Tales of the Vagabond

This is the story of my five-year, mid-life crisis, ‘odd’-yssey.

It all started on Easter day 2000 when I was doing my best Jimmy Johnson, speeding and passing too close in traffic, when the towing mirror on my truck smacked the towing mirror of an elderly couple’s van. Why was I driving like a raving lunatic? Looking back, I now see that it was a triple-threat combination of a general malaise, 9 or 10 Beck’s Darks and about 1200 milligrams of Xanex.

Unfortunately, the Xanex had me so chilled that I figured that I could just pull over and resolve the situation ‘calmly.’ When I pulled over, the husband driving said: “Just throw me a twenty and we’ll forget about it.” To which I responded (with what I’m sure now was a Cheshire-Cat-from-Hades grin): “W’aall, I don’t got any cash.” At this sterling elucidation, the wife, in the passenger seat, exclaimed: “You sound drunk!” and snatched up her cell phone.

When the cops arrived… I was still feeling so composed I figured that no field-sobriety test could pin me down... Wrong.

The upshot; my second DUI, 22 days in jail, the impoundment (and subsequent loss) of my truck and here’s the kicker: at the time I was living and working at a Christian drug and alcohol abuse recovery center. Yes, they were singularly un-amused with my antics. Consequently, the car, the job and the house were all gone in one fell swoop; an impressive, self-imposed, dick-flattening trifecta!

But the loss of all my shit held nary a candle to what happened next. At that point in time I had been divorced for about six years, and my relationship with my ex and son had been a roller coaster of agony and euphoria (this is a blog appreciating the dialectic, after all). Ergo, this latest exploit put my relationship in a vault, clad in concrete and lead, buried 200 feet below ground and covered with a blast-proof shield. Done, finished... no recovery.

“No man is an island?” Hell, at that point I was a sandbar with a Bay of Fundy high tide bearing in. So I did what every good deadbeat-coward would do… I packed a satchel and hit the street.

My odyssey commenced in Lakeland, Florida where I joined up with a carnival heading north for the summer… I could go on and on about it, but suffice it to say that the stories you hear are true. I lasted about two months with the ‘show’ and ended up on the Acela heading from D.C. to my home territory of Wells Beach, Maine. With the financial help of a great-aunt, I set up housekeeping in a local motel room and soon found work cooking at one of the most prestigious clam shacks in New England. Unfortunately, by this time, four months of estrangement from my worldly goods and family, and living hand-to-mouth, had pushed my fragile psyche into overload. Surely I kicked ass in the kitchen, but I was chirping and squawking like a madman. My tenure in Maine lasted just over a month, and I soon found myself on a Greyhound from Portsmouth, NH to Taos, NM. Let me just stop here for a PSA: If you ever find yourself contemplating a 77-hour bus ride… don’t do it!

Taos played out much like Wells Beach. I assed up in a tent at a campground and soon found work at the famous Taos Inn, right in the center of town next to the Kit Carson hacienda. The chirping and squawking continued and my tenure there lasted (a little better) just over three months.

By this time, a still-salient section of my brain came to realize that I had reached a full-bore sociopath state. No more pretending to fit in. I hitchhiked to Vegas, lived under culverts and at missions, worked spot jobs and sunk lower and lower. After a year there, I thumbed to Sacramento, found work, chirped and squawked, hitched to Grants Pass, Oregon (more chirping) and ended up, finally, under a bridge of Highway 101 in Coos Bay, Oregon. By this time, it was late 2004 and I was truely beat.

So one morning, I arose, packed my crap, climbed to the highway and stuck my thumb out again. My first ride drove me about forty miles south to Bannon. My second ride took me to the border town of Brookings, Ore. Where I stayed on the beach for a couple of weeks, grooving on the fact that I had finally, after 46 years of life, made it to the Pacific (up until this time my travels had been limited to the Eastern and Central time zones). Standing with my tootsies in that great body of water, while imbibing a bomber of that area’s ubiquitous Humboldt County clippings, I started to realize that my ‘odd’-yssey had reached a culmination of sorts. Originally, I had wanted to pull the diagonal from Florida to the Columbia River, but I knew that I was done.

In my travels across the land, I had come in contact with a little mission in Holbrook, Arizona where I actually stayed for a few months and ended up helping them out (less squawking) with various chores like client intake, supervision and the ever-present cooking. I got on really well with the Director and had an open-ended invitation to come back should I ever ‘pass this way again.’

So now, my ragged mind figured that the hitch from the California/ Oregon border to the northeast part of Arizona would be just a hop and skip… A 1250 mile hop and skip.

It took a week. Brookings to Crescent City, Crescent City to Santa Rosa, Santa Rosa to ‘Frisco, Bakersfield, Barstow… Outside of Barstow, I found myself at a tiny truck stop with slim pickings for a lift. After two or three hours, an old-boy trucker pulled over and drove me the final 650 miles to Holbrook in a nine-hour stint. When I arrived at the mission in Holbrook, I immediately showered and fell into the first bed that I had slept in for the better part of a year.

