tuck these away for the appropriate moment, some used right away (the ones good for purchases are gone right away, and he has always used the “Get out of a chore” coupon at the first opportunity), though some do expire at the end of a year, sitting unused in his room.

On a weeknight not very long ago, as I asked him to take his shower as bedtime was fast approaching, he left the room allowing me to watch American Idol on the DVR.

(NOTE – do not judge me because I watch American Idol. I watch America's most popular show – see how scary that sounds? – only for the first few weeks, through auditions and the cuts in Hollywood because there are so many histrionic moments that are too good to miss, reminding all of us we are not the only ones with shattered dreams; once the final 12 or 16 or 24 are chosen, I am outta there.)

On this particular night, Idol is focusing on group auditions, when singers must band in three- or foursomes, rehearse through the night and perform the following day. It's great fun because one prissy diva can upset everything, and the best singers can be sent home because they could not play well with others.

At this particular moment, Idol cameras were lingering on a group calling themselves, aptly, The Divas, and included a young woman who had become known as Bikini Girl, who was as beautiful as she was clueless. Though Bikini Girl have a somewhat lovely voice, her personality was as ugly as the U.S. economy. Bryson, now riveted by Bikini Girl's unseemly behavior, departed to take a shower that to this day is his record for the shortest (roughly 3 minutes). He returned, still dripping, just as The Divas took to the stage.

And yes, they meshed about as well as peanuts and salmonella. Two of the four survived to the next round. The other two, including Bikini Girl, were asked to leave. Bikini Girl exited stage left, posing for the camera as she strutted up the aisle.

“Oh my gosh, I can't believe her,” Bryson said. “She doesn't even care what she did.”

Cut to later, when The Divas are backstage talking about their performance and how it was such a disappointment. Well, three of the Divas were talking. Bikini Girl, standing to the side, merely waved her hand, dismissing them, and walked.

“Oh, oh, oh, she is such a, you know, rrrrrrr,” said Bryson. “I can't even, oh my gosh, she is so bad. Why the heck … she is so ridiculous. Why don't they just … rrrrr!”

Cut to a little more later, and The Divas are in the lobby, trying one last time to make nice. They gather for a group hug. But no Bikini Girl. “I don't want all this fakey hug stuff,” she said, walking away. “I don't need it.”

“What the … oh my gosh … I can't believe she …. what the hey!” Bryson stammered. “Oh, she is such a, she is such a … wait--”

He grabbed the remote and hit the pause button, freezing the action. Jumping up, he ran to his bedroom. I heard a drawer open, the shuffling of papers, a drawer shutting, footsteps down the hall.

Bryson flopped back into his chair, leaned over and slapped a slip of paper in my hand. I had a feeling I knew what it was, but I opened it. On it was printed:

“This coupon good for the use of one (1) swear word to be uttered withing listening distance of Dad. Meant to be used in times of anger or pain (neither of which may be directed at said Dad). Example: While weedwacking, you cut your ankle abd scream “Son of a b-!” Coupon not good for sear wo4ds used in front of friends overheard by dad, for that will still get you in trouble. Use this coupon wisely, if at all. Expires 3-30-09.”

Bryson hit the play button, and we were once again watching Bikini Girl vs. The Divas.

“She is such a (slight pause for dramatic effect) BITCH!” he said.

He used the coupon wisely.

CONTINUED FROM PREVIOUS POST

Nothing. One week of hitting 3-4 newspapers a day and nothing.

My rules didn't help, since they did not scream of desperation. I applied only at small and medium-sized dailies (working for a weekly was too depressing, since they typically had a staff of three who covered city meetings, took photos and designed the pages – fun, but earning just slightly more than minimum wage, and they day they're hired, they are looking to move up). When in Denver, I didn't bother dropping in at the Denver Post or Rocky Mountain News. Each, I figured was out of my range.

