Projmedlasewhiteys + Nubile Onslaught

Yesterday, 3/6/08, I headed to class with my written assignments in my hands. Turned in some handouts, got some more. Met with my project group briefly; nobody knows what they want to do but they're less ambitious than I am, which is understandable since I usually set unrealistically high project goals. Talk talk talk. Dropped by the office, where mediation prep is in full swing on three cases simultaneously. Needless to say, there is occasional confusion. I went to see Dr. Choi again for my back and neck, and again got some laser treatments and physical therapy. Went home, didn't work on homework. Talked on the phone briefly with Rob, chatted online briefly with Hilary and swapped texts with Leah. Kenneth participated in the chat vicariously, or so I'm told. Received the usual crap from my brother for having too many friends in different parts of the country. Rob sent me a link to the following site, which made my week.


Stayed up a little late editing a paper for Trent.

Today has been relatively brisk, catching up at work on some graphics I hadn't polished up for print yet, getting binders ready for mediations. Went to Valley Fair on my lunch hour to look for some new work attire, dressier clothing, etc. Didn't come out with anything. No particular tie or pair of slacks or shoes was calling out to me. I hate malls. In a rare event, I will now present you with a piece of media. The following advertisement video made me tear up a little. It's just that right-on. The fact that they treat the beauty industry the way Nancy Reagan treated drugs, well, I find it appropriate and applause-worthy.

Late Summer, Part Two (A Retrospective)

• Saturday, 9/9/6 - Asheville North - After Farmer and Cannone and I waved off their girls, we traveled north. The hour was 12:30 AM, the road was dark and calling. I remember shouted conversation, tackling every issue from the metaphysical to the sensual to the spiritual. There was no doubt in my mind that they knew the same God that I did, but often their hypotheses wandered a bit far from truth into mysticism or spiritism. Farmer did more of the talking, usually describing Cannone's exploits for me, then telling Cannone to recount for me his latest theory on how lies fit into the truth. Then Cannone would cringe and explain that he didn't want me to "hammer" him, because he likes to play games with Truth for the sake of feeling like a hippie-philosopher-king. Coupled with the knowledge that I don't like doing that, Cannone becomes a bit of a barefoot hesitant. The two of them had also brought a stash of salvia with them, and we had a good deal of tobacco and cigarettes left. We opted out of the hallucinogen, as I had the distinct impression that it was a bad idea for an overnight road trip, even though it was legal.


• Route 81 - From Asheville we took highway 19/23 North (which is also called hwy 26, but it's the same road) proceeding to 81 North into Virginia. After a while Cannone slept, and Farmer and I discussed the meanings of many things. By my estimate, it was about four in the morning when I stopped at a Flying J, where 81 meets route 77 in Virginia, for sustenance in the form of a coffee and a Big Hunk candy bar. I gassed up Farmer's old sport utility vehicle, and Farmer spent some time waking Cannone up. After we were sure Cannone was awake, which was longer than one might think reasonable, our vehicle set out again into the night, the dawn well nigh. Farmer slept in the back seat while Cannone tried to pretend to be awake enough to talk to me. After a while, he blinked off some of the stupor, and talked for some time autobiographically, relating some things because he had overdone them for the purpose of retelling them at just such a time, and relating some things because at just such a time it was easy to retell them in an exaggerated manner. His life seemed a roller coaster of more or less welcome failures, a string of events tragic and made for the telling. The passing Virginia countryside dimly increased with the sunrise, and I began to feel tired, but never got sleepy. I live for roadtrips, and I do not prefer to sleep through them. It was a waking bucolic dream set to a campfire storyteller who didn't have any one particular story to tell. The only thing that changed was the waxing daylight, and the storyteller's name. Sometimes he went by Farmer, sometimes by Cannone.


• Northern VA - I took highway 66 east from 81, cutting across familiar territory, and by nine-hundred hours we had reached the beltway. We took 495 north to 7 west, arriving at James and Jeremy's sub floor apartment in Falls Church, VA, by about 9:30 AM.
  
  Between saying hello to one crowd of old friends, and saying goodbye to another, and getting lunch, I didn't take any opportunity to nap. I admired James' new truck for the first time, as it was a huge improvement over the old, time-tested Grand Am with the notoriously marshy backseat. (Although, there's something fond in the memories, watching countless passengers realizing that their butt was mysteriously wet.) He and I talked over spiritual things and other less memorable fluff over a lunch burrito, somewhere off the main drag (Route 7) in Falls Church. Post-burrito, we proceeded back after lunch, and I got a triple S (eliminate, shower, shave) for the first time in a while. Donning our suits and ties, we rechecked the directions to the wedding, and made our way to the Universalist National Memorial Church, deep in the maze of Washington, D.C., for a sign of the end times.