What followed was four years of relative prosperity. I regained my ‘quasi-staff’ position at the mission and decided to give college another whirl for 'grins.' By the time 2007 rolled around, I had done so well in school that I had a decent job on campus, a tuition waiver and $6,ooo a year worth of scholarships to attend Northern Arizona University.

But…

The Ostrich Party

"Keeping our heads in the sand and our children in abject fear since 2010."






















Chew on that Tea-Baggers!

The Story of My Life

"Ooh, nothing is ever boobs or ice cream"
-Homer Simpson

Cephus: The Pebble

A million years ago, when I took Philosophy 101, my class had a discussion about the omniscience of God versus the concept of free will. The simple upshot of the argument, which rocked my world, was that you cannot rectify the two. If God "numbers even the hairs on your head," and knows all of what is, what was and what will be (in the entire UNIVERSE!), then your steps have been ordered since "before the beginning of time."
"In him we were also chosen, having been predestined according to the plan of him who works out everything in conformity with the purpose of his will, Eph 1:10.

His will, not your free will... Face it, literalistic Christians, you all are on a monorail of God's design, so you might as well buckle in and concede the ride, doo-doo sandwiches and all.

I cannot, however, agree with this premise, so I lean on a Deistic metaphor.
Deism, you ask?... Kindly allow the 'internets' to explain:

Deists typically reject most supernatural events (prophecy, miracles) and tend to assert that God (or "The Supreme Architect") has a plan for the universe that is not altered either by God intervening in the affairs of human life or by suspending the natural laws of the universe. What organized religions see as divine revelation and holy books, most deists see as interpretations made by other humans, rather than as authoritative sources (Wikipedia, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Deism#Deism_today, 20 May 2010).

So, here's the way my puny, little mind grasps it:

God is a cliff standing at the headwaters of a mighty river. I am a minuscule pebble that cleaves from the cliff and, plop, drops into the stream. Now, God knows that I will inevitably end up at the delta by the sea (heaven, hell, fate, whatever), but how long it takes and by what circuitous route through the raging waters I proceed... He does not know. His job was merely to set the pebble into motion.

So, do I believe that God is omniscient? That a being possesses infinite knowledge of an infinite universe? Come on... I already told you that I have a puny, little mind with limited comprehension.

So, to summarize my take on the Creator:

• All knowing? Nah.
• All powerful? My previous supposition nullifies that.
• All good? In a world where Glenn Beck is wealthy and successful?... riiight.

Crass=Bad

I was watching TV a couple of weeks ago and saw two movie trailers within the span of ten minutes. One was for a film called Kick Ass and another was for the film Date Night where the Tina Fey character was bemoaning a fate of being “whacked off” by the criminal (or criminals?) chasing her and the Steve Carell character.

A film with the audacity to scream kick ass from the billboard and a trailer that producers felt would have the most impact using a none too subtle masturbatory reference? I can just imagine Nana and the bridge club ladies choking on their tea and cookies.

Either I am becoming a classic curmudgeon, or the flagrant baseness of public television, these days, has finally achieved a level that even I cannot withstand. Come on people, how about changing it up and going back for a little discretion and class? Return with me to the days of TV yore, when married couples were required to sleep in separate single beds and the word ‘pregnant’ was a hot button of broadcast debate.

Yes, opposition to the repressed and puritanical attitudes of the 1950’s was an understandable uprising, but hasn’t the pendulum swung back too far? Don't we hold simple elegance in high regard anymore? Are we fast becoming a nation of callous little perverts who have lost any concept of common decency?

Hell, I guess the only way to get through to this crass generation is to call Steve Jobs and have him install a Miss Manners app on our iPhones.

"Wimmins"

A huge ‘uglove’ tip of the hat to the creators and producers of the new TV series Parenthood, on their choice of leading ladies.

You’ve got Monica Potter, the archetypical hot catholic schoolgirl as Kristina, the wife of the elder Braverman brother. Lauren Graham with her God-given artistic neurosis as Sarah, the eldest Braverman sister. Throw in a verrry sexy Erika Christensen as Julia, the driven middle sister, and the beautiful, racially ambiguous Joy Bryant as Jasmine, the love interest and ‘baby mama’ of the youngest brother. What a package.

A total di…no, quadalectic babefest.

Elbe Philharmonic: Hamburg, Germany

What’s really freakish here is the contrast between the new building—a liquidy-looking glass thingamajig—and the old building it uses for its podium: a stolid, workaday 1960s waterfront warehouse (Karrie Jacobs, Yahoo Travel, 13 May, 2010).

My new favorite building IN THE WORLD. A paen to dialectic thought.

The Monkey

In my initial post, I used the term agony and euphoria to describe the dialectic of my emotional life. There is one product, however, that has brought me my highest highs and concomitant lowest lows… booze.

Yes, to the whole wide world: ‘I am an alcoholic.’ Actually, what my friends and family may or may not realize is that I am an: ‘escape-oholic’ I think this may stem from the fact that I was anesthetized on the operating table four times before the age of seven... I guess I got comfortable with the whole idea of exiting reality.