Each day was the same, only the highway was different (and sometimes that was not the case, since I often had to double-back to resume my journey; Colorado's roads are not conducive to streamlined job searching). I started in the northern part of the state, working my way down south. Since this was 1979, I had to do it the old-fashioned way, with maps and lots of pulling over to the side of the road to figure out where I was. Kids today don't have any idea how easy they have it with Google Maps and GPS systems. Oh, that assumes a physical job search with, with the Internet, makes about as much sense as me riding a horse and buggy 30 years ago.

I'd rise by 8 a.m., shower, shave, skip breakfast, pay the hotel bill and hit the road. Typically I ended the previous day's trip in the city of my next stop, and so it was I woke up in Colorado Springs on my last full day in the state.

It had been disheartening. My dream job would have been in Boulder, but odds were heavily against me. The editor in Fort Collins was encouraging, suggesting an entry-level job might be opening in a few weeks, promising me I was first on the list (showing me a file cabinet filled with resumes, and pointing out mine was the only one accompanied by a personal visit).

Other than that, nothing. After making my stops today, I was going to stay the night in Fort Collins, stopping in at the newspaper there the next morning before resuming my search in Oregon (No. 2 on the dream-state list; not sure why, just seemed a helluva lot better than anything in the Midwest).

But first, I was going to visit two newspapers in Colorado Springs, the Sun and the Gazette Telegraph. The GT was by far the biggest of the two, thus decreasing my chances. I started at the Sun, walking in the door at around 9 a.m.

The two-story building obviously was new. Its open and airy layout revealed an atrium in the middle, ringed by the wade balconies of the second floor (and home of the newsroom). Downstairs people were busy at their desks, low partitions separating them (I assumed) into departments.

The receptionist asked me to take a seat and picked up her phone. After 30 minutes or so (typical of the waits I experienced while waiting to speak with an editor; if I was sent to a human resources employee, I knew I was doomed), an older gentleman descended the stairs, walked over and held out his hand.

“”Hi, I'm Frank Boggs,” he said. “Sports editor. Would you like to come up?”

Sports editor? I wasn't looking to work in sports, nor was I in any position to say no. I accompanied him up the steps and was amazed by what I saw.

There were no walls, save for a few offices around the perimeter. A picture window near the southwest side revealed a view of snow-covered Pikes Peak, a landmark on the Front Range. About half the desks were occupied by reporters either on the phone or tapping away on their stories.
Yes there was not a typewriter to be seen. A computer monitor was on every desk, showing pale letters on a glowing green background. Every few desks, a narrow metal column ran ceiling to floor. Wires burst from the bottom of each one, bundles of which snaked to the back of each computer.

I stared at each monitor as we walked to Frank's office.

“You should have seen the old building,” he said, noticing my reaction. “This place is heaven. I can't tell you how much easier that his made everything.”

“When did you move in?” I said.

“About two months ago. We're still getting used to it.”

He ushered me into his office. Photos of athletes shared space with framed sports pages on his walls. A couple of awards stood high on his shelves.

I handed him my resume and clips, and he took a few minutes to glance at them. Luckily I'd included a sports story or two, since I had covered sports during my sophomore year at the college paper. Sports was fun, but I'd outgrown them, wishing to pursue something more serious. I wanted to be Woodward and or Bernstein, as with any other journalism graduate at the time. Watergate was still relatively fresh, and had lost nothing when it came to inspiration.

Frank asked me how I had come to Colorado Springs from California, and I explained I wanted a change of scenery and though Colorado worth visiting (not telling him of my car in parking lot filled with my worldly possessions, as it smacked with desperation.)

“Well, look, I'm going to be honest,” Frank said, flipping my resume onto his desk. “We may have something coming up, but it's probably not for another week or so, if it happens at all. And it may not be for a month.”

“Well, that's fine, I'm open to just about any possibility,” like staying in a hotel for a week because, as I had decided this morning, Colorado Springs was second to Boulder when it came to fitting in with my perceived Colorado. Razor-sharp granite cliffs rose just to the south (Cheyenne Mountain as it turned out, hollowed out years ago to house NOTAD headquarters). Directly to the west, pine-covered foothills gave way to mountains, and lord over it all was majestic Pikes Peak, snow covering its stony pinnacle most of the year.

