In the Men’s room at The Cannery there is a mirror over the urinal. On the wall behind is a sign, positioned so it is right over your head in the mirror, that says. “ENOLA GNIVAEL ER’UOY REDNOW ON”
I spent my last evening at the Ale Works tonight. I invited Kristen out on the road with me, but she turned down the offer. Just as well; If I ditched Winnebaggo there would be room for her, but she didn’t look like the kind of girl to travel light. I could be wrong about that. I think she wanted to give me a hug when I said goodbye but I got all stiff and awkward before she could even think about it much.
Right now I’m back at John’s, and Sal is on a beer run. Sal is short for Salvatore Vaspolli, and he has a book out called Montana. It’s a photo book, and it’s funny now how many of the images on those pages made me say, “I tried to take that picture!” But the images he has captured are really friggin incredible. He drives around, trying to sell his posters to retailers, and scouting new photos.
What I really want to do is show him my shots, and get his critique. I want to learn from him. Instead I chipped in for the next beer run. He doesn’t want to see my amateur shit. John gave him the opening – “Jerry’s taken some really nice pictures.” Sal did not say “Really? Let’s see.” And seriously, can you blame him for that? The dude’s trying to relax and enjoy a ballgame.
Tomorrow I go. I’ve had a great time here, but the road is out there, a jilted lover jealous of my straying ways. Or staying ways. She wants me back. She calls to me with a whisper that no one else can hear, an enticing sound that promises that I am the only one. I will be the only one once I get out there. My seductive mistress is a fiction that comes from inside my own head, and her promises are emptiness. Sweet emptiness.
So tomorrow I return to the road, to the simplicity that implies, and to my life of solitude. I leave behind a place where I had become a regular, and perhaps even a borderline fly. I was a known stranger. I had not been around enough to lose my exotic veneer (telling a bartender that your bar crawl has gone over 6,000 miles gets you points), but long enough to allow my simple charms to begin to work. It’s a sweet spot that, like the perfect buzz, cannot be sustained. Eventually I have to move on. At this moment in Bozeman, I’m all promise, all potential. I can dance out now and leave a good aftertaste.
Yesterday marked day 90 of Jer’s Homeless Tour. When I left San Diego I told people that I would be back in “A couple of weeks” to finish my business there before heading east and eventually overseas. Weeks have become months, and here I am in Bozeman Montana, freeloading off my cousin John and flirting with bartenders.
I thought of doing a retrospective of sorts for this commemorative episode, or a discussion of lessons learned, or something like that, but you can just go back and read your favorites anyway.
I will say this, however: America is awesome. Canada is great, too. Wherever I’ve been, rural or urban, I’ve done cool things and met great people. I’ve visited bars in six states and two provinces, and I’ve enjoyed myself in each one. There’s always someone there or something going on that makes it worthwhile. I’ve seen beautiful scenery and had adventures. In 6000 miles I’ve had my share of highs and lows, but with thousands more miles to go my only questions is “How can I get someone to pay me to do this?”
Alas, what is suffering is my writing. I need to get a better balance in that aspect, and I need to get Jer’s Novel Writer into a true public beta.
Finally, thanks to all you guys for your support and for how fun your comments make this blog. I bet I have one of the highest comment/viewer ratios in blogdom. Keep up the good work, everyone.
Remember a couple of episodes ago when I mentioned John’s remote? It’s basically got a brian the size of a planet and its job is to turn on and off the TV. Well, I crashed it. It went something like this:
“Turn off the TV, HAL.”
“I’m sorry, Jerry, I just can’t do that.”
“HAL, turn off the Television.”
“I’m sorry, Jerry, but rest assured I still have the greatest enthusiasm for the mission.”
“You’ve always turned off the TV before.”
“You always said ‘please’ before.”
“OK, please turn off the TV.”
“It’s too late for that now. You never care about my feelings.”
“Ah, screw it. I’m going to sleep.”
It was something like that.
Bozeman’s a pretty cool town; it has all the stuff you need to be considered civilized, a significant percentage of the population is associated with the university in some capacity, so the (um, how to put this gently?) redneck influence is reduced, and it is small enough that it would be very easy to use a bicycle as one’s primary means of transportation. Plus, it’s got a couple of pretty nice bars.
