The end of the beginning.

It's Sunday morning before the election. We just gained an extra hour of campaign time--and an hour, as big media insists on telling me, can make or break the election. But as I see, from this round little table in this caffeine hub, the election is already made (and broken, for that matter). If you haven't witnessed what's shaping up on the streets and in the hearts and minds of the populous, if it's not apparent to you yet, the shift is on.

This morning, whether resulting from the coffee or the cleansing rain--or both--the best examples of the shift became apparent. Here's a lackadaisical compilation.

1. Buttons. Buttons! In this fashionista-driven, uber style conscious society, who'd have thought the political button would make a comeback? But they're everywhere, and they're all Obama/Biden aluminium. They make yard signs and bumper stickers look like prehistorical relics. The energy of this campaign has made politics hip again.

2. Political Know-How. For the first time in a long time, political awareness isn't funneled through old and white and seasoned. It isn't about being told what's at stake and choosing between one or the other. This time around it's about being cognizant of the people and what we need out of them. My favorite part about the Obama/Biden ticket is the way it satisfies the needs of expansive democratic base while clearing room for dissatisfaction. People can support the candidate and simultaneously lodge complaints about what they feel still needs to be done. That's what hope does. It doesn't say, "Sacrifice your core beliefs this time around." It says, "I'll offer time to make room for that." I don't find that everyone's absolutely in love with every last word or policy the candidates are offering. I get the impression that we know perfection isn't possible. But I feel like everyone understands the stakes and how charisma and a brain give hope there will always be room to work on those differences.

3. The Self. More importantly, the role of the self. This is actually the reason I decided to make time to blog today. I heard a young man behind me in line professing to a friend that he met an Obama employee in Florida, got his number, and was hoping to find work there in some capacity soon. While he framed his anecdote in the familiar I'm-sought-after-because-I'm-qualified tone, I started thinking about what lies at the core of such a story. What I found was Obama's community organizer spirit and the drive and direction of the country when he enters office. This employee mentioned is a product of an organizer and his belief that through networking and service, every man, woman, and child can make a difference. While I don't doubt the qualifications of the man in line--he might very well be a political juggernaut--I know that same phone number was cast out like a net into the sea. It's realization of the Obama philosophy that everyone is qualified.

I'll be 26 in January. I recently realized this means that I've had a Bush at the helm for 16 years of my life. Sixteen years of a philosophy that not everyone is qualified; that some must decide for all. How can our elders wonder why the youth is so energized about Obama?

Here's how. I'm from a long line of conservative republicans; small-towners who want limited government and less taxes. Such political beliefs are sensible, but they're no longer what constitute being a republican. Republican policies have shifted into specified scare-tactics, a binary us/them mentality that situates every change as a threat. They claim that arguments for global warming threaten our economy of driving and producing (rendering public transit socialism and carbon emission caps as a clamp on free markets); gun control infringes on the God-given right to make food of an animal (and no guns means you're defenseless against pickpockets and terrorists); gay marriage jeopardizes the family (although we shattered that porcelain long ago). Keep running your own list. If you're republican, what aren't you afraid of?

The most puzzling thing is how those who argue for small government can claim to be republican when this is the administration that passed the Patriot Act. That's the biggest, scariest, most involved monster ever created.

Change is unstoppable, real, and constant. But what's left to complain about? Politics is again hip for the masses. Young voters are motivated. Voter turnout will shatter records. A majority of Americans do not want to fight in misbegotten wars. Common citizens are donating their money and their time for a unified cause. A man with a black father and a white mother is running for president. Never before has America looked more American.

Stephanie's Birthday

In somewhat crafty fashion, I whisked Stephanie away for her birthday weekend. Accompanying her birthday card on Wednesday she found a birthday greeting from a caricature of the governor. The next day she found, looming above the caricature, an artist's rendering of a bear. The two were half-assed clues for her birthday trip to the Black Bear Inn in Arnold, California. Here are some pictures from our weekend in the Sequoias of the Calavaras Big Trees.

