I woke up early today (really yesterday, but you know my schedule) because a friend of mine was coming over. Early these days is around ten or so in the morning.

My friend (Ariel) and I met up with Em for lunch, who had already completed a couple classes in the morning. We relived old times we never had at the Frist cafeteria, imaging the student center of Princeton to be the basement of Usdan. With the new student center, even the basement of Usdan isn’t the basement of Usdan anymore.

We then proceeded to the Chancellor Green Library, undoubtedly the coolest interior space on the Princeton campus we’ve yet found. Most people, upon seeing it, immediately dub it the “Harry Potter Room,” though that distinction arguably might be more apt for the Grad College cafeteria, which generally looks primed for an address by Dumbledore himself. In any event, Chancellor Green is an octagonal room with two floors topped by an ornately woodworked dome, adorned with stained glass and bookshelves galore on each level and each edge. Below are comfortable reading chairs and above study desks. The expectation is silence throughout, if not to read than merely to appreciate the hallowed halls surrounding.

I rejoined my Russian friends in Toltsoy’s world, lamenting how little I’ve been able to read amidst the writing lifestyle I’ve developed. Some have said that one should never be writing at a higher volume than one is reading, but I feel that writing takes its toll on the desire to read. Besides, most of my reading is usually done either during a commute or just before sleep. I have no commute and I’m going to sleep after writing sessions that leave me utterly drained as dawn is threatening to break. Yeah, not exactly conducive to reading.

So I appreciated the opportunity to bury myself in a book for the afternoon, spending hours with 75 pages of the world’s most reputedly epic tome. Having discussed my general progression of becoming a slower reader for much of high school and college with Ariel, I was grateful to have sped up enough in subsequent years that I could read at such a pace. There was a time that I was convinced I would someday have to take whole days to read just a single page at the rate I’d been going.

Then home, phone calls, dinner, a brief time with Em as she worried over the day to come and we finally caught up to the current episode of “The Office”, having traversed the show’s entire history with frightening alacrity via Netflix and Hulu. Not everything I’ve done out here in Jersey can be strictly described as productive.

And then writing, the whole of chapter 35, a chapter I’m profoundly fond of suddenly, unanticipated in its depth and implications, all the more satisfying for how much it surprised me. There are chapters I know are going to be powerful, momentous, vital. Some have already passed. This one I wasn’t expecting and I deeply appreciate the characters therein for revealing themselves to me in this way. Really.

And here I am, just this side of five in the morning, worn out and really content. Not content as a proxy for slowly settling into the sediment that one’s life has become, but content in its truest, highest form. Not happy or elated, for I lack the energy for either. Just satisfied, at peace with my place in the world. This life is everything I hoped it would be, for all its solitude and strange freedom. God help me find ways to never let go, now that I’m here.

The final part of an 8-part series regressing through the Stanford 2002 APDA tournament.

Last week: Round 2 (re: chemical weapons)

Today’s round takes us back to the beginning of the tournament, the first filmed round of my career since the quarterfinals at Columbia, wherein Emily and I dismantled a case about China and Taiwan and then Mike Specian, APDA filmer extraordinaire, lost the tape. Before that, it might date back to Dartmouth 2000 outrounds or something, which I have somewhere and would love to get converted as well.

Regardless, this was a pretty fun case for first round. Involving one of my favorite movies of all-time, “Dr. Strangelove”, this case encouraged the speaker to conduct a full nuclear strike on the Soviet Union rather than trying to warn or negotiate with the Soviets. Suffice it to say that I had a little bit to say in response. Generally in debate, nuclear war is the worst-case scenario that everyone’s trying to avoid. When the Gov makes it their case statement, you know you’re going to have a good day…

Stanford 2002 APDA Round 1 from Storey Clayton on Vimeo.

Part 7 in an 8-part series regressing through the Stanford 2002 APDA tournament.

Last week: Round 3 (re: Enron executives and their wallets)

Today’s round features one of my favorite opp-choice cases from my senior-year case-writing binge. The case was pretty successful, though it did lose handily once. It engaged in a question I generally didn’t believe in, that being the nature of war crimes. While I personally feel that the concept of “war crimes” is redundant, this case posed an interesting scenario as to whether a breakaway republic should use chemical weapons against an oppressive power if the power they’re fighting made those weapons.

This round featured the surprising choice that the republic should in fact use the weapons, which tended not to be the side opposition chose. Generally people sided with the Geneva conventions and conventional war over taking the risky but potentially effective move to break with international law and go after the power. But the round always made for fun international debate that didn’t rely on having just read the Economist.

This round also features one of my more absurd themed rebuttals, something that was generally my signature, but rarely had such tenuous links as this one.

Stanford 2002 APDA Round 2 from Storey Clayton on Vimeo.

Twice a week, I drive to New Brunswick from Princeton, a 16-mile jaunt that usually takes over half an hour to complete because of the nature of driving in New Jersey. I head up there in the 8:00 hour to arrive at 9:00 for meetings of the Rutgers debate team, usually returning around midnight as they’ve wrapped up.

There are two ways I can make this trip that are almost identical in mileage:

One is to take US Route 1, a literal straight line road that hearkens back to legends of the tsar drawing plans for a railroad from St. Petersburg to Moscow. While straight as an arrow, the route runs south of both my origin and my destination, adding a bit of time. More importantly, Route 1 (in Jersey, at least) is perhaps the worst four-lane road in America, a bizarre combination of highway lane structures and traffic with endless stoplights. Despite the lights, left turns are strictly forbidden, requiring “jug-handles” where one exits to the right to then turn onto a crossover lane. There are no conventional exits, just jug-handles. And the thing is filled with trucks and Jersey drivers, who remain the only people worse than drunk New Mexicans, murderous Manhattanites, and raging Massachusetts drivers, somehow blending the worst aspects of all three.

The alternative is NJ Route 27, a pastoral winding road whose frequent elevation shifts are outnumbered only by the number of times the speed limit changes between Princeton and New Brunswick. If Route 1 is the express (or tries to be), Route 27 is the local, plowing through the center of random townships and dropping the limit from 50 to 25 with almost no warning. This is a two-laner (one in each direction) and is frequented by these aging gray buses that seem to run local routes in this thickly settled part of the state. There are no trucks, however, and very little traffic at all late at night, when all the lights are green. There are lights, but probably fewer than on the “highway” counterpart.

After doing round-trips on each, I’ve settled into a vague pattern of taking Route 1 up to New Brunswick in the evening and returning on Route 27 in the middle of the night. Route 1 seems to have a stagnant amount of traffic 24/7, which is more palatable in comparison to the fairly heavy traffic on 27 at around 8:30, but less palatable compared to the emptiness of same past midnight. But more than anything, there’s just something peaceful and rewarding about taking 27 home, soaring through empty silent communities like a high-schooler the night after graduation.

Tonight, however, the road was deader than ever. It was ghostly, the kind of night that inspired Ray Bradbury’s story “Night Meeting”, where a Martian and an Earthling colonist cross paths through the midst of time on desolate night roads. The first leaves were covering the road in some places, sent sailing as I would race through in an effort to stay ever 5 miles an hour above the mercurial legal maximum. I think I passed all of two cars going my direction the whole time, both fairly close to New Brunswick, and maybe 5-7 in the other direction the whole way. In 25 minutes.

There is much time to ponder in such settings, though they have a way of dominating the mental space with their own unique offering. We spend so much time surrounded by people, their structures, the possibility of interaction. To be moving swiftly through a voided landscape is at once solipsistic and comforting, calling attention to one’s place in the universe and focus to the significance of each passing minute. The more I noticed my aloneness, the more I felt both isolated and somehow unified with a larger presence and could feel the awareness of the moment pile upon itself.

I had a CD to keep me company, but its significance was only to underscore the larger reality around, not to take center stage. Like Kitaro on a road to Jewell that suddenly became endless and transcendent, with my Dad so many years ago. The songs were like leaves, like the occasional droplet collected on the windshield, to be considered and passed like most days on the wind.

And then, as Princeton approached faster than normal, and cars six and seven northbound, Dave Matthews Band’s “Christmas Song” came on the disc. And the world of silence, of sleepy village churches and big box brand name signs illuminated for overnight advertising of empty stores, shifted. It transformed to a seventeen-year-old kid who made the decision to buy his first-ever CD (after years of accumulating cassette tapes) because it was the only way he could acquire this song he’d heard just once on the radio that had captivated his feelings about Christmas in a way he could handle as a no-longer-Christian. Who had looked everywhere for a tape, knowing that he already had one DMB tape, finally settling ironically for the older album on CD only and wondering how to deal with the technological shift. Who came home and skipped right to the last track, wondered at the trail of lightning sounds that followed the track, played it on repeat most of the night. It was a cold night, beckoning to Christmas still a couple months out, a night not unlike this one. Then there was a play to direct, a year to get through, somehow, colleges and a future to seek (up). Tonight, not so different perhaps, a novel in place of a play, colleges behind but not forgotten, a year to be savored instead of endured. Perhaps life really does get easier over time, after all.

