Author Archives: Jerry

Ten Thousand Miles

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0.0 Location: West of Grants, NM (map)
Miles: 10000.0

Nearly stopped in Gallup after filling the car up, but the cool night felt so good after the heat of the day with the top up and no air conditioning to speak of. We (the pups and I) walked around the truck stop for a little while, chatting with the security guard. Chicks really do dig the boys. I grabbed a Mountain Dew and mounted up. It was about 1:00 a.m., local time.

Out on the road traffic was getting sparse. I learned the language of the truckers, blinking lights to say “go ahead” and “thanks”. I put it to use when a truch started to pull out to pass then saw me coming. I blinked my lights and he pulled on out. After he was done and I passed him, he blinked me. I felt good, like I had passed a test and become a member of the night time road. Until this 14-hour blast across the desert I have driven almost entirely during the day. I want to see. This time I wanted to travel. Travel I did. We gobbled up more than 800 miles.

The first few hours had been, as I mentioned, hot, hot, hot. The dogs were panting and even Spike seemed uncomfortable. I began rubbing water into the fur on the backs of their necks to help keep them cool. (A thought I had: Since dogs don’t sweat much, do they lose electrolytes? I’m guessing not at the same rate as their best friends. That not withstanding, is there some canine version of Gatorade waiting to be marketed?) Finally we felt relief as the sun set and we climbed up from Needles into the Northern Arizona sky.

Now the night was blessedly cool. Windows up at last, I had been propelled for a distance listening to the Chargers crush the Cardinals. That can’t be good for Arizona, getting beaten so badly by a team as bad as San Diego. After a stop in Flagstaff for dinner I had decided to head back out onto the road and see how far I could get.

Now I was rolling, lightly caffeinated with just a hint of carbonation, watching the miles tick past. I was afraid I would get distracted and look down later to discover that I had missed the magic moment. To keep my head in the game I practiced taking pictures of the mileage gauge in the low light. When the time came, I was ready. I didn’t stop; there was no stopping then, I was a cruise missile on cruise control at 75 mph with my target locked and two canine warheads. I just shot the pic at speed and carried on. I haven’t checked, but I don’t think it came out well. I peered through the shimmering blackness for any landmark for the historic occasion. Antares was throbbing in the breast of Scorpio to my left. The Pleades (“Subaru” in Japanese) were more ahead of me.

The car, as oblivious to the significance of that mile as to all the others, rolled on.

Thanks!

Have Dogs, Will Travel

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Location: Triska’s and Casey’s house
Miles: 9267.0

I’ve picked up the pups for a trial run in New Mexico. This won’t be a wandering time—It’s to be a straight shot through Arizona to New Mexico. We’ll see if the dogs can fine a place to call home there. If nothing works out I’ll bring them back when I come back for the rest of my luggage. That’s going to be a lot of extra time behind the wheel, but with the pups keeping me company It’ll be cool.

Of course, the real reason I’m criss-crossing the southwest is so I can get green chile cheeseburgers at all the important places.

Thanks!

Amy

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Amy

Suddenly so tiny
wrapped in blue
on the long sofa
an explosion asleep

1

Thanks!

Annnnnd… Goodbye

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Impressions of Pacific Beach:

Walking home from Tiki (funny how easy it is to think of this place as home, although I will probably never be here again), I turned at the blue-lit record store on the corner. A kid came out, coffee mug balanced on pizza box. He locked the glass doors, mounted his long skateboard, and began his commute home.

Trendily dressed kids too stupid to know better are lined up around the block to get into one particular bar.

Going down Fanuel between Garnet and Grand I meet a pack of Wednesday partiers. The girls stink of tobacco and factory watermelon.

At Tiki tonight I said goodbye to Tiki Dave, Bad Bobby, Bevins, and Connecticut Bill. “You’re not just going to Yo-Yo again are you?” asked Tiki Dave. He had me there. It is quite possible I will have to pass back through this town one more time before I am free of my former life. That is completely my fault; in the time I’ve been here I could have done all that shit. I just wanted to write instead.