“There's more. If the job does open, it's only part-time. And there are no benefit, unless you go full-time, but that would be at least a year. And there isn't any writing involved. It's on the desk, where you'd gather scores and take dictation, and move wire copy. I have to be honest, it really isn't much.”

“No, sounds great.” Damn, desperation snuck in without me noticing.

“Oh, well, OK. Do you have a phone number in case it happens?”

This being the pre-cellphone era, I gave him my parents' number, as I did at all my stops. Each evening I checked in with mom and dad, not just for their peace of mind, but to see if anyone had called.
We shook hands, and I was on my way to the Gazette Telegraph just a few miles down the road. The building was more cramped, darker. At least from what I saw at the reception desk. No one had time to see me, and I left my resume at the front desk.

I could have searched in easterb Colorado, out of the mountains' shadows, but what was the point? I was there to experience a Rocky Mountain High, not land that could have been western Kansas.

I headed to Fort Collins, the miles and time meaningless at this point. I was spending as many as 10 hours on the road each day, so I had lost all sense of distance. I stopped at the same Motel 6 I stayed in at my earlier stop, roughly five days before. That night I spread the road atlas over the bed, charting the best way to Oregon. I figured it to be a two day trip, but this time planned on an overnight stay rather than pulling off to the side of the road.

But here is what I was really thinking, when I allowed the optimist to come in – tomorrow morning, the Fort Collins editor would have promising news. Not enough to make me stay, but at least with something hopeful to get me to Oregon. And perhaps just as I was leaving Oregon to, well, I hadn't planned that far – Washington, maybe – I would hear from Fort Collins.

Another week on the road, perhaps, and I would have a job. I had to think that way, or else there was little motivation to continue. I was already questioning my credentials, thinking perhaps it wasn't my timing, it was me and what I (didn't) have to offer. If I were a more qualified candidate, I'd have a job by now.

At around 8 p.m., I went to the Motel 6 lobby and the pay phone (opting not to spend the money needed to activate the room phone). Slipping in 50 cents, I dialed my parents, taking a big breath first because there could be no disappointment in my voice when I told them Colorado was a bust, and I was heading to Oregon.

“Hey mom, how is everything tonight?” I said. I was still plotting how I was going to break the news, and that I may need more money. Would they continued to fund this folly?

“Scott, where are you now?” she said.

“Fort Collins,” I said, wondering if she would remember I'd been here before.

“Oh, well, do you know a man by the name of Frank Boggs?”

“Frank Boggs? Uh, Frank Boggs, yeah, Frank Boggs, he, uh, he was at the, uh, yeah ...”

My heart was beating so loud my brain couldn't get its shit together. Frank Boggs would only call for one reason.

“Scott? Frank Boggs? He called.”

“Yeah, right. What did he say?”

“I think he wants to offer you a job. He said you talked this morning.”

“Yeah, we did, but he said he might have something but not for, something, or a week, or maybe longer … are you sure? Frank Boggs?”

“Yes, I have his number. He said to call as soon as you got the message.”

“When did he call?”

“Oh, I don't know. This afternoon sometime. Hon, do you remember when Frank Boggs called? No, it was after lunch. Maybe around 3? Yes, around 3 I think.”

Christ, that was 5 hours ago. Was the job still open or did someone else grab it? Or was it a job at all? Maybe he just wanted to update me on the possible offer. Maybe he just wanted to say hello.

Scratch that last one. Brain still having hard time engaging.

“You have his number?” I said.

“Yes. Do you want to write it down?”

Yeah, I think I want to write it down. No pen or paper. After having them ready over the last half-dozen calls home, I didn't bring them with me. “Let me go get something to write with, two minutes, call you back.”

Optimism snuck in again. I won't have to go to Oregon after all. I will see the mountains from my window. Boulder will be within driving distance.

I will be a resident of Colorado. Rocky Mountain High, baby.

I dialed Mom again, pen and paper in hand. She gave me his number. I said a quick “Bye” and dialed.

And got no answer. Of course (pre-voicemail; the things we take for granted today).