I listened to the last three recitations of the closing chorus in the stopped car in front of my current residence, smiling at the yellow porch light and the barely visible Christmas lights within, decking the top corner of the living room walls. “And the blood of our children all around.” The last fade of notes, the car switched off, and a gathering of paper for the trek inside. Crossing the threshold, I felt the wind swirl behind me and wondered what message it carried from what past or future self. I am never (and always) alone. But tonight, oh tonight, it all seems to make sense.

I went inside to find Pandora staring at me as though she’d been waiting this whole time.

Part 6 in an 8-part series regressing through the Stanford 2002 APDA tournament.

Last week: Round 4 (re: Stalin vs. Lenin)

Today’s round is the only time in my career where I remember someone running a counter-case against an opp-choice case. Traditionally this practice is considered illegal, so that it’s possible to have rounds between two bad scenarios (e.g. opp-choice, would you rather eat a banana slug or a cockroach, where it would be unfair to counter-case with eating an ice-cream sundae). Nevertheless, this round matched us up with a NPDA team, from the rival circuit to APDA, and they have a slightly unconventional approach.

The round was about a case we wrote specifically for the tournament, whose theme was the Enron scandal and its associated corruption. It was a rather simple case about an Enron executive dropping their wallet and whether they deserved it back or you should keep the money. Because of the counter-case, it ended up being more about police and their role in society.

My MG features one of my few uses of props in a round which, while technically barred, could have very persuasive effect. Sadly, my chalk-eating round was never recorded, so this is probably the best documented use of a prop from my days on the circuit.

Stanford 2002 APDA Round 3 from Storey Clayton on Vimeo.

Part 5 in an 8-part series regressing through the Stanford 2002 APDA tournament.

Last week: Round 5 (re: Native American Reparations)

Today’s round features one of the best cases I ever hit in my tenure on APDA, run by a future National Champion and his wacky then-partner.

The case was one of the few “infinite opp-choice” style cases that were generally reserved for final rounds. While not technically infinite, the round involves picking something out of a list so long that it might as well be infinite, then having Gov pick another side. Or, as in the 42-way opp-choice on the seven deadly sins that Jeff “Crack” Nelson and I ran in Fairfield finals, having Opp pick both sides.

These cases can be deceptive, however, because they don’t necessarily require a Gov team to prep an infinite number of possibilities, just two (a first choice and a backup). And in this particular round, we didn’t grab their first choice (Lenin), but came close by picking Stalin. The question was who the Man of the Century should be in terms of influence, leaving out moral or perceptual considerations.

So heat up some canned borscht and potatoes and enjoy the round:

Stanford 2002 APDA Round 4 from Storey Clayton on Vimeo.

In October 2002, back in the relatively early days of Introspection, I first came up with the idea of altering the whole theme of the blog site to celebrate Halloween. In 2004, after two years of just changing the color scheme, I actually overhauled the graphic header as well. The rest has been history. As you can see (if you can’t see, hit refresh!), it’s another October season today.

The rains have been sweeping through, often hightailing it on the back of even stronger winds. Today is the first really chilly seeming day and I can already envision the crispness of my breath emerging as the barracks become even more depressing and the walls seem even thinner. Already I’m starting to wonder when we should start moving stuff away from the heater so we can be prepared.

And yet there’s the anticipation of October that seems even more exciting on the East Coast, what with the promise of leaves changing and falling and eventual snow. This is what I’ve missed so dearly, the real seasonal change that is present in most of the world but sorely lacking in the Bay Area. A change in the surroundings that matches the internal perceptual change of the time. People do better with external confirmations of their internal understanding.

Which, I guess, is why I revel in the visualization present on the page. So there you go.

While we’re waiting to see if I have the inclination to post my journal from last year’s India/Nepal trip, I figured I could trot out the rest of the Stanford 2002 filmed rounds as a recurring set of content for this page for the next couple weeks. You may recall that I posted Finals, Semifinals, and Quarterfinals early this summer before moving cross-country and getting a bit distracted.

Today’s round continues our regression through the tournament, featuring round five which, interestingly, was against the same team that faced us in Quarters. This was the debut of the case that Emily and I ran about giving $1,000,000 in reparations to every Native American born on a reservation. This case is about as open (easily debatable, beatable) as they come, and yet went on to win a bubble round at Nationals (Tirrell & I overcoming MIT-A in round 6 at UMBC Nats ‘02) and Quarters at BU ‘06 (sadly beating my Brandeis teammates, Samburg & Collins) when Emily & I went back to defend the honor of dinos against modern whippersnappers. (Incidentally, that round was also recorded, though on audio, and can be found here.)

Like my Lottery case, this one gets much of its power from being something that I fervently believe. But you don’t have to take my contemporary word for it – see how Emily and I sounded seven and a half years ago:

Stanford 2002 APDA Round 5 from Storey Clayton on Vimeo.

When I lived in Oregon and wasn’t attending sixth grade, somewhere between my acting life and my speech and debate life, I opened a play directed by a friend of my parents with a recitation of “Sea-Fever” by John Masefield.

The poem is brief (briefer than I remember), but conveys powerful imagery of the pull of the ocean and its eternal hold on those who sail upon it. I was adorned in a cap not unlike what I’d worn as Oliver Twist (but newer and nicer) and some sort of scarf that the director had determined sufficiently aquatic. Despite these elements of costuming and the placement of a stage beneath my feet, I think this may have been the birth of my understanding of the power of spoken words. Not the magic of theater, in full regalia, which I’d long known and loved, but the actual power and presence of mere strings of syntax, dramatically spoken.

Of course, there was my third grade talent show rendition of the Gettysburg Address, which I remembered made a couple teachers cry. But I’d been disappointed with my performance there, forgetting some words and feeling immense pressure. I had not felt the command over that performance that I did in the practiced rhythms of Masefield’s cadence.

It is somehow fitting to remember that preface on a night back from introducing members of the Rutgers class of 2013 to the basic tenets of parliamentary debate. Just as every word written makes for better writing next time, so every word spoken has led me to this point in my life. And perhaps I can forgive myself for sacrificing tonight’s writing efforts (unless I can start after completing this post) to the twin duties of education and navigation.

This last is the true inspiration for tonight’s title, for a navigation bar has been introduced to The Blue Pyramid for the first time ever. Over the course of the next few weeks, the navigation system will filter out through the rest of the website. The focal points of this bar also come with an acknowledgment that several projects have been archived, most permanently lost at sea.

I would like to say that this move will usher in a new era of updated content at the site, with quizzes and new projects abounding as long planned. I have learned enough over my millions of spoken words, of course, to know that such promises are of no worth. Either I shall make good, which will speak for itself, or I shan’t, which will undermine the promises’ purpose.

So I present what is done and will call it a night. Perhaps to write briefly before sailing for sunrise.

And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover
and quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

I spent the weekend at my first APDA tournament since Nationals 2007. In my new role as coach of the Rutgers team, I was ensuring that the team could get there (they have significant transportation challenges) and getting an early gauge on the lay of the land.

Returning to a regular APDA tournament (Nats just feels different, especially if one is in the tab room as I was in ‘07) was pretty surreal, though I adjusted fairly quickly. I was surprised at how many people I did know and recognize, most of them freshly minted dinos who are many years my junior. Of course, there were also a slew of people who became three-dimensional for the first time – people I knew pretty well from APDA Forum Werewolf games that I’d never met or seen in person.

The tourney was at Hopkins and I had a chance to see Freez and his (relatively) new place, which is pretty swanky. The original 1904 hardwood flooring definitely being the highlight there. The entire weekend featured buckets of rain, including visibility-limiting sheets on the drive down, which probably aided our getting lost and almost mistakenly heading to Washington DC. Though after this summer’s cross-country trip and some more recent events, I’m seriously starting to doubt the quality and veracity of Internet driving directions.

Surreality aside, I really love APDA and being back in the thick of the community. I enjoy judging, though close calls give me a sensation approximating what I imagine an ulcer feels like. I enjoy the quality of the discourse and the intellectual caliber of the people, something rarely assembled so consistently and thoroughly in any other environment. I’m not going to go so far as to say that APDA is wasted on the young (I certainly appreciated it at the time, as do many of its participants), but maybe it’s more to say that APDA ages incredibly well. Even after college, it’s time well spent. It horrifies me even now to think how close I was to not joining when at Brandeis and how fervently my high school advisers told me there were better things for debaters to do in college than debate.

The Rutgers team did well, going 3-2 with losses only to break teams, and speaking impressively. It’s an auspicious start to what looks to be a breakthrough year. We have no fewer than four (4) meetings this week, serving as an intense week of novice training to prepare for the Swarthmore Novice Tournament in two weeks, so the intensity will not ramp down for some time.

Last night, I had a classic school anxiety dream, mostly about going into my senior year at Brandeis. I had my own place that was nicer and larger than I had reason to think it should be and a slightly different course schedule than made sense. But I spent a lot of time thinking about how not to waste the year, how to appreciate it, and how to make sure to get my diploma.

I woke up, quickly realizing where I was in real chronological time. More importantly, I realized that these dreams will be back in force for the next two years.