Connecticut Bill probably won’t be here two years from now. I don’t expect Bevins will be here either. Bad Bobby, I’m not so sure. But I said goodbye to each, not knowing whether two weeks or death separated our next meeting. There are only a couple more goodbyes to go. Tom and Melinda I might see again, but we have already handled goodbye gracefully with the assistance of obscene amounts of alcohol and a little bit of karaoke. Any last meeting between us will be the last finger wiggle of a complex farewell handshake.

When I wrote earlier of Vegas, I said, “The ties from my past, reasserting themselves while I am in San Diego, will be burned away.” When I read that to Amy, she said, “You’re going to forget me!” She didn’t even wait until I finished the paragraph. I think she knew better than I did what I meant by those words. I am leaving people behind. I know I will never see some of these people again. But as correct as she was about the meaning, what she said was completely wrong. There will be no forgetting Amy.

I am still grappling for the right term for our relationship. During the booze-soaked karaoke fest I started to read the paragraph about how there was some deep spiritual force that had disabled the windows of her car. I was pretty proud of that paragraph. I had hardly gotten started when my audience drowned me out with “Ooo! Jerry loves Amy!” There was enough alcohol in the air that there was no point protesting; I simply put the computer away without finishing. And just what bothered me about that accusation? Do I love Amy? Absolutely. Do I love my big toe? You bet. The greeks came up with a bunch of words for love: agape, eros, and all that shit. If there is a word that combines my paternal, fraternal, self-destructive, and tingly feelings toward Amy, it’s probably in some obscure criminal code that has never been applied outside the ozarks.

I suppose I could make up a word, but it would take me the rest of my life to define it.

So: Goodbye, Amy. I move to a simpler life. A life where the words I used and feared as a child still apply. I hope I haven’t embarrassed you with all this, though I’m sure I have. But know that I am proud to be your friend, proud to know your secrets, and proud of you. That, more than anything else, defines my love for you. Damn I hope I don’t have to say goodbye again.

Thanks!

Thrusters

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Barely worth it’s own episode, but yesterday while doing laundry I dropped by Thrusters (map), the bar next door. Occasionally I still get carded, but very rarely. When I do get carded they’ve usually changed their minds by the time I have my wallet out. It goes something like:

Bartender: Can I see your ID?
Jerry (reaching for wallet): Really?
Bartender: Uh, Never mind.

That’s what happened at Thrusters except for two things: I didn’t have my wallet and she didn’t say never mind.

Once I had my clothes unloaded and splashing around in the suds, I moseyed in to the bar with an empty backpack and a book. They have an atmosphere there I appreciate—small, somewhat dark, and somewhat divey. Quiet in the late afternoon. One other guy was perched on his stool and he had barfly written all over him. I was tempted by the Guinness, but in the end ordered Siarra Nevada, one of the better macro-microbrews.

The beerista asked for my ID. I had none. One other time I got caught with my identifical pants around my ankles, the bartender just looked at me more closely and then brought my beer. Not this young lady. “I don’t know…” she said, eying me carefully. “You look pretty young.” No beer for Jer, but you know what? I’m OK with that. I hope she’s working again today so I can go in and show her my ID. It’s a cheesy move, I know, but it could be the most accelerated regularization on record—making an impression before having a single beer.

Thanks!

Pups in Limbo

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pups Triska just had her second kid and is feeling overwhelmed right now. It’s not just the dogs, but they contribute, and finding a place for them until I could take them to the Czech Republic would be really helpful. Otherwise, they may have to put the boys up for adoption.

The biggest problem is that little Spike doesn’t do well with the clumsy love of a child. He’s a good dog, but he’s very small and when the gentle petting becomes enthusiastic patting he feels threatened. He’s probably OK with kids 6 and up, depending on how spastic the kid is.

It would be simplest to find a place here in California, but I can drive the boys pretty much anywhere if necessary. Here’s the lowdown: They are both chihuahuas. They go as a package (Spike needs another dog around). They love to sit on laps and crawl under the covers. They are untested around cats, and have limited experience with other dogs, but recent encounters have been peacful.