John’s place isn’t that large, made to feel smaller because it is filled with toys. I’m not talking about nerf balls or action figures here, John’s toys are of the high-end sort. (Question: What do you do when you have too many CD’s for your jukebox? Answer: Buy another jukebox!) I expect that the computing power of his remote control far exceeds that of the Apollo spacecraft. He’s still tweaking some of the commands on it (you set up the commands on your computer then transfer them to the remote.) It is a gadget-lover’s wet dream, and John so surpasses my love of toys that is makes me look like a Quaker. (Although I did get some credit when he learned I was traveling with my own wireless network.)
I call it John’s place, but we stay here with the permission of Oscar, a cat, who is spry considering his twenty years.
John’s favorite toy of all is parked outside, and we have been exploring the highways of Montana in it. It’s a Miata like mine, except he has added on a really nice sound system and some other go-fast parts. Also, there isn’t a giant suitcase in his passeger seat. That’s a big plus. So is the radar detector.
Our first day out clouds covered the tops of the mountains, but it was still a great trip. I think, even after all these years, Lewis and Clark would still recognize it. The grass is probably shorter, and there are fences and buildings and cows instead of bison, and highways with cars hurtling along, and bridges over the rivers and railroad tracks and fly fishermen, and billboards and no Indians, but the sky is still Big, and the mountains are still majestic. The Missouri River is pretty much where they left it, though perhaps tamer.
The Indians that subsequently got kicked off the land may have a harder time recognizing it now, since they’re not on it.
As you can see from the picture above (That’s John driving, me in the passenger seat), the beard is getting pretty bushy. When I imagine my face I don’t have a big beard, so when I see pictures, especially with myself in profile, I see just how ugly it’s shaping up to be. I’m glad I didn’t drop the camera on that shot; at highway speeds that would have been the last of it. I have a few more pics that were good enough to not throw away, but most of them will be for the upcoming Yellowstone entry.
Been getting a lot done here in Bozeman, mostly fixing bugs in Jer’s Novel Writer and going over The Monster Within. The thing’s going to come out to about 600 pages, I think.
I’ve spent a lot if time in this chair, with my laptop in my lap of all places, and my ass getting sweaty. It’s a well-designed chair, comfy and all, but it’s leather and after a few hours things get damp down there. I need to be going to bars more, sitting on wood, drinking beer pulled from taps, and chatting up waitresses. Instead I have been content most of the time to sit here with a sweaty ass.
Speaking of bars, I haven’t done any writing there, but I have certainly spent plenty of time at the Aleworks. John is a bit more than simply a regular there. On the day I came into town he waited for me and after I had hung out for a while it was time to go for a beer and a bite to eat. We got down there and the girl at the door said, “John! We were worried about you.” OK, I think he qualifies as a fly. We’ve been back almost every day since. I would guess that John has more than half his meals there.
That’s all for today. The novel needs more work, and the TV ate my brain.
Almost talked my way into another job fixing the wireless network at the hotel in Spokane, but there were two things that scotched the deal: I wasn’t qualified and I didn’t want the job. But I sounded like I knew what I was talking about. That’s one of my best skills. It’s got me where I am today. Where I am today, however, is for another episode, this one is a retrospective on my stay with Bob and family in Colville, WA.
On the drive up from Spokane I reflected once again on how damn fortunate I am. I reflected on the convergence of both good and bad fortune that allowed me to let go of the rocks and let the river sweep me away. I could never have done it without a generous safety net; I’m not that brave. I could never have done it with paternal responsibilities. I could never have done it had I not stayed in touch with my close friends from school. None of us could have suspected that I would be freeloading off all of them two decades later, but the great thing is that we would have thought it was natural then and my friends have not forgotten that ethic in the intervening years. I hope they all come to Prague so I can repay them their hospitality.
Right. Good fortune. Driving calmly ever northward though lush valleys and the occasional small town, my head is in a really neat place. I am fortunate indeed. Yet the last three days have shown me that fortune takes many forms. Bob is also a very fortunate man. He never said as much, but I don’t think he’d trade his life for anyone else’s.
This was the first time on my trip that I stayed with a full-on family. The kids, the minivan, little league, swim team practice, the whole nine yards. I wasn’t sure what to expect – it seems like the last time I was in a situation like that I was one of the kids. I was a little nervous. I hoped I wouldn’t be too stiff and remote and freak out the kids.