I remember this feeling – the elation of finishing much more of the book than you were planning on even working on at the outset of the night, especially given how late you were hanging out with other people, eating into your writing time. (In this case, the Rutgers debate team I’m coaching, in that case Schneider & Kunkel). The pure exhilaration of watching it get faintly lighter outside and knowing how productive you’ve been while all the rest of your part of the world slept. How everyone is still asleep and you just want to stay up one more hour, fuzzy-tired but eminently satisfied with being in the right place doing the right thing with your time on Earth. Tired, satisfied, and… hungry.

And before, during those blessed days in the summer of 2001, I would get in the Kia and drive down to the Frontier. I would have a breakfast burrito and fries and the world would take on this radiant hue that matched the pinky-purple-orange outside and I would polish off spicy bites with the anticipation of sleep that can only be joyful (for me) knowing exactly how hard and sound you’ll sleep and how happy you’ll be to awaken in the face of the prior night’s accomplishments.

Box of Cheez-Its, loaf of country potato, you are not the Frontier. I know I’m trying hard to eat at home these days, but mornings like this call for an exception. Although I still don’t think driving to Albuquerque is the answer.

These bread products will have to do for this morning. Good night, world. Can’t wait to see you again.

It’s hard to believe that Friday night marked the ninth time I’ve seen Counting Crows live.

To this day, I would probably rather spend time watching them in concert than see almost anyone else I haven’t seen – actively choosing what would now be the tenth time I watched them perform over people whose performance before me would be unprecedented. Aside from another Simon & Garfunkel reunion show or Cat Stevens getting back out on tour with his full canon, it’s hard to imagine a musical act I’d be more excited about seeing. Even summer tour shows, even sets played almost entirely with other bands, are so emotionally charged as to put a spigot straight from an emotional well into the observer’s soul.

Fish and I had an eventful weekend, including my first visit to his Mole Street place, a trip to a classic Jersey diner, visiting Monopoly’s fabled Boardwalk (with hotels!), hours of overnight poker in Atlantic City, and my second viewing (his first) of the truly excellent “500 Days of Summer”. But the highlight, of course, was the Crows show.

It was a weird show in some ways – the show itself dubbed itself the “Saturday Night Rebel Rockers Traveling Circus and Medicine Show”, an effort combine CC with Michael Franti & Spearhead and Augustana into one epic 18-piece band. It was preluded by one of the most bizarre concert check-in experiences I’ve ever witnessed, where the Borgata Casino staff checked our tickets, issued numbered wristbands (a la Southwest), then checked our tickets again as they move the line up a few stairs, then checked wristbands, tickets, and stamped us with an invisible stamp (no joke – when we alerted them that the stamp hadn’t made a mark, they said it wasn’t supposed to), and constantly checked our numbers against each other. I felt old, as I often do in the early part of lines for rock shows, and wondered what proximity my #217 wristband would procure me.

Turned out, about third row. Which, somewhat remarkably in the face of all the other shows I’ve stood in line for and been able to touch the stage, was the closest I’ve ever been to Counting Crows. They just haven’t played all that many shows in places with a standing-room floor in the West lately.

The show itself was pretty remarkable, and not just because they were shuffling 18 people in and out at a rate that ensured that virtually no consecutive songs were played by the same collection of people. There were a ton of covers, including covers of Simon & Garfunkel, the Beatles, Bob Dylan, Van Morrison, and Woody Guthrie. I actually actively enjoyed “Hanginaround”, a song that often annoys me (in no small part because it almost always closes sets and thus means the set wasn’t closed by “A Murder of One”), since the crowd was so insanely involved and everyone was just screaming along by the end of the tune. I’ve become familiar enough with Augustana (they keep playing with CC) that I enjoyed most of their songs as well. And Michael Franti just kept making us jump. Which was fun.

We had intended to play poker for about an hour or so after the show, but it was 6:20 in the morning by the time we actually started rolling out of AC. We’d both more or less broken even (me a little more, Fish a little less), but we’d had quite the time with AC vacationers and bachelors-not-to-be alike. I’m not sure I’ve seen a more gregarious ten at a poker table.

Despite my tiredness at driving home, I’ve now pretty well converted my schedule to something resembling a dawn-to-noon sleep schedule, most conducive to writing and the creative life. Although the noon has been more consistent than the dawn – I still have a ways to go before regaining my youthful reliance on 4 hours or less.

Seeing “500 Days of Summer” again convinced me that it may be a perfect movie. Not that it’s competing with “Shawshank” or anything, but it may be flawless in delivering an emotionally honest, real presentation of the experience of love, in its full and many ranges. About a week ago, I was having a discussion about my top ten movies and the amorphous 5-10 that sort of hang out in the teen periphery of my rankings. I think “500 Days” is at least in that company, and possibly climbing.

And (though this is chronologically before most of what I’ve discussed) I was pretty disappointed by Atlantic City. Granted, it was a stormy day and we got there in late afternoon, but the town did little to convince me it was any better than Santa Cruz or Venice Beach with a few casinos tacked on. The Boardwalk was nice, and pretty long, but it was no more amazing than many other beachside walkways. Maybe living near Seaside for much of my youth has jaded me to the wonders of beach communities, but I was expected something more epic, more grand. Maybe I would only have been satisfied by a full-scale reversion to the 1920’s, complete with sepia-toned eyesight. Yeah, AC probably didn’t have a chance against my expectations.

You know what did? Counting Crows.

Caravan
Hello Bonjour
Mrs. Potter’s Lullaby
Colorblind
Omaha
Sweet Virginia
Sweet and Low (Mr. Jones Intro)
Meet You There Someday
Boston (with Raining in Baltimore)
(You Gotta Walk and) Don’t Look Back (with Casey Jones)
[unverified Michael Franti song - possible cover]
All I Want is You (with Tainted Love)
The Gambler (partial, joking)
The Sound of Sunshine
I Got Love for You
Delta Lady
—–
When I Dream of Michaelangelo
Children in Bloom
Little Bit of Riddim
Yell Fire!
Say Hey (I Love You)
Just Like a Woman
Fire
Dust
Why Should You Come When I Call?
Hanginaround
—
Cecilia
Rain King (with Raise a Ruckus Tonight intro, With a Little Help from My Friends middle)
This Land is Your Land

Yesterday, I completed* the first short story that I’ve written in years – possibly more than five years. Entitled Name Game, it still needs some editing before too many other people read it (hence the asterisk), but I think it has a good deal of potential. More importantly, it took me just two writing sessions over two days to write the whole thing, which weighs in around 7,000 words. If I can write 3,500 words a day, I’m going to be in good shape.

Granted, I’m here in this situation now to write books, not really short stories. Though I have been newly inspired to write some stories, they aren’t exactly intended to be my focus. So this success offers a bit of a dilemma – how much do I divert my efforts if the stories keep coming? On the one hand, stories have a lower threshold for publication and indeed may almost be a prerequisite for getting a larger work printed by a significant press. On the other hand, my success in writing books is going to depend on setting a deadline and making it stick. And if my daily 3,500 words are being diverted from longer works to shorter works, it’s going to be hard to keep to the deadline.

All of this is coming at the same time as I contemplate a major overhaul of the Blue Pyramid, both the front page and subsequent pages. I’ve decided, for example, that it’s time for me to have a navigation bar. The BP is suffering its biggest drought of traffic since the quizzes came out, which is hardly surprising in the face of how much I’ve neglected it. And I don’t want this to distract me from any sort of writing, though one can’t be writing 24/7. And I can’t help but think that a traffic revival could only help the general momentum of all my projects – getting my name out there and having something serious and creative to refer people to when they’re asking who the heck I am anyway.

Regardless, I was contemplating all this and wondering what to do about having a possible writing section of the BP linked on the nav bar when I remembered that I once assembled my so-called collected works before. And I was shocked to rediscover that I wrote no fewer than 51 short stories in a 3-year period from September 2003 through August 2006. Fifty-one! Now that’s productivity.

Granted, of course, few were of really sustainable value (other than the process and its incredibly helpful practice in improving my writing – hard to imagine being able to write Loosely Based without that kind of narrative experience behind me) and many of them were outright absurd. Although, it does make me wonder how many plots are retrievable – rarely were the ideas the dealbreaker in the stories so much as the execution. But still, 51 stories while going to school and living a full teenage life. That was some dedication. I really used to be so much cooler than I am now.

So I’m newly inspired as I stare down my tentative deadline of December 15th for American Dream On and contemplate a full slate of stories to compete with its completion. Surely I should be able to outpace my fourteen-year-old self in volume of output. Surely, like anything, enough work input will lead to worthy output.

And speaking of output, if you’re interested in being on the list of potential readers for either stories or the novel when they’re ready, let me know. I sort of threw Loosely Based at most of my close friends at the time it was done, with mixed results. Some of the recipients still haven’t read it. I’d prefer to take a much more measured, opt-in approach to the next stage of my writing life. A few folks have already volunteered through Facebook, which is great. My only request would be that you are completely honest in your readings and that you look on the work as an attempt at art, not an opportunity to try to analyze me or find yourself in my writing. You won’t be there. And I don’t need cheerleading – I need earnest, critical feedback.