• Washington, D.C. - Upon arrival, we were greeted by a lot of dressed up people in the belly of a staunchly gothic stone building, which was candle-lit and gaudily beflowered. The apocalyptic harbinger we were about to witness was really only a wedding between a couple of old friends, but the solemnity and pomp with which the event was executed really did reinforce the old joke we used to lay on Mike's conscience, that the day he got a girl would be a sign of the end times. In an only slightly exaggeratory light, Mike and his bride made each other exactly 347,490 vows, all of which they will never be able to keep due to the unmanageable tome that would result in the event of their codification. One good-natured guest observed under his breath an opinion which I endorse, that bride and groom are doomed to marital infidelity on several minor points by dint of sheer promissory tedium. Note to Self: It would be appropriate to establish a committee for the purpose of framing a bill of amendments to these vows. It should allow parties to break many of the lesser vows, provided apologies are promulgated immediately following any said breach. A resolution should also be accepted, directing executive emphasis to the more orthodox and central points of the bureaucratic code that certainly must follow the necessarily involved architectural capping of such a cleverly intricate marital foundation.
  
  Considering that I had had no sleep after my nocturnal road vigil, I blinked slowly several times during the wedding. I did my duty as witness to their actual vows, because I cleverly saved my nodding for the proclamatory readings of one lover's sentiments to the other. These readings were preserved for just such an occasion from the more-or-less gushy love letters of months past. Naturally, these were read by someone not in love, to all us, who were also not in love. I found these moments quite lulling, but did my duty to bravely wake after each was safely over, in order to faithfully witness more vows. In any other nuptial event, the abundance of promise and the lavishness of sentiment might have become quite grating by the third hour of the ceremony. But considering that we had all teased Mike for years for being grinningly, purposely annoying, the melodramatic nature of the proceedings was instead touching and likeable. At the end of the ceremony, the couple receded as a brassy fanfare shook the halls and summoned the four horsemen of the apocalypse. Luckily, the disagreeable equestrians were preoccupied elsewhere and did not attend. Once outside, I was happily greeted by several old friends, including Faith, Abigail, and Jeremy and his girl.


• Arington, VA - A reception was held at the Army Navy Country Club, which was pleasant enough, despite its severe case of military branch ambiguity. Solemn faces mixed with jolly ones, and round after round of toasts were followed by round after round of traditional family frivolities. The night ended at a reasonable hour for us, and if I remember correctly, we returned to the apartment to mix with Paul McNiel, which was even more agreeable than usual. I don't remember falling asleep, but I must have.

Late Summer, Part One

• Friday, 9/1/6 - Night: went to Paramount's Great America, for free, to watch Jared's dress rehearsal for the parade. He was marshalling a float, then danced around in a funny hat. Went from there to play root beer pong, which was objectively lame, at the Crusade house, with the guys, who are objectively not lame. Note to self: Xbox Live is hard. Peter was going to play the gig tomorrow night with me, but informs me now that he can't after all.
  
  
• Saturday, 9/2/6 - I got up early. I packed my car with sound equipment, guitars, lyrics, blankets, and clothes. I drove to San Francisco.
  
  San Francisco. I got disoriented when Highway 1 merged with 19th Street. I pulled a u-ey, and continued south on 19th after it split from 1. I had never seen this part of town, and decided to navigate by my gut. "North by northeast," I told myself aloud, "and head downhill to the sea." I was looking for Market Street and Pier 1 (not the store, the actual pier.) I turned left onto Randolph, then (because I know a guy named Sean Head), I turned left (north) on Head, which veered right (east) and dead-ended on Ashton Avenue, where I turned left (north) and found myself at Ashton and Ocean Avenue. I went right (east) on Ocean, which overpassed Interstate 280, and then I turned left (north) on Alemany Boulevard. Alemany ran north by northeast, parallelling 280 till it reached Highway 101, where I opted for the freeway north, which I knew would take me to my general destination. All of the navigational decisions to that point were blindly improvised.
  
  At Market Street I picked up my east coast friend and former debate coach Heather. We wended our way to Height Ashbury, parked, and sauntered through Golden Gate Park for an hour or so, talking about times we'd had in times past. I met one of Heather's co-workers from the gulf coast Katrina crisis team, and her husband, who both seemed nice. They were from Nevada. Heather delivered my long-lost folder of CD's to me, which I had lost on my east coast trip last year. Around 2 or 3 in the afternoon, I set out for the Sacramento area by way of Interstate 80.
  