The first one I met was Henry, the middle of the three. I met Bob at the ball park as little league practice was breaking up. Henry didn’t take long to get used to talking to me, but it was when he saw the car that he became enthusiastic. He rode with Bob back to the house, with me leading the way. I was following a van, and I had no idea that that was the other Formanmobile, and inside I was already the subject of conversation. Yes, a fancy sports car – especially a convertible – is a great calling card.
When the mini-convoy reached its destination and we all piled out of our cars, there was a tentative moment but then I was absorbed. More than absorbed, I was the eye of a hurricane. There began a competition for my attention that waxed and waned throughout my stay but never disappeared. I have to say that the three were in constant competition, but for all that they were also in complete support of each other. Helen, the youngest, perhaps had not learned the teamwork that her older siblings had, but there was an irrepressible enthusiastic joy in her that won me over in a heartbeat.
Each night we played family games while on the TV behind us the Mariners quietly sucked. The family had in place long-standing rules to equalize play so that all could have fun, but in my appraisal all the kids were plenty sharp enough to hold their own. Always competing, always sportsmanlike. (Well, almost.)
Rachael: smart as a whip, poised, and friendly. Thoughtful. Basketball, swimming, volleyball.
Henry: Passionate, imaginative, effervescent. Dreamer. Baseball, baseball, swimming.
Helen: Sharp, bubbly, enthusiastic. Sweetheart. Gymnastics, swimming.
I’d say those things even if their father wasn’t going to read this.
That’s where I’ve been the past three days. While they were at school I was working, trying to nail down my project once and for all.
Thursday evening was a little league game. The Lions, Henry’s team, were on a four-game winning streak but they were facing the undefeated Cardinals. This is the youngest league that has pitchers, so catchers who could keep the ball from reaching the backstop are golden. Stealing is also a big part of the game. Get on first, advance to third.
The Lions have a trick play. When there are runners on first an third, there is always a double steal. The runner on first takes off for second, and as the catcher throws to second the runner on third comes home. It always works. The coach for the Lions has a plan. On paper, it’s a good plan. Devious, even. When the little twerp on first breaks for second, the catcher throws the ball, but not all the way to second base. He throws it to the pitcher. The pitcher then hucks it right back to the catcher to tag out the runner coming in from third. I watched them practice the move on Tuesday, so on Thursday when the stars were correctly aligned (and Bob reminded me), I knew what to expect.
Kid breaks for second on the pitch. Catcher jumps up and throws. “Go! Go! Go!” shouts the adult third base coach to the kid in front of him. The pitcher catches the ball and reasonably quickly is ready to throw back to the plate. The kid on third base is still standing there, oblivious to the strident urging from his coach to go go go. And so the trick play fails, just because the kid on the other team didn’t listen to his coach.
That happened twice that game. Coach says “Go! Go! Go!” Kid doesn’t go. Trick play fails. I had a good laugh about that with Bob while we were watching the game, the clever plan being foiled by inattentiveness on the part of the runner. but since then I have to acknowledge that there is another explanation. It could be that the kid on the base was not playing blindly by rote – when the catcher throws you run – but instead recognized the pattern in front of him and saw the trick. In his little gut maybe he knew he had the luxury of watching the ball pass the pitcher before he committed.
You know when that same kid ignores his coach and something bad happens, he’ll hear about it. I wonder if the coach said to him after that play, “Good job, Tiger. You did the right thing not listening to me.” I doubt it.
Which brings me back to Bob, Bob’s family, Bob’s wonderful life, and the difference between fortune and luck. Bob has made his life. He has worked hard – maybe even as hard as Jeni – to teach his children fundamental values that go beyond simple right/’wrong choices to include teamwork and self-reliance (and why those are not contradictory). I walked into that house afraid of being overwhelmed and I leave remembering fondly being overwhelmed.
Overwhelmed is putting it mildly. The whirlwind when they got back from the dentist and had so many stories to tell and so much loot to show will stick with me always. Or at least until I forget. I wonder if the kids will remember me next time I see them. Rachael will, I expect, remember me as some kind of phantom best man with a scruffy beard and a cool car. Henry, probably. He’ll remember the car more than me, perhaps. Helen, who knows? She won’t remember me reading her a story about dinosaurs, but maybe she’ll remember some guy with a beard. I’ve met people I’m told I should remember. That sucks. I may be an extreme example when it comes to remembering, but with Helen I just hope to be a vague happy memory. Maybe when I’m at the toothless table at her wedding I’ll come up with some good stories.