Standing in the shadow of my youth, here I go.

In Philadelphia last week, Mesco and I had a brief discussion of how introverted I really am. Somehow Myers-Briggs personality types came up and she took issue with my deep-seated introversion as part of my general INFJ personality type. (I think a lot of psych stuff is bunk, but I’m actually a reasonably big believer in some of the insights of Myers-Briggs, at least as far as my own personality.) Citing the fact that I have a good number of friends and enjoy spending time with them, she questioned whether I’m really the type who’d be just as happy at home with a book or a puzzle as out on the party scene.

Consider this my stirring rebuttal to her questioning my introversion. Although, as this will illustrate and we even sort of agreed on before I departed Philly, there is a wide gulf between how I regard my friends and how I regard strangers. Herein, as they say, may lie the rub.

The last time I was in New York City – a place I already have serious qualms with – I went to a bar in Manhattan in mid-afternoon with Drew and Greg. I’ll give you a few moments to digest that sentence. … Yes, Greg and I went to a bar in Manhattan. Before dark. We were looking for a distraction that had less overhead expense than basketball or bowling, but provided a similar level of entertainment in the relatively short time the three of us had together. A game of pool seemed as likely a candidate as any other activity.

Greg, despite being a tenured college professor and the lead singer in a band, is a bit of an introvert. Actually, I’d probably put him squarely on the fence between extroversion and introversion, but I’d bet his gut inclination is towards the latter. He likes people, but would rarely be the kind to go up and initiate contact, unless there were some sort of dispute he could mediate. Drew, on the other hand, is to extroversion what Michael Jackson was to dance. Not only does he embrace others with gusto, he embarks on mind-bending tours of personal exploration with total strangers to fulfill his inner curiosity. He is one of two people I’ve heard admit that they truly enjoy making other people uncomfortable in social situations and/or discussions. And unlike the other, I’ve seen it in action many a time.

Perhaps none was so personally felt as our encounter in this Manhattan bar where the three of us went in search of a pool table. The bar was half-empty, replete mostly with dingy career drinkers, most of whom were more than happy to be glued in equal parts to their stool and the crazily mounted televisions over the racks of bottles. Greg and I were both heartened to see that two of the three pool tables in the place were wide open.

But not Drew. He strode straight toward the one occupied table and introduced himself. Wearing a Red Sox cap in April in Manhattan, he couldn’t wait to make the acquaintance of the rail-thin elderly gentleman and his somewhat portly female companion, both teetering under a regimen of midday alcohol. Within seconds, he had challenged them to a battle of skill on the green felt.

Greg and I, hanging back, were horrified as the man (probably 68 going on 92) started blurting out random threats of our downfall and explaining, for the second time already, that he was called “Minnesota Skinny” for both his poolhall acumen and slender frame. A brief sidebar with Drew failed to convince him that we should refrain from poking this elderly badger. It was going to be a long day.

We proceeded to annihilate Minnesota Skinny and his counterpart, who proved to be his wife of some indeterminate number of years. M. Skinny’s primary contribution to the game was an unending stream of vitriol and putrid jokes at the expense of Mrs. Skinny, as his personality quickly revealed itself to be somewhere between a low-budget raunchy teen comedy and what I imagine 1940’s lounge acts were like. Greg and I were both a few years out of our last pool game, so the match was interminable as four of us bounced errant shots and waited for Drew’s next turn in the rotation to hear that pleasant sinking sound. Between shots (both his and ours), Drew would turn to us with his irrepressible face-wide grin and say “I love this guy! Isn’t this great?” To which Greg and I strained to make our looks blander and more slightly pained than thirty seconds prior.

To extroverts, it may be hard to explain exactly what made the experience so excruciating for me. Or it may be completely obvious that playing pool with a hypercompetitive elderly drunk stranger while he peppers us with sexist jokes and bad breath would be unpleasant. I really don’t know, because I don’t know what it’s like to look at a stranger and think the odds are better of enjoying interaction with them than not. As you may recall, I have a hard enough time thinking that about people I vaguely know.

(Incidentally, the linked post above is 8th out of 9,000 webpages for the phrase “ducking behind pillars”. Neat. Perhaps even more fascinatingly, all of the other top-page references are about first-person shooter experiences, 8 of them in video games and one in Baghdad. Hm.)

Fast-forward to today. I walk Emily to her first class in Math Camp, a three-week session that serves as the prelude to her two-year Master’s Program at the Woodrow Wilson School (and also explains why we’re here already in mid-August). Being still without a coffee-maker until mine (probably smashed, but who knows) shows up tomorrow, I head out to Panera, which has become our coffee stop of choice on and after this trip. After acquiring a coffee and cinnamon roll, I am searching for some reading material near the newsstand before heading outside to sit. Sitting nearby, an elderly gentleman with a cane and a strange curmudgeonly smile (think twilight-years Kurt Vonnegut if he were shorter, overweight, and seemed slightly autistic) says “Hello” a little too loudly and I realize he must think that I’ve come to sit in his vicinity. Being both uncaffeinated and me, I decide to pretend I haven’t heard him and dash outside.

I’m sitting outside, contemplating a recently developed idea for a short story (I have finally hit the point in my life where I’ve detoxed enough from work to clear my mind out and am hit almost daily with new ideas, which is extremely exciting and inspiring [I note with some chagrin just now that Mozilla Firefox's spellcheck seems to have no problem with "detoxed", which is both colloquial and based on an abbreviation, but cannot accept "webpage" {perhaps more disconcerting, it also seems to not have "spellcheck" in its, well, spellcheck dictionary (I guess the real issue here is whether or not these words require hyphens, which is probably begrudgingly acceptable)}]) and watching the drowsy citizens of Princeton try to put some morning spring in their step, when out wanders Pudgy Vonnegut, slow-stepping it with his cane and a look that the whole world makes him grumpy.

At first I assume he’s leaving Panera, since I’ve been out there for a good ten minutes and he was pretty clearly there before I was. But something about the way he glances at me and then flits his eyes away tells me otherwise. And sure enough, he’s shuffling over toward the only table that’s open of the three outdoor offerings, gradually settling in the equivalent chair to mine at the neighboring mesa. We’re now separated by about three feet, each with our back to the restaurant’s front windows, gandering at passers-by (oh come on, Firefox, “gandering” is no good either?).

I dare not look over overtly, though I’ve already noted with some chagrin that he doesn’t even have a comestible with him. He’s just got his cane on the tabletop in front of him as though that were sufficient reason to take up a table at Panera. And just as I’m making peace with the idea that he’s come over to pursue small-talk with me, he utters the dreaded words: “Nice day, isn’t it?”

It isn’t that I have some social anxiety disorder (if such truly exist, which I doubt) or eternal dread of human contact. It’s that conversations which start with bland observations about the weather are insanely unlikely to produce anything other than drivel throughout their course, and I detest drivel. There’s something about the act of making small-talk with a stranger or a small-time acquaintance that makes me yearn for the opportunity to sweep floors or do dishes or perhaps pick the lint off of a couch cushion. Not only is there nothing redeeming about the activity, but the activity strips me of my belief that anything good can come out of this species. Some of this is irrational and extreme (I know, you can’t believe it), but it’s rooted in how meaningless small-talk makes my soul feel: small and meaningless.

I admit that it’s a nice day and already I’m starting to sweat. (Stop diagnosing me – I just feel uncomfortable when I sense that I’m either talking to someone who is disinterested in talking to me and thus burdening them, or the reverse. I think this feeling is a perfectly reasonable reaction to human autonomy, dignity, and courtesy.) It quickly becomes clear that this guy is a serial conversation-starter (on the east coast – how bizarre) as I learn that he is about to turn 67, has a girlfriend, his wife is deceased, his friend died of diabetes, he has diabetes, his diabetes isn’t that bad, one should really watch their diabetes if one has it, his girlfriend is 65 and is working three jobs, the location of each of these three jobs in proximity to our present location at Panera, that he is looking for his friend who is portly and 72 (here he actually pauses to wait for me to say something, wherein I inform him that no, I have not seen this gentleman this morning), that his friend comes by sometimes zero, one, or two times per day and he was hoping to see him, that his friend lives in an assisted living facility where you can come and go as you please up to twice a day, that his friend often goes twice a day and has to be home by eleven, that it costs $1450 – can you believe it, $1450! – a month to live in this place, the specific itemized prices of each of the additional utilities that his friend pays, that he himself wouldn’t mind living in such a place but that $1450 plus utilities is just out of the question, and so on.

Now my staccato listing of the ground covered in our “conversation” may make it seem like this went by in a hurry. Quite the contrary was actually the case – this man took his sweet time saying things and would often pause looking for the right word and repeat his information a couple times just to make sure it was clear. Which was just as well, since he had little idea of the appropriate volume at which to communicate verbal information, the product of either hearing impairment or too much time talking to himself (or very likely both). I often missed details or whole pieces of information as trucks were going by or some other conversants passed in front of us at high volume, but I was deep into smile-and-nod mode and was not really wild about dragging out the narrative or the pained nature of the interaction by asking for clarification.