The Black Bear Inn Bed & Breakfast

Stephanie inverting the once popular "Hug a Tree" slogan.

Me out to prove the legitimacy of the "Big Trees" title.

One of many tree tunnels.

Early settlers cut this in order to lure visitors away from the popular forests of Yosemite.

We enjoyed a terrific weekend. The B&B was both peaceful and elegant, and the amenities were awesome. We took advantage of the afternoon wine and cheese snacks, the on-site spa, the serene yard and private setting, and the close proximity of (quirky) restaurants. The only complaint might be to the trees themselves, who with the help of their sap and pine needles, constructed additional soles for our shoes.

An Open Letter to the GOP

Dear Grand Old Party,

I feel like the use of the word "old" in this letter's title is appropriate because I feel like I'm talking to an ancient version of myself. I mean, we're made of the same blood and bones, but we're just so far apart.

Like this whole Sarah Palin thing you're doing. I'm really happy to see that you've let a women into your fortress, but it isn't really all that groundbreaking when you remember we did it in 1984. It isn't really all that heartwarming to hear you proclaim your excitement, since, well, it just makes you seem old.

Then there's the pro-life/pro-choice debate we've been having. Really? Still? I'm not against a woman choosing to have a child, but I'm not for forcing a rape victim to conceive. Are we still having this conversation? Are you somewhere where they're selling leaded gasoline right now?

Which brings me to this whole "junk science" thing called Global Warming. Are you still denying it's existence? Didn't you put a VP candidate on the ticket who had the fortune of watching the snow and ice melt firsthand? It seems like she'd be a great way to perform your usual bypass of scientific community, no? I know, I know, I'm giving her too much credit by hoping she governed with her eyes open.

And I can't help but think about how this Second Amendment keeps coming up. We don't have any militias, so using the second amendment to justify gun use is archaic. Just wondering, are you arguing by candlelight over there?

And there are so many gay and lesbian men and women giving us firsthand accounts of what it's like to be gay that it's hard to take your curmudgeonly dated account of it. You live in a divorce-ridden country that reinvents daily what constitutes an American family, yet you push an agenda that attempts to define it. I'm having a hard time understanding your logic, old man, or maybe you're being drowned out by the fuzzy reception on your rabbit-eared Panasonic.

We in the blue have decided to take somewhere great, somewhere where you don't have to feel old and alone. It'll okay. It'll be like a vacation. In four years when you start itching to come back, you'll hardly recognize the place. But it's all for the best, because we're going to fix it up and keep it clean for your eventual arrival.

Now go pack your bags and then take your nap. We'll wake you up on a Wednesday in November.

Another Summer in the Books

A few accomplishments this summer went unblogged, and before I return for development days on Monday and Tuesday, before the little buggers come back into the room with big, wide eyes and nothing resembling a clue, I thought I'd share my list of what I've left out.

Work - I know, I know, you're thinking, This little brat has the nerve to parade across my cyberspace with tales of his summer and then leads off his summer wrap-up with work!? But I'm beaming. My summer started with early mornings, coffee until 11 or so, and piece after dynamic piece to build my curriculum. I've taught it before, but this summer I gave it wings. As I said when the summer started, the time to work without distraction is a benefit to the profession.

Leisure - For the first time in my life, I finished a list of books solely for pleasure. Last summer, I only made it through some of Steinbeck's stragglers and Fitzgerald's Gatsby. This summer, I broke off a bigger chunk, and found time to slide some extras in as well. The list and necessary annotations/explanations, presented in order, follows:

The Last Shot by Darcy Frey - I don't have many nonfiction pieces under my belt, and this was one I included on my Advanced English 9 class's summer assignment list. I can't very well ask for something that I haven't read. It's an amazing book I found way too late.