I don't remember how much sleep I got that night. Some, I am sure. Starting at about 7:30 a.m., I was in the lobby callng him. No answer. Returned to my room. Ten minutes later, back in the lobby. Same thing. Back to my room. Back to the lobby. Dial. Back to my room.

At 9:30.

“Frank Boggs.”

“Mr. Boggs, hi.” I identified myself. “We spoke yesterday morning. About a job. At the Sun. In the sports department.”

“Yes, I remember. May be old, but not that old. So, are you interested?”

“I am. Definitely.”

“OK, it's like I spelled out yesterday. Part-time, no benefits for about a year. No writing. But it's a start, and it's the kind of job you can make the most out of.”

“Yes, I'd like to take it. Definitely.”

“Definitely. Sounds good. When can you start?”

“I'm in Fort Collins right now, but I can start as soon as I get there. Ninety minutes or so?”

“Not unless you're taking a plane. More like 2 ½ hours, son, if you follow the speed limit. Which I highly suggest. Are you sure you can start that soon?”

“Yes, I pretty much have everything with me. I can starts whenever you want me to.”

“Fine, then. Come see me when you get in and we'll set you up.”

Goddamn, it's a Rocky Mountain High after all. Not a bad outcome for something that went back to a conversation at a urinal.

Not bad at all.

EPILOGUE – Turned out that the day I walked into the Sun, one of their sports guys had just submitted his resignation. He was on the slot, meaning he did all the stuff Frank Boggs told me I would do. I lived in a hotel for a week before finding an apartment – the live-in attic on the fourth floor of a three-story Victorian home just 5 minutes from the Suns' building (which I would come to find lacking two very important things – heat and insulation. I survived winter thanks to a space heater that was my constant companion). The official job was 39 hours and no benefits, though I often worked 60-hour weeks and volunteered for as many reporting assignments as possible. Within a year I was made a full-time
reporter, and within another year was covering Air Force football and the USFL (a league started to compete against the NFL and … oh, never mind).

CONTINUED FROM POST BELOW

Early morning, mid-September, 1979. Adjusted the rearview mirror of my 1976 Datsun B-210 hatchback as I headed out. About a top third of the back window was not blocked by records, clothes and my TV. Plenty of room to see where I’ve been.

I was too young and stupid to be nervous. Hell, it was 1979 baby, the era of disco music, easy sex and plentiful drugs (the first of which accounted for roughly 80 percent of my record collection, now jammed into a plastic milk crate; the other two, not so much). Here I was, a young college graduate with a stunning resume. I was co-editor of my university newspaper; I worked for a summer in Pittsburg (Calif.) on the daily newspaper where among my duties I wrote “Spotlight on Business,” a weekly feature on deserving local businesses (rotated among advertisers, and I dreaded when Vic’s One-Hour Martinizing came up); and I had the enthusiasm of youth going for me.

It wasn’t, “Please hire me, I’ll do anything.” It was, “Yeah, my background it that impressive; sure, I’ll wait.”

Until I was about 50 miles from home. Then it was, “What the hell am I doing?” There was a sudden aching in my hands until I realized I’d had the steering wheel in a death grip for the last 10 miles or so. My gut churned and suddenly those homemade chocolate chip cookies that I figured would sustain me to Utah suddenly did not look so good.

I could turn back. Easy. Every mile there was another exit. An easy merge to the right. Stop, turn left, head along the overpass. Another left. Go west, young man. Back home.

But then I was in Sacramento. Through the Sierra Nevadas, which offered a taste of Rocky Mountain High. This was not only the right thing to do, but the only thing to do. Think, in days I will have landed my dream job in Colorado, skiing on the weekends and living the kind of life other 21-year-old Americans could only dream.

This was like a trip to the Bipolar Circle.

Just inside Utah, the clouds let loose and visibility dropped to just about my front bumper. But suddenly, as if stepping into another room from behind a curtain, it was clear and crisp, the sun dipping below the horizon behind me. And just ahead, like an arch to a better future (the emotional rollercoaster was on a euphoric peak), was a rainbow. Not a halfassed rainbow that might waver for a few seconds in one corner of sky, but a full-fledged, ground to ground, Technicolor right-outta-Disney rainbow that even Leprechauns Local 501 of the Pot-o-Gold Hiding Union would’ve respected.