It may occur to my readers that I am, in fact, heartless and cruel for begrudging this painfully lonely man a slice of my quiet morning contemplation time. Indeed, pangs of guilt overrode my general discomfort (I actually sweated through my shirt, which is challenging for someone as chronically cold as I am) at times, especially the times he said he would “leave [me] to whatever [I was] doing” and would “be quiet now and leave [me] alone”, both clearly products of feeling like he had imposed on other conversation partners before with his slow streamy monologue. Granted, he followed up those decisively conclusive comments with resumption of his meandering narrative almost immediately, and I didn’t really have reason to feel guilty since I was humoring him to the utmost. Although, to be humored isn’t really what we want, is it?

At the same time, he was pretty well precluding the chance of a traditional two-way conversation with the pace of his own commentary and his inability to really distinguish between the vaguely affirmative things that I said in response. It became fairly clear to me that his approach to oral communication was more or less hard-wired into this dysfunctional morass of information to be glacially ejected at passive listeners, the ironic product of not finding enough listeners in the past and being medically incapable of listening properly (he did admit to a hearing impairment at some point, indicating his right ear, which was sadly devoid of a hearing aid, making me again contemplate why so many elderly seem averse to such devices, prioritizing some weird perception of dignity over having functional interactions with others through speech … the second that my hearing starts to fade, I’m getting two big hearing aids, preferably in teal or forest green).

The question that develops from all this comes in two parts as I see it. One, how can an introvert properly treat strangers with the dignity they deserve and still escape soul-crushing small-talk? Two (and much more importantly, for my money), what can we do for the desperately lonely elderly in our society to build friendships and community as they become increasingly isolated by their own dispositions and the inevitable deaths of their existing network of friends and associates?

The first query is really unimportant and easily dispatched. While I am tempted to say that the answer is for me to wear a T-shirt when alone in public that states my status as an introvert and kindly requests that others refrain from initiating small-talk with me, I can actually imagine no better way of attracting the attention and verbiage of others than by doing precisely that. Maybe I should design and sell such T-shirts so that others may engage in this experiment, but I will personally refrain. The real answer is that I (and others like me, such as there are any) need to suck it up and deal. After all, this experience gave birth to this narrative exploration, which you are still reading and thus getting something from.

No, the important issue is what to do with an aging populous that seems almost predestined to be its own worst enemy in staving off the isolation and breathtaking loneliness of advanced age in America. I am not so short-sighted as to be unable to imagine myself in Pudgy Vonnegut’s place, approaching young strangers who remind me of myself from half a lifetime prior and besieging them with details of my rapidly becoming less interesting existence. (I am after all, a writer, and one who through this very medium here [the blog] turns the pen [keyboard] on my own life a fair bit.) And as fewer people feign interest, the frenzy to hurry the narrative and get the information out to someone, anyone, dear God please just listen to me for five minutes so I don’t have to tell my cat or the wall again, well this is just human nature.

This is the portion of our program where I should present to you some futuristic invention, such as the ListenerBot 9000 TM, which placates grandma so you don’t have to, or I unveil some wise social practice that seems so simple and was universal amongst the Huguenots of sixteenth-century France before they were persecuted for their compassion for older generations. Sadly, dear readers, this problem seems intractably elusive of either such quick-fix. I am tempted to say that the burden to solve this problem rests more heavily on the shoulders of those such as Drew, who at least seem to derive some utility from random interaction with what Barenaked Ladies termed “the old and the bored”. Of course, I also know that some modicum of Drew’s entertainment from these interactions is that he can gently poke fun at such people… I think he would have been far less likely to take on Minnesota Skinny without the ability to both make Greg and I feel uncomfortable and socially challenged and to make some sly jokes at Minnesota Skinny’s expense, while winking to Greg and I. Nothing against Drew – we all have our ways of making pedestrian aspects of our lives more palatable to ourselves and I would do the same were I naturally more extroverted.

But I’m not. And so I will cringe away from Minnesota Skinny and Pudgy Vonnegut and give the name “Jimbob” wherever I have to do so to order food so I don’t have to explain the story behind Storey (or worse yet, answer to Torrey, Stormy, Stony, or Stuart). And Pudgy Vonnegut will continue to accost strangers while his girlfriend works three jobs and his friend goes for walks around Princeton and wonder if anyone is really hearing him when he talks about the importance of staying on a proper diet for diabetics.

Good luck, Pudgy. I wish I had better answers for us both.

At some point, I will probably feel inspired to write more specific details of the second half of our trip just ended, replete with photographs and witticisms and anecdotes and the like. That day will probably not come in an icy fluorescent computer cluster, rolling past midnight and anticipating sleeping in an overwarm empty house, using twin six-foot pool floats as a mattress.

What I can offer you today, however, is the below summary of the trip, which I offer in equal parts to posterity and to you. I can also offer you this fact that I learned today: there is such a thing as pigeon racing. On the way to see the film “In the Loop” today, Emily and I were behind a truck full of racing pigeons. There is, apparently, no limit to the human capacity to exploit birds.

SUNSET to SUNRISE SUMMER SOJOURN 2009
Summary of Events

Day 1 – Tue, 7/7 – Berkeley, CA to Tracy, CA
Highlights: Departure, seeing all three apartments lived in during time in the Bay Area.
Movie: “Ice Age 3D” at the Grand Lake in Oakland, CA.
Book: War and Peace, Leo Tolstoy (begun before trip and only book read subsequently unless otherwise noted)
Night in: Tracy, CA (Home of the Guitar Hero)

Day 2 – Wed, 7/8 – Tracy, CA to Fresno, CA
Highlights: Going to the park with the nieces and nephew.
Night in: Clovis, CA (Garin Homestead)

Day 3 – Thu, 7/9 – Fresno, CA
Highlights: Detailed discussion of educational policy with Em’s parents.
Night in: Clovis, CA (Garin Homestead)

Day 4 – Fri, 7/10 – Fresno, CA
Highlights: Swimming and board games with the Garin clan.
Night in: Clovis, CA (Garin Homestead)

Day 5 – Sat, 7/11 – Fresno, CA (with King’s Canyon NP, CA)
Highlights: Boyden Cavern with rock-hopping in nearby river.
Hike: Small loops near sequoias (KCNP)
Night in: Clovis, CA (Garin Homestead)

Day 6 – Sun, 7/12 – Fresno, CA to Yosemite NP, CA
Highlights: Epic hike into Ostrander Lake, quick tour of Yosemite Valley.
Hike: Up to Ostrander Lake (YNP)
Night in: Yosemite National Park (camping, Ostrander Lake)

Day 7 – Mon, 7/13 – Yosemite NP, CA
Highlights: 6th wedding anniversary dinner at Wawona Hotel Dining Room.
Hike: Down from Ostrander Lake (YNP)
Night in: Yosemite National Park (Wawona Hotel)

Day 8 – Tue, 7/14 – Yosemite NP, CA to Los Angeles, CA
Highlights: Dinner with Russ at Mao’s Kitchen.
Night in: Beverly Hills, CA (Chez Gooberman)

Day 9 – Wed, 7/15 – Los Angeles, CA
Highlights: Games with Russ.
Night in: Beverly Hills, CA (Chez Gooberman)

Day 10 – Thu, 7/16 – Los Angeles, CA (with Altadeena, CA)
Highlights: Visiting Pandora’s summer home, epic life talk with Russ.
Night in: Beverly Hills, CA (Chez Gooberman)

Day 11 – Fri, 7/17 – Los Angeles, CA to Grand Canyon NP, AZ
Highlights: Loopy discussion with Emily about GCNP’s dystopian future, Em seeing Mather Point for first time.
Hike: Test-hike half-mile down Bright Angel Trail at dusk (GCNP)
Night in: Grand Canyon NP, AZ (Maswik Lodge)

Day 12 – Sat, 7/18 – Grand Canyon NP, AZ
Highlights: Returning to the Canyon’s trails, creek at Indian Garden, three-mile-house stop on upward journey.
Hike: Bright Angel Trail to Indian Garden and back to South Rim (GCNP)
Book: This is Water, David Foster Wallace (in entirety at Indian Garden)
Night in: Grand Canyon NP, AZ (Maswik Lodge)

Day 13 – Sun, 7/19 – Grand Canyon NP, AZ to Albuquerque, NM (via Flagstaff, AZ)
Highlights: Rim hike and shuttles, lunch at the Bright Angel Lodge, Em’s big driving stint.
Hike: South Rim Trail to Mojave Point (GCNP)
Night in: Albuquerque, NM (Casa Clayton)

Day 14 – Mon, 7/20 – Albuquerque, NM
Highlights: The Frontier and Hurricane’s, catching up with the parents.
Movie: “Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince” at the Century Downtown 14 in Albuquerque, NM
Night in: Albuquerque, NM (Casa Clayton)

Day 15 – Tue, 7/21 – Albuquerque, NM
Highlights: Touring parks with Dad.
Night in: Albuquerque, NM (Casa Clayton)