On the Road by Jack Kerouac - Duluoz and I go back and forth. I have to be in the right state of mind to read him. I left about 120 pages of this unfinished back in 2005, but with travel plans set for Wyoming and a visit with Matt for the Pyramid backpacking trip, I needed to rekindle my affair. I finally finished this and went right on to Big Sur, which I ate up on the plane flights and layovers between Sacramento and Jackson and back.

Bird by Bird by Ann Lamott. I took this in bits, and although I'm not finished with it, it doesn't stand as something in need of cover-to-cover completion. Lamot writes with great candor and humor, and for anyone interested in writing fiction, this should be book number 1.

Ape and Essence by Aldous Huxley - I maintain that Brave New World changed my life, so it's appropriate that I picked this up on a whim back in 2004 after reading the jacket. Like so many books I buy, it sat on the shelf. I knocked it out on the plane ride back from Hawaii so that Matt and I had more fodder for our backpacking trip.

Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury - I'm chopping through this right now, but I'm wondering if all the utopian/distopian/futuristic literature is really necessary.

Creativity - The blog has, in truth, become a monster. I didn't foresee the thoughts and ideas that would come up and find their way to the screen. While I'll continue to muse and update here at Erasure Dust, expect the thoughts and ramblings to pick up over a Pop Quiz, my "professional" blog, as well.

In addition to the blog, I completed some short story work. I'll admit, I have a hard time with the investment portion of the work, but I harbor an infatuation with characterization, so the exercise ultimately proves worthwhile. The Lamott book really helped with adding plot, something I almost ignore while in my own cloud of verbosity.

I also continued writing songs, which is probably the most satisfying part of my "creative" flare. Despite any training or talent (or conviction), I winnowed a collection into another disc for friends, family, and interested parties. Unlike previous discs, this time I included a miniature booklet of lyrics to help prop the thing up.

Play - Aside from what I've previously showcased (Pyramid and Jeep Jamboree), Stephanie and I enjoyed a June weekend camping on the West Fork of the Carson River where we hiked part of the Tahoe Rim Trail to Dardanelles Lake. As you've seen, we tallied up the miles in Hawaii as well. Additionally, Stephanie and I are in training for the Cowtown Marathon (well, the half-marathon anyway). I racked up some high altitude miles in Jackson, and have since been seen looping William Land Park on a regular, sweaty basis. We're in incremental training now for the remaining weeks leading up to October's event.

Additionally, I've joined a softball team called the Hunter-Gatherers. We'll be playing in a men's league on Friday nights at the Sacramento Softball Complex on Howe Avenue. You probably won't see us because of our kick-ass uniforms though.

Support - The summer also included/will include plenty of unions. I was a groomsman when my college roommates Brittany and Sol finally tied the knot in Coloma. Friends Sage and Emily are up next, followed by Melissa and Michael, and then Carrie and Scott. The summer of love, indeed.

All in all, it's been another amazing summer. I'm rather sad to see it go, but I'm ready for the challenges and fun ahead.

No News is Good News.

We open this tale with Ken, a naïve middle-schooler who likes to keep to himself. His teachers love his tenacity, how his work, while not the finest in quality, is always timely, dependable, and thorough. Often, Ken lingers after school. He likes watching the 7th grade boy’s basketball games because no one bothers him there. Ken is content; he knows things around him are changing, and he’s okay with letting his adolescent bubble adapt and form to the constraints of the times.

On a day like any other, we find Ken in the gym, catching another basketball game. In strides our antagonist, Bull, a junior in high school with a leather jacket, a fast car, and no business in a middle school gym. But truthfully, his business is the middle school, as the the crowd there represents the largest chunk of his drug sales profit. Naïve Ken doesn’t know Bull—he’s never seen him, in fact.

Bull strides along the out-of-bounds line and steps up into the bleachers and sits just a few feet from Ken. He breaks the proverbial ice and, before too long, wraps Ken around his finger with promises of popularity, girls, and exposure. Never before considering these things available, Ken is dazzled like a customer in a magic shop.

After a taste, Ken is hooked. His work struggles, strays off topic and reads in a rather pedantic tone. His teachers note his increased isolation, but they’re so busy accounting for their other students and duties, they figure he’s just "finding his way."