Chico (aka Lefty) is the younger and more active of the two; he loves to chase things. His name could be “Magnet”; chicks dig him. He only has one eye, but don’t tell him that. Spike is older and more territorial than Lefty. He is smaller and has a worried-looking expression most of the time. Usually when evil is near he will raise the alarm and Lefty will spring into action. Spike can stand on his hind legs nearly indefinitely.

Sooner or later I will probably be taking the pups to Prague, but it’s important for any potential adopter to understand that “sooner or later” encompasses a very large window.

Please contact me via email or put a comment here if you are interested in looking after the guys. They really are good pups and you will fall in love with them, I promise.

Thanks!

Open Bar

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Got up, got out of bed, dragged a comb across my head. I’d stayed with Bill and Joanne, leaving my car tied up to the hitching post at Callahan’s. I got up earlier than I had been, tried to come up with a good subject for an episode for this blog, failed, and just drifted around on the Internet for a while. Sometimes after an episode which which I’m particularly pleased I have a tough time coming up with something good enough to justify pushing the good one out of the top spot. But this is the Internet, and has a voracious appetite for new. I drank some tea, but was soon yearning to be reunited with my toothbrush. Ride to car, drive to Pacific Beach, clean the choppers; I’m ready to go.

Sluka’s was next, of course, then the library. It’s funny how quickly I’ve fallen into that routine considering how unstructured the rest of my life is. I got back and Amy arrived soon after, trying to juggle her life so she could take a quick trip back to Florida to see her family, who are right in the center of the devastation from hurricane Charley. Apparently they’re getting bottled water now, but they have no electricity and no beer. Amy can’t take them 120V AC, but a transcontinental beer run is in the offing. Tally Ho!

In the afternoon Amy went to get some work done on her car to resolve a fix-it ticket (imagine that!) and I actually got a couple of things done. The big one was getting her old laptop set up so she can freeload off the neighbor’s wireless network. Amy is now Internet-enabled. Tremble in fear, citizens of the Web! Of course my reasons for setting her up were purely selfish; I can’t remember the last time I wrote a letter on that paper stuff.

Later Paul came over and the Packers game was on and Amy cooked up a fantastic meal and there was beer and all was good. It was decided: after the game we’d go to the Open Bar. We were all feeling jolly. The Pack lost and off we went.

I have only been to the open bar a couple of times before, and never as part of a group. The first thing I learned is that the pool tables suck. Two of them are so bad no one was using them; the owner of the place should just get rid of them to make more room for drinkers. The third table was usable and in use. The bar was way too hot and muggy despite having one side open onto the smoking patio. To the great outdoors I eventually repaired. Paul made a couple of attempts to set me up with women at the bar, a skill at which he far surpasses me. I wasn’t in the mood for that kind of stuff, though. I did get a laugh from one for my “Scotsman at a Baseball Game” joke.

I also ran into one of my favorite waitresses of all time, from back in the day. I didn’t recognize her right away out of the Callahan’s context; I just kept looking at her and wondering why she looked so familiar. Finally she recognized me. Tawny was there with some girlfriends and they were whooping it up. It was great to see her again. I had a thought as we talked that other people would be wondering what the two most attractive people in the bar were doing talking to me. I owe it all to regularization.

I don’t know how Amy and Paul wound up being so much drunker than I was. They must have been drinking faster back at the house. They were really starting to get on each other’s nerves, though, and it was harshing my mellow, to borrow a phrase from Halfsies, wherever he is. Amy had an unpleasant encounter with some other guy in the bar and we left in a hurry without telling Paul, who was off somewhere else. We walked back to Amy’s; it was a peaceful San Diego night and as we walked along the bay the fireworks were popping over Sea World. I breathed a sigh of relief to be out of the bar and into the quiet. Paul was waiting for us when we got back to Amy’s place. I was treated to an endless series of Paul needling Amy and Amy roaring back. Finally I went into the kitchen and turned up the music so I wouldn’t have to hear them bicker anymore.

Why can’t we all just get along?

Paul left soon after that, plenty pissed off. Things quieted down, and one uneaten grilled cheese sandwich cut into bite-sized morsels later, Amy was asleep and I had my peace, curled up with a cat on the short sofa.