Hey, did you catch that prenostalgia there? I was looking forward to looking back on something.
Yep, I was the center of the Universe for a few days. “Jerry! Jerry! Look!” “I want Jerry on my team!” “Jerry! Did you see?” “Jerry! Jerry! Look what I can do!” The exotic stranger. That’s me. It’s what I do best. Luckily for the parents, none of the kids asked me for advice.
I’s staying in a really nice place. I’m not paying rent. I’m a “guest”. I see snow and bears and sunsets. I have my own space where I can work. My hosts feel guilty about not entertaining me more, while I feel great about getting things done. My hostess (we’ll call her Leza) recently asked if I was gong to be around mid-June to take care of the cat while they traveled. She was disappointed when I said I thought I should be going in another week or so.
There may be an ulterior motive at work here. Yesterday when I got home from a writing session (did you see just then how natural it was to say home?) and “Leza” asked – and I’m dead quoting here – “Would you be interested in a little girl?”
I was caught off guard by that one, I’ll tell you. I honestly thought for the tiniest fraction of a second that she was hoping I would adopt a little girl. The thought passed quickly, because no one would be so stupid as to entrust me with the upbringing of a child all on my own. It turns out that the “Little Girl” is Leza’s age (I can not, will not, even take a guess at that. She’s either younger than I am, or not.), and is perhaps freakishly small. So now I face the slightly lesser peril of being set up.
As a bit of background, it must be said that stories get bigger when Leza tells them. She is a storyteller at heart. I have stood by, bemused, as I hear her tell her husband (we’ll call him ‘Mark’) some minor story I told her. She can make the simplest thing sound dramatic. I wish I had that talent, and I’d wager she doesn’t even realize what she has.
Anyway, after clearing up the ‘little girl’ confusion, Leza explained to me that she had run into a friend of hers who thought I sounded ‘really nice’. So, I hear from Leza that, based on what she has told her friend about me, her friend thinks I’m nice. We’ll pass for the moment on the fact that Leza’s friend might have called me any name in the book and that would not affect what I heard back from Leza. What worries me most is what Leza told her friend. While it is likely based on fact, that still leaves a lot of room for poetic license.
So there’s a bunch of us getting together for some kind of musing thing Friday evening. I had been thinking about bolting for Bozeman this week, since the paying gig is in a lull, but I didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. So now I get to see the look on some woman’s face as she realizes the gulf between what she’s been told and what I can deliver. After that it’s Bozeman, baby, Bozeman. I’m starting to yearn for the big spaces.
I finally hoisted up the printout of Jesse’s criticisms of The Monster Within. Got through part one tonight – the easy part, the part Jesse had gone over before. Part two is still undergoing a major rewrite. Man, it’s great to have friends who can tell you when you suck. That just makes the compliments mean something. John, I know you’re looking forward to the chance to tell me I suck, too. Just remember that it’ll mean all that much more later.
A pause for a joke before I get on to business:
A friend is the person who will come out in the middle of the night to get you out of jail. A REAL friend is the guy sitting next to you in the cell saying, “That was fucking awesome.”
Speaking of fucking awesome, Mom asked me for the URL for the blog yesterday. I don’t want to hold out, but to be honest I’ve already been censoring myself, and I’m not too happy about that. I’m no Hunter S. Thompson, but there have been times I’ve kind of pulled the punches. For the most part it has been as a recognition of the fact that most of my exploits are simply not that interesting. Any thoughts I have at those times that are perhaps even remotely interesting I am sure to share.
A few things I have done that don’t deserve their own entries:
Went to the DC United vs. San Jose Earthquakes MLS game. It was the first game in which Freddy Adu started. Kid could play. I was there. Got too much sun. (Why. oh why have I not learned? This time I put sunscreen on parts of my body, but I decided that my arms didn’t need anything. ???!!?. That’s like saying, “Oh, my stomach already has cancer, so I’ll go ahead and eat some plutonium.” What possible rational reason is there to not put SFP 1,000,006 upon your entire body?) I like hockey better than football from any continent.
The night before, I went to a dance club with a couple of Buggy’s hungarian friends. Buggy was there, too. The music was horrible. I know I’m just being an old man complaining about the so-called music the kids are listening to these days, but there was a point when I thought things were improving when the bass played a second note. Sorry, kids, Some guy shouting – givin’ it to ya – telin’ ya’ll uh huh hu huh – Givin’ ya’ tha’ sto-ry – tellin’ of the glo-ry – Step back kick stand frappuccino blow dry! is not my kind of tunes. Watching well-dressed Palo-Altites shamble aimlessly to the angry Hip-Hop was almost worth it.