This goes on well into high school. No one seems to know what Ken is saying when he speaks. They’ve seen him off with Bull—who dropped out during his senior year to sell drugs professionally—throwing and crashing parties with all too confusing enthusiasm.

Flash-forward to adulthood, and while all those who grew up with Ken rush off to their jobs and families and busy schedules, Ken is apart--off in his own universe, feeling self-important and necessary. He’s ultimately ignored now since the masses around him have seen and heard it all before. So Ken, wallowing in the false hope that opportunity knows his address and might one day ring his doorbell, sits and spews his nonsense for any who will listen. Only no one does.

---

And here we are, at the end of a familiar allegory, and even I'm wondering if I've lost you.

As my eyes bounced between the glowing plasma screens at the gym last night, I started thinking about my previous blog concerning the Olympics, the finger-tip accessibility of technology and information, and all the televised news falling in a constant, muted rain on the exercise equipment. I went home and fired up the computer. My handy MacBook dictionary widget defines "news" as newly received or important information, esp. about some important events. I wondered if the definition is modernly true?

Print news, in the traditional and tangible sense, only gets one shot, so the relevancy must hit the mark. Newspapers and weekly magazines find themselves bound to the presentation of information and important events in a self-contained, limited body. And though some might find the black and white print the dying Dunder Mifflin of the news industry, there's still reason to value such a restricted model in an otherwise unrestricted universe.

So I'll fess up. Ken represents CNN, a nice little news organization working hard to present the textbook definition of the news. (Of course, Ken represents all major news organizations, but Ken/CNN is too get to unlink.) Bull stands for cable television(pronounced kay-BULL), a player who convinced Ken and his other newsy buddies they'd be better off with their own channels, 24-hour news desks, and pundit-punching programs.

We all used to like Ken and his kind; before we realized drugs were ruining him, we thought he was pretty cool. He had it going on. We'd turn to him when we needed a dependable fix, some of the good shit. Now we'd rather not, as the ranted puking and mewling is fraught with frivolous polls from countless correspondents adding opinion to open-ended promptings.

So much attention is given to the irony of reality t.v. that conversations about modern news coverage remain silent. We all know that so-called reality television isn't actually reality, per se, but clever editing, handpicked story lines and home-brewed drama. (The paradox of it all is that it's become our reality--but I'll leave that for another time.) But anymore, the televised news isn't giving us important information as much as its documenting the happenings of people for a flickering public spotlight.

I love how old the idea of boring and fabricated news is. I marvel how entertainment value, ratings, and dollars somehow craft what we see. I even like watching the Daily Show every night just to count how many major cable news telecasts Stewart's production crew splices together to compile the repeated "something" made from nothing. I love the fundamental contradictions, how even those camping with attention seekers are contrarily calling for reprieve.

The news-driven political arena and all its gladiators like to think themselves mightier than the nonsense of popular reality-based television programming, despite how recent slandering paints it all the same color.

So Ken is just another burnout reeling in too much Rick James and Miami Vice. Cable news channels are just reality shows set in a studio with a three-camera format.

You thought the allegory was familiar? The moral is worse: "Say No to Drugs."

Surely Nations Will Gather, but Families?

I recall the scramble to take off my shoes, the rush to fill a glass with chocolate milk or soda, and the feeling of coarse carpet rubbing on my forearms as I sprawled out on my belly on the living room floor. I'd bunch the pillow between my hands, shove it beneath my chin, and wait. My brother would follow suit, and our parents, not far behind, commanded us to slow down. But how could we? We'd waited four years in isolation; four years deprived of any knowledge of world competitions, international play, or sight of foreign face or color. And despite their pleas for us to relax, the excitement of our parents was equally undeniable. They had, after all, had a hand in crafting an aura and zeal for the games.