Morning arrived gently, and after a shower it’s off to Sluka’s for me. I may be here a few more days if Amy needs me to housesit while she’s in Florida. I’d rather be on the road, though.

Thanks!

Sunday, Bloody Sunday

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I thought I was getting up early until I looked at the clock. Ugh. Almost eleven. My mouth is dry, my eyeballs are fuzzy, and my fingers, not the surest of digits at the best of times, seem to be hitting random keys right now. I wouldn’t call it a hangover—there’s no headache and the leftover hot wings sitting in their gelatinous goo are still tasty—but it feels like a morning that’s been pulled from the freezer and defrosted.

It was a good night last night.

My throat is scratchy. That would be the Billy Idol at karaoke. Sometimes you have to rise up to the music. Sometimes they turn down your microphone.

There weren’t many takers for karaoke at Champ’s last night. That meant the unsuspecting Sports bar was subjected to a whole lotta Jerry, though after the “White Wedding Incident” I chose mellower (or at least quieter) songs. And then, as the Karaokologist was packing up his gear for the night, I did the unthinkable. I struck up a conversation with a woman I didn’t know.

She was friends with the karaokista. I went over to tip him but he had no tip jar; she scrounged one up. She had long, black, curly hair (I’m sure there’s a more technically correct term for cascading ringlets of raven hair, but I don’t know it), a pretty smile, and let me tell you, kids, the chick could sing. I wonder how many times I said “You can wail!” while I sat next to her at the bar. Too many times, I’m sure, but when she smiled at the compliment the first time there was no stopping me. Skinner would have been proud. She said her name was Jennifer. I told her I was a writer.

I’m surprised I even got that far after the way I started the conversation. Oh, Lordy, Lordy. Are you ready for this? After getting the tip jar squared away and parking myself next to her, belly full of liquid courage and having already made her smile once I said, “If I wasn’t leaving town I’d be hitting on you right now.” To which she replied, “I guess you just did.” Apparently it wasn’t a fatally awful cornball dumbass thing to say; I find in my fearful fingers this morning a coaster which reads in handwriting almost as frightful as mine “Jen’s email (the wailer)” followed by an email address that may even be real. (Did I make the joke about Bob Marley or did I only wish I had later? I think I made the joke. I think she laughed.)

I cut and ran at that point, trailing my already-departed hosts back over to their place. We were hanging out lamenting our frightfully low beer supply when Joe called, looking for a place to go so he wouldn’t have to drive all the way back to Mira Mesa. Melinda talked him in, and the drinking continued for a while longer. Tom, ever the industrious host, cooked up some hot wings while we ravaged the last of the beers and Melinda continued her progress through the big bottle of rum.

Now it is morning, and Tom has overcome the disaster that was the kitchen and is busily cooking up a nice breakfast. Joe still lies in a tangle on the sofa. Melinda made a brief appearance to lie on the other sofa but apparently that was too much for her and now she’s gone back to bed. And why not? It’s Sunday.

Thanks!

Saturday Morning

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I have reported previously how much I enjoyed shooting the bull with Amy through the night. The reason I had the pleasure of Amy’s company on those late nights is that Cute Boy has a job; he has to get up at 5 am. Well, last night wasn’t a school night for him so Amy went straight there after work and I haven’t seen her since. She said something about Erica having a party.

Which left me in the dark and quiet of Amy’s place, her absence a presence. Amy has one of those large personalities, that fills the room and rivers out into the street through the doors and windows. Maybe that’s why only one of three windows on her car can be closed. (The fourth, if opened, would probably fall off.) Confining Amy in such a small place would be dangerous. I imagine there is some part of her soul, some force that comes from Earth itself, that has damaged the windows so that it might always be free.

I wondered why neither Amy nor Erica had invited me to the party. I’m not that surprised, really—if they thought of it at all they probably judged (rightly) that it wasn’t my kind of bash, but of course that doesn’t change the perceived slight of not being asked. Amy probably didn’t want any distractions from Cute Boy in any case. Chances are he’s as tired of hearing about me being in her house as I am of hearing what she plans to do to him when she gets the chance. Last night was her chance. I thought about that more than once.