  Interstate 80. Unfortunately, the Bay Bridge, which is on 80, was closed for the weekend, and I ended up going south and getting nearly lost in a town called South San Francisco. Finally, I decided to forgo the San Mateo bridge and wend north along the Golden Gate, through Sausalito, across the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge (which is on interstate 580 and leads to 80). This took hours. It was nearly 6:00 p.m. by the time I reached 80 north. The show was supposed to start at 8:00 p.m.
  
  The Sacramento Area. I arrived in Woodside, at Julia's house, by about 7:15 p.m., and after shooting a little breeze with her parents, got directions to the little vintage clothing store where I set up my equipment and got on my 20's/70's get up. Julia and Jacob played an introductory show at about 8:30, and I played for about an hour starting at 9:30. The songs went over well, and the drummer who accompanied me (we were billed "Gabe and the Troubadours") was good enough to make it a spicy set. Then J&J played a series of covers, occasionally forgetting the words.
  
  
• Sunday, 9/3/6 - By the time the show was over, it was midnight. We spent about a half an hour cleaning up, and I made my way south on Interstate 5, toward Stockton.
  
  Stockton. At about 1:30 a.m., I pulled into Grandma's driveway, in the nice part of town, on Euclid, about a block from University of the Pacific. I awoke at about 11:00 a.m., and found Peter and Grandma already long done with breakfast. We set up Grandma's computer, and hooked her up to the internet for the first time.
  
  
• Monday, 9/4/6 - Labor Day. I had planned on leaving at 7:00 a.m., go home and change, and be at work by 9:30 a.m. But since everyone else was off, I didn't have to. I spent a good portion of the day with Grandma instead, then got to work in Cupertino about 3:00 p.m., and worked till 6:00 p.m.
  
  
• Tuesday, 9/5/6 - My boss wants me to never use the internet for any purpose. This will make my job and my life a lot more difficult. I can be creative.
  
  
• Wednesday, 9/6/6 - It took some time to explain to my boss that my computer prints and saves files through the network, onto other computers and printers, and cannot be disconnected from the internet by just pulling the plug. By 7:00 p.m. I am home, frantically getting my bags packed and readying to drive to San Francisco International Airport.
  
  San Francisco, CA (again). Two hours later, I am informed by the AirTran counter that the baggage check closes at 9:00 p.m. A very classy, attractive, professional looking African-American young lady behind me stammered that "it is only 9:02!" We were instructed to take our bags to "oversize," and given poor directions there. I got through security only to be informed, in broken English, that "oversize" is before the security checkpoint. I argued with the man at "oversize" until he accepted my apparently undersized duffel bag, then proceeded through security again. I reached my gate for my 9:45 p.m. flight at 9:35 p.m., and literally caught them closing the door of the jet.
  
  
• Thursday, 9/7/6 - I awake with a start. The plane is still in the air, and I don't remember falling asleep at all. I do know we're close to Atlanta, our destination.
  
  Atlanta, GA. Upon arrival at Atlanta, I find that my baggage has not arrived with my flight. It was 5:45 a.m. and the next flight from San Francisco arrives at 8:20 p.m. I rode the north on MARTA, which is Atlanta's answer to the Washington, D.C., Metro, switched trains at the Five Points Station, and rode east and deboarded at the fourth stop, "E4 Edgewood/Candler Park."

Rob met me there... on a bicycle. Note to self: don't take AirTran: Rob had all but known I wouldn't have baggage. We walked back to his apartment, which was only a few blocks away. He lived right off a street called Euclid. We had kiwi, turkey bacon, and distilled water for breakfast, and I rolled out some extra bedding and crashed while Rob went to work a few hours at the bicycle shop.

I awoke upon Rob's return, and several hours had passed. It was lunch time. Rob gave me a guided tour of his neighborhood, which backed up against a park, and was a couple blocks from a neighborhood I quickly learned to call Hipster Station. The restaurant wasn't a dead giveaway. It could have just been a hip joint nestled into a busy town. We ordered pizza by the custom slice, which was a rare treat, which was accompanied by a veritable bucket of sweet iced tea. The food was high-quality. Rob and I had our usual conversation about girls, God, and the music industry (with the occasional explanation of Rob's bicycle racing background or my political training). But after leaving the pizza joint, I found myself confronted by independent record store after independent record store, vintage clothing outlet after vintage clothing outlet, DIY-chic restaurant after DIY-chic restaurant. There was even an American Apparel store. The refurbished theatre headlined Cat Power's show, coming next week. Band of Horses was slated for the following weekend.

Having taken in the wannabe hipsters, we returned to the apartment, and drove to the Martin Luther King, Jr. Memorial Site. I promised myself to note that as we two whiteys walked into an all-black tribute, we found ourselves alone in a crowd of Asians. Weird. Heard Dr. King preach the Word. Rob and I talked more about God, and girls, and about racism, and how we didn't understand it too well. We admired Coretta Scott King's newly laid memorial garden.