Truthfully, if there was a substance, let’s call it droc, that was relatively inexpensive, readily available, legal, non-fattening, totally wore off after five hours of sleep and didn’t shorten your life span considerably… I would be a drocoholic.

As Huey Lewis said a hundred years ago: ‘I want a new drug…’

But, if you look at that list and think of the one that fits the first three qualifications the best (out of the big four: booze, pot, coke and meth)… it’s booze. Actually, it’s the only one that meets the lawful qualification..... Oh, at this point in the post my conscience requires me to pause briefly for a Public Service Announcement: LEGALIZE MARIJUANA!!!!

Consequently, booze is the most cost effective, socially accepted and easily obtained psychic rocket fuel. So this is what I use.

Yes, I know, right now all you sensible folks are thinking: ‘Pete, but what about sobriety?’

Yeah right, in a nation mostly populated by power-hungry, money-grubbing, narrow-minded, insensitive little weasels, I’m not supposed to have some form of mental and emotional escape, a form of automatic, guilt-free rebellion???

I’m sorry world… as long as this bull has testicles; he’s going to keep on charging at that particular gate.

Cahn't Git Theah From Heah

I have lived and worked for the last seven years in Northern Arizona. Northeast Arizona to be exact. If you look at a map of I-40 as it dips down (like a pimple) about seventy miles west of the New Mexico border, that’s Holbrook. That’s where I live. Of course, to call it B.F.E. would be doing B.F.E. a huge injustice.

Currently, I am working as a medical transport driver for the largest personal transport company in the state. It is called AAA and was started with two taxicabs by two Iranian gentlemen in 1982 (can anyone say: ‘Habibbe we must flee with our gold before the Shah falls!’). Of course, these guys have become phenomenally successful owing largely to their Draconian management style (but that complaint is for another day).

Now, as an example of said success they had to recently renew their fleet of cabs for the Sky Harbor (Phoenix) Airport contract, because Ford stopped producing Crown Victorias. So there I was a few weeks ago at the ‘shop’ espying 122 spanking new, hospital-white, Chevrolet HHRs. Just for the airport trade! The HHRs in question were lined up, waiting patiently for the paint shop to provide them with their fresh new glossy-yellow finery.

After all, Yellow Cab is Yellow Cab and only one of seven cab companies that AAA owns in Phoenix alone.

But I digress. What I drive is a massive, what I like to call: “Po’ Man’s Amalance.” It’s a 2006 GMC one-ton cargo van (the one with the 155" wheelbase and the 6.0-liter engine). What ‘Savana’ is used for is to transport wheelchair and stretcher bound people to and fro, often for hundreds…and hundreds of miles. The wrinkle is, all these folks are destitute and on Arizona State Medicare (Oooooo, the stories they do tell being all isolated and medically challenged. But that’s also for another day).

Okay, I’ve described where I live and what I do. Ergo my job description is: Rural Stretcher Transport Driver. Accent on the Rural.

And this being a blog concentrating on the dialectic, I’m sure you all can appreciate the confluence of conveying the largest van known to humanity while picking up people living off of the GRID.

Case in point: just today I had a customer whose address I couldn’t locate on Mapquest (happens a lot). Fortunately, everybody has a cell phone nowadays, so I call up my fare and ask directions: “Well, you come down off the hill (which in these parts means dropping from 7500 feet above sea level to 6225), and you’ll pass three mailboxes. Go by those mailboxes until you get to the two mailboxes. Take a left there (here is where I leave the pavement, egressing onto a washboard, gravel ‘County Road’). Follow that ‘road’ (seven miles) up over the hill (ascending back to 6800 feet) until you see an A-frame. After the A-frame you’ll take another left at the white trailer…you can’t miss it. Oh, and somebody tore the ‘street’ number sign down, so make sure to watch out for the white trailer. After you turn, go down a ways until you see a couple of junked cars… that’s us.

And guess what? I found his ass ON TIME.

I’m surprised the van still has a front end… but I found him on time.

Bio

A little about moi (yeah, I'm a French-Canuk).

First off, I am wayyy too old to be on the 'blogosphere' (is that term stale yet??). Secondly, I am a veteran of 20+ years in the restaurant business; a Mc'Donald's neophyte who eventually graduated to the Executive Chef position at the highest dollar 'Gentlemen's Club' in Orlando Florida (anybody remember Rachel's??).

Consequently, (oh yeah, there've been other things along the way like marriages, a child, a 4.0 university G.P.A. at age 47, a few years living under bridges, yada yada) I am a once sweet kid but with a natural French cynicism amplified by years of dealing directly with the public (mmmmm..... sweet and salty, the ultimate chef's dialectic).

So, here we go.

This One Should be at the Top!

Ugly 'n Lovely.. .

This blog will strive to highlight the dialectic thrust of everyday life, like a chocolate covered pretzel.

Sweet and salty.