But like Bill Bradley noted in last week's Leading Off column, the idea that families will gather 'round the tele and share the global experience is fading--if it's not completely gone already. The upcoming results of Phelps' first two or three races? I'll probably grab those from ESPN.com and send out an e-mail. The Redeem Team's opener against China? I bet I'll hear the final, the leading scorers, and stats and highlights on the radio long before I hit play on the DVR, more than a day after the actual game, in a last-ditch effort to be involved. I suppose it's another glaring sign of the times.

It's hard to make the effort with so much on our plates, and although our viewing came far later than the live airing, we on 7th Avenue gave it the traditional go on Friday night. There we sat: Steph, Zoe, and myself, watching the magic unfold in Beijing. The color, the grandeur, and size of the spectacle were utterly amazing. The symbolic unity of the performers and the rich collaboration of a country determined to both impress the world and convey its message, its history, and its harmony did not disappoint. At times, I didn't know if I was moved to tears by the games themselves, or by Zoe's dander reaching my eyes, (though I like to think it was the show).

My brother sent me a text message during the ceremony that spoke volumes about the meaning of the games for my family. Watching NBC's Bob Costas narrate the ceremony, his message read, "If this is Michael Jordan's final chapter, what a way to close the book," a quote we loosely translate from the 1998 NBA Finals (I know Costas tried to say something metaphorically prolific, but all I can find is a clip in which he says, "If that's the last image of Michael Jordan, how magnificent is it?"). The message was heartwarming. The fact the my brother reached down into our childhood and pulled out a little gem to link our youthful passion to the 08.08.08 spectacle is an endearing reminder of the importance of sports and competition as fodder in our family.

All human rights issues aside, I think it's quite extraordinary that the country hosting the games has such a rich and mysterious history. As act after breathtaking act unfolded, Stephanie noted that everything we watched was actually a highlight of a historical highlight. That is, the ceremony did its best to encompass 500 years of history and value in a matter of hours, unveiling tip after tip of bergs in an unfathomably extensize ice field. Thousands of performers--none of whom were repeated, as organizers admit there's no shortage of people in the country--communicated the country's theoretical unity, its threatened harmony, and global appeals for redemption. Moreover, I found it particularly stunning that such technological wonders were balanced with a seemingly endless precision and flawless display of (hu)manpower.

A contrast noted: On one hand, I enjoyed seeing so much national pride. I didn't grow up during the Red Scare or the Cold War, so I don't have an inborn fear of communism. That said, I can admit an admiration of such a high level of nationalism evident in the actions and on the faces of the hosts. What I saw was undeniably impressive. Inversely, I started thinking that democracy and the fundamentals of our national fabric permit--even promote--a light switch approach to patriotism. We flick our pride on and off at will. While we are a nation founded in dissent, the Chinese thrive on the believe that such behavior is detrimental.

The Chinese put on a show, and like any show, it was crafted, directed, edited, and formatted to fit this screen. I know there's more here than meets the eye, and after watching the spiraling ignition of the flame and reflecting on the achievements of the ceremony, I couldn't help but wonder what would unfold as the games began. Like Rick Kushman, another Bee columnist, I wonder how our American values and our media-driven society will react to the levels of pride and nationalism the host country will undoubtedly continue to tout. Back on April 2 and again on August 7, Kushman speculated whether the media covering the games would seize the opportunity to bring human rights issues to global--and let's face it, American--eyes. Watching the games and soaking up the host country's pride, I too wondered if audiences would see any images that might tug at the strings attached to the core of their democratic hearts.

Will NBC show all us what remains to be seen? Will media show us its mettle? And if it succeeds, is there a family without scheduling conflicts available to savor the lesson?

Up, Gross, and Personal.

Sacramentans love their "Second Saturdays." To clarify, on the second Saturday of each fair-seasoned month, Midtown throws its own little art and wine party. Did I say little? Numerous storefronts beam aglow, gallery doors stand ajar, and pedestrians spill off the sidewalks and mill through establishments, crisscrossing the streets. Their strides weave in and out of various performers, the acoustic guitars rattling, drums beating, full bands raging with full amplification.