I pulled off to admire it. Mostly to stare for a while, and also to let the blood flow back to my ass (I haven’t had tingles back there like that before or since). I’d covered roughly 800 miles in 11 hours without a bathroom break. So I stepped off the pavement and took care of that too.

Outside of Salt Lake City, at an hour I believe to be in the ungodly range (2, maybe 3 a.m.), I pulled into a rest stop, feeling the rollercoaster of emotion flying past the station and plummeting to depths unknown when I leaned my seat back only to have it wedge against the TV just a few degrees past 90.

It was cold, the car was low on gas, and I was trying to sleep in a position meant to discourage rest. I even cursed the TV (the first and last time for that as well).

Then, about two hours later, I had a visitor. I awoke to a tap on the driver's-side window. First thought – who the hell comes calling in the middle of the night, particularly at a Utah rest stop.

Second thought – this is not good.

There was a shadow at the window, hard to make out due to lack of illuminations and the light coating of frost on the window. I rolled down the window to reveal what, based on his Smokey the Bear bat, was a Utah state trooper.

“You can't sleep here,” he said.

I could if you weren't banging on my window. No, I didn't say that. Didn't say a thing. Brain wasn't quite engaged.

“State law prohibits overnight stays at rest stops. Can I see some identification please?”

Welcome to Utah.

He returned with my license about 10 minutes later, suggesting if I were too tired to drive I could stay at some motel about five miles up the road. As if I had never heard of a motel before.

This wasn't about comfort. This was about sacrifice, this was about suffering for my career.

But that can only go so far. It would be the last night I would spent at a rest stop. As I fired up the ignition and pulled out, I realized I had hit bottom. What the hell was I doing? Did I really think I could go all Jack Kerouac (in a capitalistic kind of way) and find something I really wanted to do?

But as the sun rose, so did my mood. Until I hit Grand Junction.

I knew by the map, and by the “Welcome to Colorful Colorado” sign, that I was in my dream state. And it was flat and ugly and nothing more than a stripmall- and hotel-filled Bakersfield (I knew Bakersfield, and yes, Grand Junction was quite a Bakersfield)?

Where the hell was my goddamned Rocky Mountain High?

I had planned to apply at the Grand Junction paper, but decided against it the way the city totally fucked me. I could not imagine driving two days and hundreds of miles to work in Butthole, CO.

Man, I'd had better days. I pulled over in an Arby's parking lot (one of roughly 28 fast-food joints on the main drag, sandwiched around Motel 6, Sleep Inn, a handful of Best Westerns, and Motel 6 Eastside). I looked over the map, trying to determine where the Rocky Mountains started.

Tracing my finger northward, I hit Steamboat Springs. Ah, I remember Steamboat Springs. Ski area. Which meant snow. Which meant elevation.

Which meant mountains.

Soon, Grand Junction was in my rearview mirror. I did not wave goodbye (and to this day, I am happy to report, I have never been back to Grand Junction, and I firmly believe am a better man for it).

The highway rose steadily, and the naïve 21-year-old in me was expecting a rocky ridge to appear on the horizon, granite cliffs soaring thousands of feet skyward.

As I pulled into Steamboat, I realized this had to be the Rocky Mountains. There was a chill in the (rather thin) air, and I noticed chairlifts strong along various slopes. But this still was not the Colorado of my dreams. Where are the vertiginous peaks, the massive peaks, the thick pine forests? Steamboat Springs had a McDonald's, a Safeway, a Union 76, a drycleaner …

Rocky Mountain High, my ass.

I continued onward. I decided I would apply at Steamboat only if the town was incredible (since the newspaper was so small). Based on Steamboat's relative similarity to my dream of Steamboat, the newspaper would have had to been on the level of the Washington Post to interest me.

Yes, I was that stupid.