Day 16 – Wed, 7/22 – Albuquerque, NM
Highlights: Morning coffee run, El Patio, balloon puzzle.
Hike: Petroglyphs National Monument
Night in: Albuquerque, NM (Casa Clayton)

Day 17 – Thu, 7/23 – Albuquerque, NM to Colorado Springs, CO (via Santa Fe, NM)
Highlights: Seeing the La Plazuela in the La Fonda reopened, for better and worse.
Night in: Colorado Springs, CO (Marriott Extended Stay Hotel)

Day 18 – Fri, 7/24 – Colorado Springs, CO to Denver, CO (via Manitou Springs, CO)
Highlights: Waffle House, Manitou Springs arcade walk.
Hike: Garden of the Gods, Colorado Springs
Baseball: San Francisco Giants 3, Colorado Rockies 1
Night in: Denver, CO (Tess’ Place on Clayton Street)

Day 19 – Sat, 7/25 – Denver, CO
Highlights: Finding out about our moving van’s accident.
Movie: “Public Enemies” in Denver, CO
Night in: Denver, CO (Tess’ Place on Clayton Street)

Day 20 – Sun, 7/26 – Denver, CO
Highlights: Seeing Yana and her son, Lyle Lovett at Red Rocks.
Night in: Denver, CO (Tess’ Place on Clayton Street)

Day 21 – Mon, 7/27 – Denver, CO to Douglas, WY (via Cheyenne, WY)
Highlights: Epic mountain thunderstorm, wildlife in Moraine Park.
Hike: Lake-hopping hike shortened by thunderstorm, Moraine Park jaunt (Rocky Mountain NP, CO)
Night in: Douglas, WY (Motel 6)

Day 22 – Tue, 7/28 – Douglas, WY to Wall, SD (via Chadron, NE)
Highlights: Picking up Nebraska (state #47), Wind Cave, wildlife in Custer State Park, too many Harleys.
Hike: Wind Cave Natural Entrance Tour, Centennial Trail meadow hike (Wind Cave NP, SD)
Night in: Wall, SD (America’s Best Value Inn)

Day 23 – Wed, 7/29 – Wall, SD to Badlands NP, SD
Highlights: Wall Drug, Em seeing the Badlands, aborted scrambles down rock formations, just beating thunderstorm to set up tent.
Hike: In toward the rock formation (BNP)
Book: The Tales of Beedle the Bard, J.K. Rowling (in entirety in tent overnight)
Night in: Badlands NP, SD (camping, unnamed rock formation)

Day 24 – Thu, 7/30 – Badlands NP, SD to Sioux Falls, SD (via Mitchell, SD)
Highlights: Buffalo herds, rock scrambling, Corn Palace.
Hike: Out from the rock formation (BNP)
Night in: Sioux Falls, SD (American Budget Lodge)

Day 25 – Fri, 7/31 – Sioux Falls, SD to Minneapolis, MN
Highlights: Jolly Green Giant and DQ in Blue Earth, walking downtown Minneapolis.
Baseball: Los Angeles Angels 11, Minnesota Twins 5 (11 innings)
Night in: Minneapolis, MN (Churchill’s Palace)

Day 26 – Sat, 8/1 – Minneapolis, MN to Gooseberry Falls SP, MN (via Duluth, MN)
Highlights: Highway 61, Lake Superior, tree-climbing, campfire stories.
Hike: Around waterfalls, over rivers, and to the lake (GFSP)
Night in: Gooseberry Falls SP, MN (car camping)

Day 27 – Sun, 8/2 – Gooseberry Falls SP, MN to Minneapolis, MN (via Duluth, MN)
Highlights: Discussion of religion with Ike/Mo and friends, lunch in Duluth.
Hike: Along lakeshore and up to the abandoned fireplace (Split Rock Lighthouse SP, MN)
Night in: Minneapolis, MN (Churchill’s Palace)

Day 28 – Mon, 8/3 – Minneapolis, MN to Madison, WI (via McGregor, IA)
Highlights: Picking up Iowa (state #48), lunch at Latino’s Mexican Restaurant in McGregor, views of the Mississippi.
Hike: To various viewpoints of effigy mounds (Effigy Mounds NP, IA)
Movie: “500 Days of Summer” at Sundance Theater in Madison, WI
Night in: Madison, WI (Holiday Inn)

Day 29 – Tue, 8/4 – Madison, WI (with Wisconsin Dells, WI)
Highlights: UW campus, Wisconsin state capitol, the Dells.
Hike: Very brief “hikes” on Wisconsin Dells boat tour (the Dells).
Night in: Madison, WI (Holiday Inn)

Day 30 – Wed, 8/5 – Madison, WI to Chicago, IL (via Milwaukee, WI)
Highlights: Breakfast with Angelo, oil change and Miller Park visit in Milwaukee, Ray Bradbury Park in Waukegan, IL, nice hotel staff.
Baseball: Chicago White Sox 6, Los Angeles Angels 2
Night in: Chicago, IL (Holiday Inn Express, Magnificent Mile)

Day 31 – Thu, 8/6 – Chicago, IL to Detroit, MI (via Ann Arbor, MI)
Highlights: Walking all over Chicago, Michigan campus, Japanese food in Ann Arbor.
Movie: “Food Inc.” at the State Theater in Ann Arbor, MI
Night in: Detroit, MI (St. Regis Hotel)

Day 32 – Fri, 8/7 – Detroit, MI
Highlights: Walking much of Detroit, amazing lunch, People Mover, return to the Renaissance Center, fireworks at Comerica Park.
Movie: “Orphan” at the Ren Cen 4 in Detroit, MI
Baseball: Detroit Tigers 10, Minnesota Twins 8
Night in: Detroit, MI (St. Regis Hotel)

Day 33 – Sat, 8/8 – Detroit, MI to Cleveland, OH
Highlights: Rock and Roll Hall of Fame
Night in: Cleveland, OH (Holiday Inn, Airport)

Day 34 – Sun, 8/9 – Cleveland, OH to Pittsburgh, PA
Highlights: The most absurd “National Park” ever, 10th row 1st base seats at PNC Park for cheap, chess.
Hike: Early morning towpath walk around bikers (Cuyahoga Valley “NP”, OH)
Baseball: St. Louis Cardinals 7, Pittsburgh Pirates 3
Night in: Pittsburgh, PA (Extended Stay America Hotel, Airport)

Day 35 – Mon, 8/10 – Pittsburgh, PA
Highlights: Duquesne Incline, Carnegie Museum of Natural History, massive thunderstorm.
Night in: Pittsburgh, PA (Extended Stay America Hotel, Airport)

Day 36 – Tue, 8/11 – Pittsburgh, PA to Philadelphia, PA (via Carlisle, PA)
Highlights: Return to Dickinson College campus, Hershey’s “Factory” Tour.
Movie: “Julie and Julia” in Philadelphia, PA
Night in: Philadelphia, PA (Messily Manor)

Day 37 – Wed, 8/12 – Philadelphia, PA (with Easton, PA)
Highlights: Visit to Crayola “Factory” Tour in Easton, PA with Mesco/Afsheen (not driven by our car and thus exclusive of 6,206 miles), dinner at Ariel/Michael’s.
Night in: Philadelphia, PA (Brickhouse of Books)

Day 38 – Thu, 8/13 – Philadelphia, PA
Highlights: Mugshot’s coffee shop of slowness, reading, talking, lounging.
Night in: Philadelphia, PA (Brickhouse of Books)

Day 39 – Fri, 8/14 – Philadelphia, PA to Princeton, NJ
Highlights: Dropping off Ariel at the airport, Route 1 to Princeton, arrival.
Night in: Princeton, NJ (The New Place)

—

Wow, that took a lot longer than I expected to type. Please excuse the fun names I used for people’s various places of residence/hosting. And many thanks to those people, namely the various members of Emily’s family, my parents, Russ, Ike/Mo, Mesco/Afsheen, and Ariel/Michael. And extra-special thanks to Em’s sister Holly for helping us book Hotwire rooms from the road, which probably saved us hundreds of dollars. Seriously, we stayed at some ridiculously nice places for absurdly cheap.

Really looking forward to how hot it’s going to be back in our new place right now. This computer cluster joins much of the state, apparently, in over-air-conditioning the world when it’s a little hot outside. I’m going to have to carry a jacket everywhere in New Jersey summers, just in case I want to set foot in a building without catching pneumonia.

About a week into the trip and still in the state of California. The smart money says we better get out of here before the state officially secedes by printing its own currency. If you think IOU’s can’t be considered legal tender, you should consider that they have exactly the same properties that all our other tender does – people ascribe value to them and they are made of nothing tangibly valuable in and of themselves. But I’m getting all political and I haven’t even told you what I’ve been up to.

We’ve spent much of the trip with Em’s family – the Paul IV set in Tracy, followed by the Paul III set and Jen/Geoff and kids in Fresno/Clovis/Sanger. There was a whole lot of Transamerica, a pretty fierce board-game losing streak by me (I think my first loss of Puerto Rico among Em’s family in a couple years), and a lot of heat. It was hot enough for me to both wear shorts and get in an outdoor pool. As I commented repeatedly, it’s been seven years since I’ve seen summer. Quite a welcome change.