It's hip. It's chic. It's the new Sacramento man, and everybody's doing it.

Party crashers are always welcome, and my often estranged but never departed friend from Placerville, currently wrapping a summer tour with two other performers, found his way into the Atelier Boutique on this second Saturday of August 2008. I can't explain the excitement I felt at the idea of seeing a gargantuan figure from my past showcasing his passions during such a painfully popular local time slot.

And for a moment, let me digress and slap a disclaimer across the whole notion of performance art. True, there are some questionable aspects, and an open mind is absolutely mandatory if you're to glean any enjoyment from the processes of its presentation. I've learned that marching into the audience with any disassociation or disconnection from the "art" only ensures I sit for a seemingly endless stint in hell. The disclaimer is this: you must permit yourself to let the art exist and affect or you'll wind up hating yourself for agreeing to attend. That said, beyond the pure support of my friend and his passion, I bought in to the work and the effort and the time and the sweat of the performance, and entered the show prepared to do whatever necessary to help and believe.

It was a good thing I decided to engage because the It Speaks project's second summer of the Hello Show, or Hello Sacramento! as the title changes based on location, isn't a scripted performance. The format best resembles a traveling talent show; a hilarious emcee (tonight it was Janice, a librarian breaking the acts of citizens from the fictional town of Strawberry), introduces a parade of awkward small-town residences performing odd-ball gags, quirky songs, interpretive dance, even a short lecture on the cosmos. Like the name, the show adapts to the location.

The spoofs are varied, the characters all unalike. The natural feel and flow of the unscripted show is engaging, and throughout the performance, it's clear the actors are working their professionally-trained asses off. Their physicality and concentration is intense. The audience responds, creating drum beats to "jam" with the instrumentless rock band; they provide nouns, verbs, and adjectives for the MC to create her very own location-specific song; they cringe during the close-quarter acrobatics; they hold the floor and liven the Q & A sessions. It's not a troupe of drama club dropouts; these are hardworking students, working to earn advanced degrees and MFAs from prestigious schools.

The show garnered strong support, 10 or 15 of the young and open minded filled the cramped foyer behind Ateliers. It was great to watch old and new friends dedicate their night to the pursuit of their passion. Watching these out-of-town performers come out for the River City's favorite street party and share themselves was a joy. They were happy, eager to explore, and clearly live comfortably outside a world of fixation or patterned predictability.

***

So all this art, all this wholesome community engagement, all the sweat, blood, and tears comes with a price. Tonight's price was the opening act--the only opening act on the Hello Show tour through California. Liken the situation to a band rolling through small venues in major cities; essentially, the Hello Show had little knowledge of the first act.

She's on stage with a microphone, its chord wired through an effects pedal. She's plugged a discman into a large amplifier. She's in a loose red dress that gives way to green tights covering her awkward legs until they reach her pigeon-toed feet, covered in dusty, ruby slippers. A conspicuous red mask covers her face. She pushes play on the discman, beginning distorted and weird selections. There's even a warped version of a track from Mary Poppins which allows her to wander through the audience and stroke particular faces (mine included). The tracks go on, and she marches around the room and maintains a dialogue through her microphone. There's no telling what she says; it's nothing but garbled, echoed squeals. I'm told this part is pretty regular.

The "show" persists. She marches on, pulling up her dress to show off the panties she's wearing over the tights. There's a patch of pink fur, like a chunk of the Abominable Snowman's hair in faded dye, that she runs her hands through. The audience giggles at her new gag, but I find that it the kind of thing even an open mind can't remedy. The track blares and muffled screeching goes on.

And then, this disaster starts falling apart. She chirps away from under her red mask, and down go the tights, interior underwear along with it. She stumbles around in her red dress, the tights stuck at her knees. And her shedding reveals her red maxi pad, resting on her partly-removed knickers suspended between her knees. I can't leave because my friends are going on. Everyone else is letting her stumble around like it's something they've seen before, but they couldn't have possibly seen this before.