Thus for the next week, I crisscrossed the state, eventually finding the Colorado that lived in my imagination. Highlights included:

--A stunning a very scary drive over Independence Pass, a two-lane road that crept up the cliffs in a “pardon me, so sorry to intrude” sort of way. The road was timid, drivers were not. At one point an RV pointed downhill took up a full lane in what was roughly a 1 ½ -lane-wide road (and there certainly was no room for a guardrail despite the precipitous drop). I stopped, the RV stopped. The driver motioned me forward (I did not know at the time that uphill traffic has the right-of-way), so I crept around him. Just as I was about to clear him, there was roughly one inch between his bumper and mine, and less than that separating me from 1,000 feet of nothingness. John Denver never sang about this shit.

--The turning aspens ran like veins of gold through green valleys. I was dutifully impressed yet continued on without stopping to admire the scene, figuring hell, I was going to live here soon, I can see this stuff anytime. Only later would I discover this was “autumn” (I'm from California, who knew from autumn?) and it was a spectacle I would never experience the way I did then).

--Invigorating hotel stays. I was a Motel 6 convert. Sure, the TV only received three channels and if you wanted to “activate” the phone, it cost you more than $6, but so what? It was cheap, clean, warm and comfortable. And not once did a Utah State trooper knock on my door. Each morning I woke up with promise. The nights were not as hopeful, but it was a routine I accepted.

--Being pulled over for a ticket in Eagle, Colorado. Apparently was going 30 in a 25 mph zone. I was very mindful of lowered speed limits since small towns dotted the highway system, and I had seen radar-equipped patrolmen in many of them. The officer, noticing my out-of-state license and plates (no dummy he), said I would have to pay the ticket right then and there. Or I could hang around until the next day and appear before a judge to plead my case. I asked him how much I owed. “Ten dollars.” Wasn't this an episode in the Andy Griffith Show?

--Running into an editor who either was having a very bad day or was a professional asshole. After giving him my resume, he promptly tossed it in his waste can (“Oh, did you want that back?”) and strongly suggested that I “start at some smaller papers, you know, weeklies, because the market here is extremely competitive and no paper the size of ours is interested in someone just out of college.” This was at the Longmont Daily Call, circulation roughly 25,000 or so at the time. To that editor: Not only was my first job at a newspaper larger than yours, but I am, and have been, employed by a major metropolitan daily for nearly 25 years, so fuck you and your shitty suburban rag.

--Pulling into Boulder. Now this is what I was envisioning. Granite peaks bursting from the valley floor like stone sentinels, snow-covered peaks in the distance – all that poetic shit. Downtown was quaint, and with the University of Colorado right there, plenty to do and see. Unfortunately, every journalism major in Colorado felt the same way and my resume was among the hundreds editors received over a month. “And turnover is almost nonexistent, but good luck to you,” the editor said. “That's something driving around the state looking for a job. We have CU graduates send us resumes and they don't even bother to visit. You'll find something.”

I did. But it wasn't about what I had to offer.

Timing was everything.

TO BE CONTINUED

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.

It's been a while, but politics has finally gotten to me. Specifically, Sarah Palin.

Even though palin was just found guilty of abusing her gubernatorial power in having her sister's ex fired as head cop, my guess is that the decision will only bolster her standing. People have criticized her experience, but hell, she abused power like a real pro. It took Alaska's Ted Stevens years to bully people to the point of getting what is essentially a free house. Palin did it early in her first term. She's a phenom. And I can certainly see what would happen if she were in the Oval Office. "Todd, fetch me my slippers and fire the head of homeland security on your way out. e forgot to wipe his feet last time."

Plus Palin is pretty cute. I'd bet as soon as she was announced, google got a million search requests for "sarah palin nude" (which only comes up with dozens of results, all of which appear to be photoshopped). Now I have voted for people for reasons even more shallow than "she's cute." Often, I have cast votes for corporate commissioners based on the appeal of their names. An Angela would be fine, but I don't like anyone named after a city, particulary those in Texas (I can proudly say I have never voted for a Dallas or Austin or Houston or El Paso). and while Republicans boast about how Palin is just one of us, I don't want just one of us in the White House.