Back at the apartment, we passed the afternoon in different ways, mostly talking things over more, and Rob spraypainted his old bike frame with some paint we had just bought. That night we went to the airport, picked up my baggage from the incompetents at AirTran, and went to a club to try to catch Bang Bang Bang's show. We missed them, and instead saw Pasadena (a woeful Wilco ripoff) and Greenwheel (who would have rocked if they hadn't been allowed to listen to Incubus growing up.)

• Friday, 9/8/6 - At the apartment again, we stayed up till past 2:30 a.m. talking, while Rob's alcoholic roommate and his alcoholic bosses tried to get their car unstuck for two hours. We parted ways better friends than before, with Rob insisting about our conversations again that "we really should blog this stuff." I crashed on the couch.
  
  I woke up at about 10:30 a.m., which was bad since I still needed to shower and pack my bags before Kenneth Farmer arrived at 11:00 a.m. I was nearly ready by 11, but it didn't matter, since Kenneth was lost in Atlanta. He finally found the apartment, and I threw my stuff in the back of his Ford Explorer, but realized I had just locked my boss' electronic camera in Rob's apartment. I called Rob and got his access code for the building, and before Rob could ask me to be careful, Farmer had popped the locked door open with one smooth motion of his credit card. Camera in hand, we locked up and departed.
  
  Woodstock, GA. Kenneth took me to another town in Georgia, the name of which I do not remember. We came to a large megachurch-type building, which was clustered thickly with 15-passenger vans and minivans. I witnessed the first practice of this year's home-school orchestral brass section, taught/led by Farmer, who is a trumpeteer by trade. By three in the afternoon, we were back on the road. We talked of religious things, and mysterious females, and the problem of clashing egos with arrogant pig-like fellow colleagues, as we drove through Jasper, GA, and over the Georgia border and into North Carolina. I took pictures of things we passed, such as water towers and the piggy graveyard outside a hillside BBQ joint.
  
  Asheville, NC. Upon arrival in town, directed by cell phone, we parked "under the bridge," where Interstate 240 overpasses North Lexington Avenue, in a gravel lot. We walked uphill, south on N. Lexington past several hippie/hipster bars and restaurants. As we approached the park, there was a low runbling noise that got louder, and louder, pulsing, and rhythmical. Lights and people were spinning and whirling about the center of a circle of hand drummers larger than I had seen before. The atmosphere was celebratory, and contagious. Note to self: hand-rolled Bali shag smokes well.

After the drumming ended, Cannone spoke for a while with a homeless friend of his, and we sang some old hymns and depression tunes for him, in unpracticed four-part harmony. He seemed grateful, and passed around the whiskey bottle, saying he was blessed. We walked from there a few blocks back, to Rosetta's Kitchen, at 116 N Lexington Avenue, just south of the overpass under which we were parked. A few hours of conversation and a couple glasses of mead later, we sauntered back to our vehicles, Cannone, Farmer and I bound for Washington, D.C.

De, [LAT. "down from"] (also 4th Letter of the Spa. Alphabet) | Re'ah [HEB. "companion"]

FOREWORD. I bought a plane ticket to Atlanta last week. I bought a plane ticket back home this week. From where? Virgina.


De

I also registered for Spanish 5 online. I pulled up my transcript, and got a shock. Apparently, I was misled in thinking I had gotten a B+ in the class. That must have been my grade on the final, because my transcript says I have a D in Spanish 4. No wonder, transferring from Spanish 2, which I took in 2003. Gah. De priore.

Re'ah

But the big deal is the following. Today I will write this as an altar to the faithfulness of God. I will name it Re'ah, which means "close companion," or "a good friend." May I not forget how, following the Lord, I finally surrendered my right to bring my friends with me, and consented to leave them behind (to "hate" them, as Jesus said) if He so requires. This week in Sam, and in Trent, and in Joel, and in Joelle, and in Kenneth, and in Alissa, and in others, I am encouraged that, on the contrary, the Lord will be faithful to bring His own alongside Him, and I need not strive and struggle for them, nor will He withhold the fellowship that heartens me in my faith. We serve a God who is characterized by lovingkindness, and he is faithful and just. To Him be glory, majesty, dominion and authority, before all time and now and forever. Amen.

The Times, Quickly Becoming a Weekly

Nothing is going on.

I have spoken a lot on the phone with Kenneth, Cannone, Julia and a little with Rob and Jacob. Hung out a bit with Trent, Katie, and the posse this weekend. Played some old songs with Peter for the new girls. Saw the Ballad of Ricky Bobby. Funny, but sadly overrated. Seeya when something noteworthy happens. I shall duly note it.