On Sunday, we wound our way up into the mountains above Fresno to visit Yosemite and get a wildnerness pass to camp in the high country. Emily and I have noted a devolution in the terms and practices of camping in modern America – “camping” used to mean taking a tent and a backpack into the woods and, after a decent hike, unrolling them for an overnight stay. Apparently this term has now come to mean driving one’s car to a parking lot and getting some things out of the trunk for an overnight stay within a stone’s throw of the bumper. Meanwhile, “backpacking” is now the term of choice for what camping used to be. And pretty much nobody does it.

I mean, not nobody, but it’s pretty proportionally rare. Legend has it that camping spots fill up in Yosemite between 9-18 months in advance, especially for summer months. And while the park deliberately keeps somewhere between 30-50% of its camping reservations free for same-day spontaneous booking (thus debunking the legend on face), it’s true that the “campground” spots fill up quite early in the morning, especially for summer weekends. Of course, close examination reveals that this is all for bumper-proximity “camping”, while there are essentially limitless wilderness passes for real camping, er, backpacking.

Of course, everyone could just be reacting to an up-sell practice from the local rangers that we only discovered on Sunday. Witness:

“We’d like a wilderness pass for one night and we’d love to get a suggestion or two.”
“How many miles are you looking to hike?”
“About four each way.”
“How about 6.2?”
[pause]
“Uh, maybe. Is it mostly flat?”
“Yeah, it’s kinda flat. I mean, there’s a pretty steep uphill just at the end, but it’s worth it. It’s a beautiful lake.”
[pause, wherein we realize that we could be totally screwed]
“Uh, sure.”

I mean, yes, we could have counter-offered and demanded four flat miles. But in response to our uncertainty, the ranger (who looked young enough to be my child had I lacked moral discipline in high school) waxed eloquent about the beauty of the lake, the grandeur of the views, and the quick pace with which we would conquer the mileage. We pretty much had no choice, lest we appear to this precocious thirteen-year-old completely unworthy of our wildnerness pass. And it wasn’t just about image – there would be a lot of regret if we wound our way through a runner-up mulligan trail that wasn’t so beautiful and did it with ease. We would always wonder if we could have done more. Plus, we’re still hoping to hike into the base of the Grand Canyon and back up (a mere half – or really less – of what I did in the summer of 2000’s fabled Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim journey), so I figured this would be good preparation.

But there are some big differences between the Grand Canyon and Yosemite, not the least of which is that one can see and evaluate the Grand Canyon before descending into it. The main difference, in July at least, is what one packs.

In Yosemite, the lows (even in July) are in the high 40’s or low 50’s, which necessitates your narrator packing a variety of layers. In the Grand Canyon, if memory serves, the low might hit 85 or 90 in the base of the Canyon on a cold night, while the temperatures otherwise hover close to 120 if there’s anything resembling sunshine about. Plus, there’s no real need for a tent in the Canyon, or a bear canister (required silo for all food and scented items to prevent Marpellian “bear country” attacks). And, I wasn’t reading War and Peace in the Canyon. Yeah, I know, this sounds like a bad joke. But I start reading it a few days ago and thought briefly about ditching it for a shorter tome for one hike only. But then I thought it would make a good story that I actually packed in Tolstoy’s epic on an uphill journey into Yosemite.

I hope you’re enjoying the story, because I don’t think it proved worth it.

Part of the problem, of course, is that our juvenile delinquent of a park ranger totally sold us a bill of goods. The 6.2 miles were almost entirely uphill, with exactly four downhill stretches combining for some hundred yards tops. The first 3 miles were a gentle uphill, enough to create a false sense of security to be shattered on the loose rocks of the grueling latter half of the trail. We spent the last mile and a half pausing every few hundred feet. It was laughable. Spurred by the promise of a shining lake on the hill, we pushed ourselves well beyond any predicted limits of exertion, only failing to collapse in anguish by the sheer force of will. Emily encouraged me on with discussion of a forthcoming sense of accomplishment, but I think it unwise to trust anyone who spent high school running cross-country in matters of endurance or the reasonable expenditure of physical energy.

Suffice it to say, of course, that despite this pain (and the journey was still punctuated by lovely views, countless butterflies [and mosquitoes] of many shapes and sizes, and an expanse of blooming flora, making it enjoyable despite the struggles), we almost immediately determined the trip worth it upon arriving at the lake. The lake (Ostrander Lake for those scoring at home or considering similar trips in future) was gorgeous, contained the cleanest water I have ever seen in my life, and surrounded by enough boulders of varying shapes and sizes to satisfy a year’s worth of rockhopping urges (this is one of my favorite physical diversions – slightly better on rocks nestled amongst creeks, but pretty good without rushing water as well).

We navigated a few boulders, found a patch of flat dirt already tamped by previous campers nestled between three boulders, checked for minimal frequency of ant tunnel openings, and set up shop. We were still in the setting sunlight and had a good view of the lake and only when the tent was set up did we suddenly realize how starved and exhausted we felt.

After a scarfed and inelegant dinner of snack food (we were certainly not packing any cooking gear), I headed to the lake to do some rockhopping and soon discovered that the only sound audible for miles (we were the only ones at the secluded lake, one of the joys of Sunday-night camping) were periodic bloops in the water, which it didn’t take long to discover as fish jumping out of the lake to swallow surface-skimming bugs whole. I immediately had to trek back to the tent (almost getting lost amongst the Rohrshach of boulders, manzanita, and dirt) to retrieve the camera and waste many digital shots attempting to get one of a fish mid-jump. I’m pretty sure I got one (the image is almost inscrutably small on the digital camera’s playback window), which I may upload before we leave LA if time permits, but paid for the shot with about a dozen mosquito bites and near discarding of the camera in the lake out of quick swiveling to the sound of bloops as they crested the water.

Then I returned to the tent where Em was already asleep, to read War and Peace as the light faded. I spent a good bit of time laying awake thereafter, failing to acclimate to the silence punctuated by wind rustling the rain-fly across our tent. The first night I go camping after a long while, especially when there are no other people around and I’m camping either alone or with Emily (I’m talking about this like it’s a common phenomenon, though it’s been unfortunately relatively rare), I tend to have a hard time adjusting to sounds. And when there has been much prepping for how to deal with bears, mountain lions, and so forth, every sound sounds like an approaching predatory mammal. I almost never have trouble falling asleep, making the process of having trouble doubly consternating in this environment, all due to a primal irrational interpretation of auditory experience. Suffice it to say that I eventually had to haul out the booklight and immerse myself in Napoleonic Russia to the point of lid-drooping exhaustion, which I should have just done in the first place. But it’s so easy to go from that state to adrenaline-pumping frozen listening with just one good rustle that sounds for all the world like an approaching bear.

The moral of the vignette is that I need to get out more. Way out way more.

As an aside, it’s interesting to trace patterns of fear over the course of my life. Not only have I realized a marked increase in weird fears and even random paranoia as I’ve gotten older, being able to at once rationally grasp that I’m going through the hackneyed process of becoming more conservative and fearful as I age and yet irrationally feel it all the same, but my fear of death may be at an all-time high. As someone who was pretty sure he had conquered such a trivial phobia at age eleven, this is both extremely disconcerting and supremely annoying.

The problem, of course, is that I like my life way more than I did when I was eleven. Don’t get me wrong – I had baseball and animals and my parents were very supportive. But I frankly spent most of the years between 11-21 being able to take or leave my life. I talked pretty openly about this perspective with a bunch of friends and family, to most of their chagrin and loquacious objection. And I simultaneously touted a spirit of fearlessness and triumph over concerns about mortality with intellectual trappings that I now fear were somewhat baseless, at least on a primal level.

I mean, yes, I had reasoned out the limits of this mortal coil, consolidated my reasoned belief in God and an open-ended afterlife, and come to accept how insane it was to truly fear the only surely inevitable result of life on Earth. It seemed pretty academic, and it was. And certainly my bout with suicidalism just before shored up my appreciation of life and my understanding of its fragility. All true thoughts that haven’t faded over the last 18 years.

What has changed, though, is an ever-increasing feeling that I have something to lose in this mortal experience on this planet. And the big difference between 21 and 29 is that not only do I have Emily, giving me a massively unprecedented reason to live, but I am now about to embark on the first open-ended stage of my life where I am doing what I feel I should be doing with my time and mental energy, namely in writing full-time. It’s hard to fully convey what it feels like to have felt like one is primarily wasting one’s time or building limited and mostly pointless skills for some unnamed and unmarked future for three decades. Three decades. I realize, of course, that most people live their entire existences in that state, often discarding the idea that they should even try to do something they feel called or driven to do amidst the endless compromises of their passing life. But to actually be in the midst of transition to that higher use of time and energy is to understand how vivid the contrast is between that state of being and everything else.