One of the side effects of trying to be a writer is that when I’m in a funk I find myself nursing the feeling rather than trying to banish or forget it. It’s a strange sort of masochism to try to put the blues to work, like poking at an open sore to make it sting more.

I had decided to stay through the weekend to help Amy steam-clean her carpet and upholstery, but now I think those plans have been forgotten. Just as well; I’ve been invited to a barbecue later today and another one tomorrow, both at the houses of people I’ve met in bars. A farewell tour of sorts, with steak.

My melancholy has carried over to today, and the weather seems sympathetic. The marine layer has been much more persistent this morning, keeping the world slightly gray but the world keeps moving anyway. Sluka’s is fairly crowded, most people choosing to sit outside and probably appreciating the cooler morning air. Later the sun will be out and the beach will be crowded. Sluka himself is bustling around, putting up advertising for his latest venture as a flight instructor.

After the road trip novel sells a million and I follow it up with the blockbuster boat trip novel, I’ll have to go on a plane trip.

Thanks!

Aargh!

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I’ve been working on The Monster Within and the section I was going over yesterday was just plain sloppy. I think you’ll know when you get to it. I don’t know how many times I’ve gone over that area, but it simply lacked polish. Lots of misspellings, awkward dialog, references to a character who doesn’t exist anymore, stuff like that. I also think there are a still a couple of chapters that are either redundant or distracting.

Overall, though, I’m glad I bucked up and sent copies to some of you guys. I wasn’t at all nervous about it until after I sent out the first few copies. Then I got more and more jittery as I realized how many people were reading it and now when I find a mistake or a problem I know you’ve seen it too. I don’t know how many times I’ve said to myself “How did I ever miss that?”

It’s an important step for me, though, to get comfortable sharing my work with others. (I think strangers will be easier, but less constructive.) I’m considering making a questionnaire that covers some of my concerns for the story and to help you provide feedback. The questionnaire would contain spoilers, so I certainly don’t want you guys to look at it while you’re reading. If you would rather provide feedback another way (or not at all—I have this awkward image of a friend feeling the urge to lie and say they liked it when they didn’t, which doesn’t help either of us) that’s fine, too. Remember, I want both the bad and the good. It probably goes without saying, but if you post commentary about the novel on this site, please be courteous to other readers and avoid posting any spoilers.

Late breaking news: The Epilogue makes no sense whatsoever now. Please disregard. Also, I have recovered from the really stupid idea that just like in real life, people you meet in books could have the same name. I had wanted to create a parallel, but let’s face it, that’s just confusing.

Thanks!

Just Another Day in Paradise

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Location: Pacific Beach Library (map )

I chauffeured Amy to the Sandbar last night so she could party with her coworkers unencumbered by vehicular responsibility. By the time the cab deposited her at the door midnight was just a distant memory, but our tradition of staying up and chit-chatting was too entrenched to allow her to go to sleep when she got home. It was a later night than usual. I interrupted a story about Cute Boy to tell her I would be leaving on Monday. She wasn’t happy about that at all. She proposed a date a few weeks from now. She asked me to wait at least until she had a day off so we could hang out, but she’ll want to be spending her rare days with Cute Boy, I’m sure. Now she wants to find Cute Girl for me so I’ll stay. She better hurry. Still, it’s nice to feel welcome.

We did make a pact to get married if we’re both still single when she turns 35. Lord help both of us if that happens. Fortunately we still have a few years. I guess I better figure out when her birthday is.

This morning I loaded up the laptop for my daily pilgrimage from Amy’s (map) along the shore of Mission Bay, pausing to watch the Hobie Cats dart about, soaking up the sun, listening to construction workers curse at each other, and generally enjoying myself. On my way up Cass street I heard Rich practicing piano through his open front door. I was tempted to drop by and say hello to my former coworker, but I didn’t want to break his concentration. I’ll flag him down later if he walks his dog past Sluka’s (aka Javanican) (map) while I’m there. Usually I go to Sluka’s and then come to the library, but I wasn’t very hungry and I was interested in seeing what had happened in my media empire overnight. (One of Amy’s neighbors has an unsecured wireless network, but to get a reliable connection I have to stand on the arm of the sofa in one corner, my head almost touching the ceiling, and holding the laptop up at eye level. Makes it hard to get much done.)