I would hate to think a person who just sat down to have a beer with me would also be in charge of national security. "Another Sam Adams Octoberfest would be great, and so it that planned bombing run on Pakistan so let's do that too." I want someone smarter than me, someone who is worldly and elite and not prone to acting out when, say. you slice your thumb cutting tomatoes and immediately want some sort of mindless retribution (and yes, instead of slamming my hand on the counter and curse the knife, as Leader of the Free World I would probably want to invade Korea to get my anger out, because what's better for your temper than to be able to invade a sovereign nation?)

So no, I really don't want one of us in the Oval Office. I'd rather have someone who knows what they are doing.

There are stages to being a son or daughter, and I’ve experienced most of them, from the joy of early times when it is perfectly acceptable for you to go in your pants and having someone else clean it up, to enduring the surliness of the teen years, to expressing your independence by asking your folks for a few thousand dollars so you can get your own apartment.

But recently I entered a latter stage of being someone’s child: Picking Off Your Parents’ Shit.

I had not idea I’d entered this stage until a recent visit to the ancestral home in California. Mom, Dad and I were enjoying a beer on the patio when I mentioned how much I liked the landscape hanging in the family room. In the pastel sketch, a small sailboat was moored at the end of the small dock, on top of which was perched a weathered wooden shack. Behind that, trees crowded along the shore leaving only a sliver for the beach. Each line was meticulous and perfectly drawn, and it was the kind of sketch that made drawing look easy (knowing in the back of your mind that it certainly isn’t).

“That was done by your great great grandmother, it’s been in the family for years,” Mom said. “She didn’t take up painting until very late in life, so she didn’t do many. That was always one of our favorites.”

As I took another sip, wondering why such talents had not been passed down to me. Mom added, “Your brother is getting it when we go. He put his name on it years ago.”

Mom thought (wrongly) that Gary had actually written his name on the back of the painting, which, when it comes to inheritance, clearly made the painting his. That would stand up in any probate court. (Judge: “I see from submitted documents your brother did not just make casual references to his interest in the sketch, but actually put his name to the back of the canvas. Thus according to ordinances and rules pertaining to Picking Off Your Parents’ Shit, the sketch is his. Now let us continue to the silverware and the applicability of Post-Its.”)

Of course, I had a couple of problems with this. First, I had no idea the starter’s gun had fired and we were allowed to start marking territory. Yes, Mom and Dad are straddling their 80s, but they’re in relatively good health (remarkable given their nicotine habit) and have shown no signs of going anytime soon. Gary clearly got an unacceptable head start. It would be one thing if perhaps Mom or Dad were in the hospital being treated for a serious condition (and when you are in your 80s, just about everything is a serious condition). There would be an argument there starting to pick off your parents’ shit. And if they were hooked to life support or in a hospice, then it’s almost required to children to start picking shit off.

Secondly, I live in Arizona and Gary lives 15 minutes from the ancestral home. He has abused his home field advantage. I would be OK with that if Mom and Dad were in ill health and he had to stop by often to take care of them, either turning them or cleaning up after unsightly accidents. Then by all means, you certainly get the top picks when it comes to Picking Off Your Parents’ Shit. But that is not happening. In fact, Mom and Dad are still taking Gary out to dinner once or twice a week (while like a sucker, I’m still paying for every meal in Arizona).

So this is why I had a problem with the situation. It wasn’t about Gary getting the sketch. It was about not receiving advance notice that we had now entered the Picking Off Your Parents’ Shit stage.

“So as far as you’re concerned, that painting is already spoken for, right?” I asked.

“Well, you never said anything,” Dad said.

“Of course not,” I said. “I had no idea it was time to start marking territory. Now I’m going to have to start looking at things a little differently. Like inventory.”

This was no longer the ancestral home. It was now an estate sale, and I was in the front of the line with a price gun I could use to mark everything “Free.” It was time for Picking Off My Parents’ Shit.

“What about the painting in the living room? Is that still on the block?”

“Which one?” Mom said. “There’s the one I did and the one by your Aunt Barb.”

While there are few rules to Picking Off Your Parents’ Shit, the golden one is “Do not piss off the original owners while they remain in sound enough mind to know who just pissed them off.”