It’s a white-hot glow of excitement approaching euphoria, yet it comes with a burdensome sense of responsibility that mostly seems to be manifesting in really really not wanting to die. Which, frankly, is a newish feeling for me. So maybe this will help shed some light on why the wind rustling on the tent in the secluded wilderness bothered me even more than usual, bothered someone who used to brag about having cast out fear of death like a pair of shoes that no longer fit.

Anyway, morning brought an end to the fitful sleep and more pain for my already backpack-sore hips. For some reason, Emily and I have decided along the way that bedrolls are excesses in camping trips, given their awkward bulk and limited assistance. My hipbones are the only part of me that ever disagrees with this assessment, but they were certainly singing about it Monday morning. We had breakfast, relaxed by the lake (wherein Em managed to get severely sunburned reading amongst shining white rocks), did some rockhopping, and packed out. The downhill version of the 6.2 miles was a cool breeze, though the last 1.5 miles were painful (I think our self-assessment of 4 miles each way was pretty much precise, though hopefully we’re stretching out our endurance by processes like this). We then booked it by car to the Wawona Hotel, wherein our Yosemite experience shifted gears from hardcore wildnerness exploring to refined old-school hotel visiting.

Both aspects of the trip were fantastic and complemented each other nicely. The Wawona Hotel was not our first choice from the largely misleading Yosemite website, but proved to be by far the best option (it was the only place with vacancy when we booked, which made us sad right up until we actually visited the various lodging facilities). The oldest standing hotel in the park, the Wawona has retained most of its 1870’s appeal and appearance, and was replete with baseball-park-style bunting that bothered me less than most displays of American patriotism, probably because it just seemed nostalgic rather than jingoistic in this particular manifestation. We lucked into some really prime real estate within the hotel, a second-floor corner room of the main building, with claw-foot bathtub in-room and a sprawling green veranda(h) overlooking the lawn, swimming tank, and other buildings.

We celebrated our sixth wedding anniversary with a leisurely four-course meal in the downstairs restaurant, sitting outside on the hotel’s front porch as we worked our way through some pretty decent vegetarian food for a place aspiring to finer dining. The highlight was a lentil-and-spinach soup, but every item was surprisingly edible and the overall experience was exquisite.

The next morning (we’re up to yesterday morning), we toured a bit more Yosemite, including the expansive historical village, then flew down the mountain all the way to LA, with Emily picking up a good stretch of driving while continually telling me how much of her promised 8% of the total trip she was already fulfilling. Years of “splitting” driving on roadtrips with me have convinced her that “under-promise, over-deliver” is the method of choice, made all the more amusing to me in light of our wedding “sermon” that her brother delivered six years ago, highlighted by his apt and eloquent comparison of marriage to a long car ride.

Our slate is rapidly filling in LA, with most every trip to LA being somewhat similar but all quite rejuvenating and fun. I was going to note something in here as well about how I have really struggled to write about this trip while on it so far, but I’ve pretty well shot that theory to pieces with this post. Indeed, I have a green comp book with me that remains unsullied by written word as yet, despite my intent to write most every day. Perhaps I just haven’t had enough time for reflection until this morning, with Russ asleep and Emily dozing and reading. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the last eight years, it’s that I need time for reflection to write most anything. I’m hoping, however, that when Internet is less plentiful, I still have time to chronicle this journey. I guess my journals like this always get off to a slow start – I’m thinking of Russia ‘95 and India ‘08 in particular. Someday I will transcribe all those to the web as well.

For now, people are stirring and there are games and activities to pursue. I am elated to consider that we still have a month left on this trip, that it really has just begun. And that all of this is just prologue to the greatest adventure of all, my upcoming foray into the written word. No wonder I put so much stock in how well I can use same to track my progress toward that shining year on the hill to come.

Pray with me that I make it there against these weirdly resurgent fears that actually signal hope and promise of a future that matters.

As fun as the round I posted last week was about Peter Pan is as difficult as the round I post today was. Since we’re going backwards, this round was just before and earned us the right to participate in the fun one.

Debating lurid details of sexuality is never the easiest, but to have the most sexually explicit debate round of my life in front of my parents and Emily’s parents before Emily and I were even engaged was … challenging.

Now this round is for everyone’s public consumption so even more people can revel in Emily’s and my struggle to navigate these choppy waters. Good times.

Check it out:

Stanford 2002 APDA Quarterfinal Round from Storey Clayton on Vimeo.

Sorting papers sure is fun… or something.

In reality, though, nestled amongst years of dust and old bills are little moments, small time machines that immediately take me back to a precise day years earlier when I saw a movie or received a gift or just wrote down a prescient thought at an important free moment.

Little brings me such joy as these pieces of paper. Which is probably why I’m spending all the time to make sure I keep the important ones – and why I saved so many unimportant ones in the first place, just to be sure. After all, someday either other people will be gone or I will and those pieces of paper will be the only strand left between us on this planet.

But in our digital age, we’re not just reliant on pieces of paper. Though I did watch part of the History Channel series on “Life After People”, which reminded me how profoundly vulnerable both our paper and digital materials are (though I guess plastic soda bottles are forever). Nonetheless, while people are still around, you can watch videos like this.

This one is the second in the series of regressing Stanford 2002 debates; this time Emily’s & my semifinal round. I think this is my mother’s all-time favorite debate round (though she was only able to attend a handful during my career), featuring a contentious clash over the fate of Peter Pan, Captain Hook, and the crocodile. It also gives you a rare opportunity to see me advocating things which I pretty much don’t agree with.

Watch:

Stanford 2002 APDA Semifinal Round from Storey Clayton on Vimeo.

Garage Sale. Saturday. I need to pay my heart’s outstanding bills. A cracked-up compass and a pocket watch, some plastic daffodils, the cutlery and coffee cups I stole from all-night restaurants, a sense of wonder (only slightly used), a year of two to haunt you in the dark for a phone call from far away with a “Hi, how are you today”, and a sign: recovery comes to the broken ones. A wage-slave forty-hour work week (weighs a thousand kilograms, so bend you knees) — comes with a free fake smile for all your dumb demands, the cordless razor that my father bought when I turned 17, a puke-green sofa and the outline to a complicated dream of dignity, for a laugh (too loud and too long). Or a place where awkward belongs, and a sign: recovery comes to the broken ones. Or best offer.
-Weakerthans, “Everything Must Go!” (complete song)

Yes, I’m up earlier than I’ve been in weeks to get ready for a block-yard-sale in Oakland. We’re piggybacking into the front yard of a coworker of Emily’s since our place hasn’t proven to be the most marketable locale (though I guess we could always get some interesting traffic off of University). Lots of furniture and some random extra items, plus the attitude that pretty much no offer is too low. This is all about not shipping things we can replace for less than the cost to ship. Or that we might not need to replace after all (see, e.g., two stereos from our respective college experiences).

I already sold my 1,000 kg forty-hour work week, but I can offer this memory of same that I ran across when sorting through papers earlier this week:

I wonder what foundational document of the next phase of my life I may be creating even now, to look back on with a quiet sigh of wondering how much predominantly futile effort was yet to be expended in whatever direction seemed to make the most sense at the time. Without these pieces of paper, these organizational memories to bring order to the chaotic-seeming decisions of our lives, we would be almost nothing but a binary code of inexplicable choices. It is the context that recalls the free will that gives these choices, however painful or complicated or ill-advised, meaning.

And not to say that I have a collection of regrets – three years at Glide taught me much. But so did more than a decade spread across thirteen schools… it doesn’t mean that any of this was the easiest, best, or most efficient way to learn these things. And if I want to learn anything, it’s probably how to make the choice of easier, better, or more efficient ways of learning or doing.

This is why I keep the paper. And sell the TV.

You want it?

My house is a mess. My life is kind of feeling like a mess too. So much stuff. What to keep, what to discard, what to try to sell in a climate where there are no buyers. Challenges all. Piggybacking off of my weekend post, I’m inclined to just cut everything down to what fits in a backpack. But then I think of all the books and the possibility of raising a child someday without their parents’ collection of books just seems cruel.

Is that a strange reason to keep 10-15 boxes of very heavy books?

In any event, something I’ve gotten together this week is the resurrection of old debate videos that I have had on VHS for time immemorial (that’s what seven years feels like, at any rate).

I’ll be offering up one of these a week, the first is posted here: on ParliDebate.com, which is developing quite a trove of past debate rounds.

The one/week thing not only makes the releases nice and dramatic, but it’s because Vimeo puts an upload limit on things. The one/week thing will also likely be interrupted when we go on our 2009 Sunset to Sunrise Summer Sojourn, which is currently slated to commence on 7 July 2009. A full schedule of said Sojourn should actually be out sometime this week too.

I really liked the part where I thought I’d have enough time during this month to work on a lot of new web projects and revamping. At this rate, I’ll be lucky if I’ve packed two-thirds of the house by Jake’s wedding.

Or maybe I’m just demoralized today because lifting objects puts me in a bad mood. Always.

If you don’t want to lift your mouse-clicking-finger to go over to ParliDebate.com, here are the Stanford 2002 Finals for your viewing pleasure:

Stanford 2002 APDA Final Round from Storey Clayton on Vimeo.