Now I’m hungry, though, so I think I’ll just throw this to the wind and go grab some chow. I’ll make this episode more worthwhile later by adding a picture from my commute.

Thanks!

Hare Krishnas Drive Miatas

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I’m sitting outside at a little coffee shop, not far from the local Hare Krishna Temple. (In the summer they go up and down the boardwalk by the beach playing their instruments and singing – I call them the Hare Krishna Marching Band.)

I just watched as a Miata with a spoiler stopped in front and issued forth a man and a woman, both wearing their Krishna outfits. The orange robes clashed mightily with the red car, but the real dissonance was at some deeper, spiritual level.

Thanks!

Can’t keep this up

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I stayed up with Amy into the wee hours again last night, for the third night in a row. She works until late to start with, and when she gets home she is filled with stories and adrenaline. I laugh and tingle and share stories of my own, and we drink wine. I’m tired now; she must be beat. I don’t sleep a whole lot more than she does, but that little bit can make a big difference. I also don’t have two jobs to hold down.

I’m going to have to leave soon, whether or not I have taken care of all my stuff here in town. I’m not making much progress at it anyway, and the road is calling. Sharing a small apartment with an attractive woman who just got herself a new boyfriend (Cute Boy is mentioned frequently and explicitly) doesn’t help. Sure, it’s fun, but… you know. Last night was the toughest, even while it was the most fun. I hauled out the camera and we took pictures. Most of the pictures suffer either from a harsh flash or long, long exposures without a tripod. The wine didn’t help, either. I’ll go through them later and see if there are any worth trying to rescue. A very few of them look really good on the camera’s little screen, so we’ll see.

Amy wants me to stay longer, and she can be persuasive. She wants me to meet some of her new coworkers. They sound like a good bunch. Also I think she enjoys having me around. I’ve agreed to stay through the weekend to help her steam-clean her upholstery, which doesn’t even begin to repay her for the use of her couch for so many more nights than I had intended. After that it’s time for me to go. Best to be gone before the welcome mat is revoked.

Next stop: Vegas. A world of its own; the place to overwhelm dark thoughts with sensory overload. Among the braying lights and churning music and honest graft exhaustion is natural and the equation of life is easily simplified. It is a contest of physical endurance and losing the battle is preordained. Brain cells die. The ties from my past, reasserting themselves while I am in San Diego, will be burned away. I will emerge from the desert crucible purified and unbound, so light I won’t leave footprints as I trek across the desert sand.

That’s the plan, anyway.

Thanks!

Secrets of the Past and Future

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So you may already have read that last night Amy and I stayed up way too late (for her) while she questioned herself and her relationship with the man who will forever be known to me as “Cute Boy”. Cute Boy is older than Amy and, well, really makes her socks go up and down. They were at the beach Saturday and he had passed on a kiss, then he didn’t return her call.

I don’t have a label for our relationship anymore. It seemed like a big brother kind of thing until the details got uncomfortably intimate. (Are there girls that talk about that stuff to their big brothers? I’ve never had a little sister, and she’s never had a big brother, so maybe we’re just doing it wrong.) I’m clearly not her big sister; I’m not that far gone. Maybe big eunuch. I heard details about her sex life, enough to make me wish I had a sex life, and to be honest the subject filled me with a tingling down under, the expression of which would have completely destroyed the feeling of the night, and undermined the trust she has in me.

And there’s the wacky thing. Amy trusts me. It’s pretty sick, I know, but there it is. She trusted me enough to blow the dust off poetry she wrote years ago. The last thing in the world I want to do is betray that trust. It’s a treasure to me that I will never allow a tingly feeling to undermine.

Here’s something I can tell you, though. I don’t know if it applies to all women, but I bet even if it doesn’t translate exactly there are similar rules with most women. Amy has a date count. She has rules that she (usually) follows to determine how far things are going to go on a particular date. Cute Boy got his date counter reset last night; now he has to climb the mountain again. Too bad for you, Cute Boy!