But here’s the problem. Mom took a few lessons in her 30s and 40s and painted a lot of fruit. There’s fruit hanging all over the house. Apples, oranges, bananas – she stuck to basic fruit (grapes were a bit out of reach).

Aunt Barb, on the other hand, co-owns a gallery back east, one she bought with earnings as an artist. Her cheapest creations go for $5,000, and my guess is that her three kids likely picked off her shit years ago (“Mom, this one is too special to be sold, it should remain in the family, here, let me just put my name on the back of it to remind us not to put it in the gallery”).

So at this point I could state the obvious, or lie and protect further interests as I pick off my parents’ shit.

“Are you kidding? Aunt Barb’s.”

Yeah, I totally violated the Gold Rule. Ah, she’ll forget. These are people who, and I swear this is true, not only watch their favorite shows, but tape them to watch later, and then tape the reruns. I was banking on their frail grasp of short-term memory.

“Honey, has Gary said anything about Aunt Barb’s painting?” Mom said.

“Which one?”

Note to self: Look for other Aunt Barb painting with Sharpie in hand.

“The one in the living room.”

“Not that I know of. No, wait, yes, I think he has. The one in the living room, is that the original? What about the one in our bedroom?”

“The one in the living room is original. The one in our bedroom is a photo of one of her paintings.”

Note to self: Forget the Sharpei, but sell Gary on idea that second Aunt Barb painting is original and worth a high pick.

“OK, so I’d like the one in the living … “ I stopped. I was being a bit hasty here. “So Gary put his name on a painting and it’s his, right? OK, so you know what? Mom, do you have marker handy?”

“Why?”

“I’m putting my name on the wall there, just right of the patio door. The house” pause for dramatic effect “is mine. Based on established rules of getting your shit.”

Mom and Dad laughed, but I knew what I was going to do. “Don’t worry, next time I see Gary I’ll say, ‘Hey, just found out you had first pick and chose that painting. With the second pick in the Picking Off Your Parents’ Shit draft, I took the house. You’re up.”

Of course, my 13-year-old son happened to hear our discussion. He grabbed the Toyota. Which made me think, where was I when it was time for Picking Off My Grandparents’ Shit?

This is hardly the best of times thanks to gas, the war and the economy. But for the worst of times, the male groin area has that hands down.

First, Chris Snyder suffered an injury that few outside the medical community probably knew was possible. The catcher for the Arizona Diamondbacks fractured a testicle. Yes, he fractured a testicle (those with a Y chromosome know why I had to repeat that, as the sheer horror makes it so unbelievable). Snyder takes all the usual precautions when suiting up for duty behind the plate, but I am sure that if he thought for one second that there was just a minuscule chance he would break a nut, he'd be in right field before you could say, "Don't forget your cup."

Apparently a fractured testicle involves tearing of the soft tissue. I imagined an overripe grapefruit that is slammed against the wall and split, pulp oozing from the gash. Then I stopped imagining that for obvious reasons. I am pretty sure if given a choice, 99.9 percent of men would choose Novocain-free dental surgery over even the slightest possibility of fracturing a testicle. The other .1 percent are eunuchs.

I thought that was the worst thing that could happen until I came across this story out of Romania -- a court there ordered a surgeon to pay $795,000 to a man whose penis he accidentally severed during surgery on the man's testicles (note to Snyder: do not outsource your medical care to Romania to save a few bucks).

At first you might not think this is a bad thing. A penis worth a nice home in Scottsdale, or a lovely walkup in Manhattan? Not bad. Or you could sell it on eBay and not have to worry about your plummeting 401k. And everytime you went to the bathroom, you'd have this comfortable feeling that your financial future was in your hands.

But wait, there's more. Doctors took a tendon from the arm of the man with no penis and attached it down there, Why? For aesthetic reasons. And perhaps aiming as well.

There are worse things than going through life with an aesthetic penis. I just can't come up with any right now.

Overheard in line at the Indiana Jones ride in Disneyland, as uttered by a 6-year-old girl in a very dire voice: "Don't look into the eye of the idol or it will make you curse."