But not quite.
I have of late compared paying Microsoft for anything to paying a tax. Only I get more value from my other taxes. Yesterday I paid Microsoft again. I got a virus. Yes, I admit I was a little careless; I thought I was behind a firewall and I wasn’t. Today I had the firewall on and I was infected AGAIN. It’s a new virus that exploits no less than six Windows vulnerabilities. OK, maybe five. Still, what are we paying these guys for?
Nothing personal to Buggy, who challenges me intellectually more than anyone else I know, but I have to get the hell out of here. He has been a great host and a most valuable technical support guru, and all he has to show for it is a broken microwave and a depleted wine cellar. There is a pool here and I could get comfortable.
Tomorrow morning I’m gone, gone, gone.
Location: Buggy’s (map )
Miles: 1464.0
I have noticed that, between all the stuff I’m lugging around and all the space I need to set up shop, I am not the typical houseguest. On the good side, my hosts don’t have to worry about entertaining me, since I can always work or write. On the other hand, it kind of sucks when there is always someone working or writing in your living room. You feel the need to tiptoe around. (This is, in fact, completely unnecessary – I write in bars for crying out heaven’s sake.)
Then there is all the hardware I set up for my command center. Buggy now has wires all over his living room floor – power cables going one way, network the other, and a pile of hardware in the middle.
As a special bonus for Buggy, who has his own Web hosting business, his name server crashed for the first time in years soon after he set me up, and yesterday I broke the handle off his microwave. He took it very well.
Then, of course, there’s the Bad Influence Factor (BIF). having someone in your house who is more or less unemployed and on many days really doesn’t have to be all that responsible tends to make my hosts think of all sorts of reasons why they, too, shouldn’t have to work either. So instead we hang out, maybe have a beer or two, go do something fun, and generally enjoy the day at the expense of any pretense at productivity.
Take yesterday, for instance. Buggy shined work and we hopped in the ‘ol convertible for some sunny-day mountain-spring-drriving fun (SDMSDF). We hooked back up with John and enjoyed a Local Microbrew (LMB) (photo) and finished the day tired and happy.
When I put it that way, I’m not so sure my influence is so bad after all. Perhaps it should be named the WORIF (Work is Over-Rated Influence Factor). I know there’s a better name, but my attention span has not
Location: Buggy’s house, San Jose, CA (map)
Miles: 1378.1
The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and already it’s hot outside. Had a little work to do, but now it’s time to go splash in the pool. This isn’t bad.
While I’m thinking about it, I added a photo I took in Oakdale to the album (photo). Signs say the funniest things. I think for the rest of the day I’m going to put the blog down and do some actual writing. (I’m still waiting for the message from SiteMeter that says, “Dude, you can’t go checking the stats every time you get a hit. Chill.”) We’ll see how that goes.
Location: John and Janice’s house
Miles: 900.9
Everything’s packed except the laptop, and I’m ready to head out. Big, big thanks go to John and Janice for putting me up for as long as they did. I’ve had a great time here and I don’t care who knows it.
One trumpet lighter and with Winnebaggo (I had been calling my giant suitcase my mobile home, but John coined this much better name) looking more svelte as I redistributed my load somewhat, I’m feeling footloose and fancy-free. I honestly have no idea where I’m going to stay tonight. Not even what state I’ll be in. Work looms again on Monday, so I’ll have to find an Internet connection by then – most likely at Buggy’s place.
A little parting anecdote about life chez John. Changing the names to protect the innocent would be pretty useless. Yesterday John had a Job interview for a little educational publishing outfit in Santa Cruz. He spent the afternoon boning up on the company and he got all gussied up. Before he left, Janice made sure he had a little portfolio with working pen and paper, and asked him, “Do you have any resumés printed up to hand to people?”
What followed was well over half an hour of formatting, checking, and printing resumés, until John was properly armed to Janice’s satisfaction. John was getting increasingly antsy to leave during this process. Finally, time running short, he got himself together and out the door.
Janice turned to me and said, “He’s never going to make it in time. He should have left half an hour ago – traffic on Friday afternoons is really bad.”