All that is an aside, and here is an aside to the aside. Pardon me while I step up onto this soap box… *ahem* Testing, testing, one two… Well, then: Being in a relationship is hard work. If you’re not ready to work, stay away from relationships. Don’t fool yourself. Don’t tell yourself that this person will change you. Only you can change you. That’s a two-way street—people who try to change their partners generally end up unhappy also. I’ll say it again: If you’re not ready to work, don’t waste some good person’s time pretending that you’re interested in spending the rest of your life with them. It’s just not fair to anyone. Personally, I’m not up for working that hard.

Right, then. Back to the intended subject. Everyone can write, but not everyone does. It was a scene right out of some heartwarming movie, Amy and I sharing poetry and deep thoughts. Amy has written some really good stuff, although perhaps too much of it has been squeezed into Rock ‘n’ Roll Lyric format (RnRLF). There was good imagery and great honesty in what I heard. One poem in particular stood out; it was the poem she had originally wanted to read for me and rightly so. The rest were discovered (to her great delight) as she searched for the one. The one stood out. It was really good; showing a facility with language, an ear and a voice.

She has another friend, a confidant and advisor, who will be here for her long after I’m gone. But honestly I don’t think he sees Amy for what she is, and certainly not for what she could be. Perhaps I’m jealous of his most exalted big eunuchness that will live past my own; perhaps I’m being overprotective of a woman who can certainly take care of herself. There is no doubt that she’ll be fine without me. But last night, staying up late and talking, she told me she was glad I was there. I think that’s because I believe in her no matter what. Whatever the reason, it meant a lot to me when she said that.

Amy has a series of journals with her writing in them. She changes books not when they are full but when she is starting a new chapter in her life. She hasn’t written anything in years. Today I bought her an empty book (agonizing over the correct choice). In the front, on the page the book naturally opens to, I wrote:

the beginning an end
the end unwrit

I hope she thinks about that before she turns the page. I want her to think that this is the beginning of something for her, so she will feel the freedom to express herself. I want her to leave her doubts and regrets behind. Overleaf I wrote:

Here’s a place
to put your shit.

Can’t get too sappy.

Thanks!

Human-Powered Mini-Blimp Races

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In this day and age of contrived sporting events (basketball games with style points?) it’s time we turned our attention back to day when sports were sporting and athletes were athletic. For that reason the time has come to launch HPMBRL, the Human-Powered Mini-Blimp Racing League. It would be like the Tour de France in 3-D, with elements of the America’s Cup thrown in.

Best of all, it would be very photogenic, and there would be lots of surface area for sponsor’s logos.

To get off the ground the league would need star power. Who better than retired world-class cyclists? Would people pay to see Greg LeMond and Bernard Hinault (probably spelled that wrong) go head to head once more? You bet they would.

So who would the likely sponsors be? It would be fun to see Boeing sponsor a team, and maybe Rutan’s company—the crew that build SpaceShipOne. Bicycle companies would be naturals, as many of their components would be used in the blimps’ drive trains. Fuji already has a blimp presence, and a photogenic sport would be a natural for a photography company. I could imagine GM or Ford sponsoring a team.

I haven’t figured out the actual rules for the race, but I can imagine a series of great big hoops suspended at various heights above the ground that the fliers must pass through, or perhaps simpler would be a simple requirement that they pass over a certain sopt on the ground. In the hoop scenario, there would be a great deal of emphasis on positioning and tactics as the flyers approached the hoop.

Wind, of course, would be a major factor. Courses would be designed with the prevailing wind of the area in mind. There would be legs of the race that featured long, hard climbs into the wind, and others that would allow the blimps to sweep down to where they are practically skimming the Earth as they are swept along with a tailwind, knocking the hats off the awe-struck spectators.

So there you have it. HPMBRL (probably need a better acronym) extends the careers of great athletes, pushes technology, looks cool, and would be a sponsor magnet. What could possibly go wrong?

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Thanks!