And there's the drone of her eeeee eeeeee eeeeeeeeeeeee eeeeeee from the amp. And there's he yelling and her red mask; and her red, thrift garb and her faded ruby shoes; and her red aunt Flow. She cocks her hips to the side and pulls the pad from its suspension. It's there between her thumb and index finger, and as the crowd squirms, she flings it into the audience, cringing just feet away!

The man next to me leaned in and asked, "Are you okay?" NO! NO! NO! I think, as the show goes on. Really, I respond, "Should I be?" He tells me he's seen her "performance" before, and he's never seen that, but admits he's a bit bored now.

It must've been her grand finale, because her yelp session ended and she took her bow.

Thankfully, the artists of Hello Sacramento took the stage, unabashed, and saved the night, the art, and all that is legitimate in the world. At the show's conclusion, other locals told me yes, the opening act's cycle was legit, and no, it has never happened before. "She's smashed hamburgers in people's faces and thrown eels on the crowd though." Art? Do you mean harassment? Does the shock factor include line crossing?

So before the nightmares begin, I write this solemn blog and reach out to my friends.

Dear Hello Show: Take me back to Strawberry!

Writing a Personal Victory on Someone Else's Battlefield.

Howard Zinn has amassed a body of work by examining the stories below historical blankets of victory. History, he asserts, is written by the victor; therefore, his literature and lectures focus on illuminating the tribulations of the common people. Though far less revealing than Zinn's typical subject matter, I couldn't help but wonder, as I returned from the 30th Annual Jeep Jamboree this week, how he'd go about discovering the people's history here amid the ongoing battle between humans and mother nature.

First, a brief Rubicon history lesson. Lest you forget the trail, commonly referred to as "The Devil's Playground," was a public highway that linked the budding gold towns of Old Dry Diggins (Placerville), Coloma, and Growlersburg (Georgetown) to the wonders of Tahoe. The route was carved through what was essentially old trapper roads and Native American migration routes. It crosses open granite faces, skirts rugged mountain lakes and streams before tumbling (literarlly) down into the lush valley of springs along the Rubicon River, then climbs up and out toward the deep blue gem of the Sierras. Rubicon Springs itself housed a popular retreat hotel, accessible, at one point by a car or two, from both the Georgetown Divide and the west side of Lake Tahoe. It wasn't until 1953, after residents of Georgetown decided to boost local economy by hosting an organized Jeep tour along the trail, that the area reached its fame. On August 29, 55 Jeeps with 155 participants ventured from Georgetown on a two-day trip that is now known as "Jeepers Jamboree 1."

Eventually, word spread. Jeepers Jamboree is now a business, very recently celebrating it's 56th year of rock rolling. Demand grew so large that in 1978, the company created a second, smaller "Jeep" Jamboree (with which I am associated) to accommodate the intrigue. Others followed suit. One of the trip's originators, Mark Smith, established the offshoot Jeep Jamboree USA. More groups formed. The Lake Tahoe Hi-Los, Friends of the Rubicon, Toys on the Rocks, and the Clampers, to name a few, all wanting their tire tread stamped along the world's premier OHV trail. Just begin to consider what the Rubicon Trail has done for Chrysler, and it's easy understand the astronomical impact of, essentially, a pile of friggin' rocks.

But where there's conflict, there's a story. With a name like "The Devil's Playground," it's not hard to see how the challenge of the trail has evolved, for many, into a battle of good-versus-evil. And after watching so many dump so much into tires, axles, drive lines, springs, air lockers, and fenders, it's clear that many consider it a battle worth fighting. Jeepers treat the road like a surfer treats the tide. You respect it; you work with it; you don't piss it off.

It's a powerful, all-consuming sonofabitch, and this year, I'm finally willing to give it some credit. However, the props I'm willing to allot "The Grandaddy" of all off-road trails do not stem from any personal battle with its boulders; I didn't recently struggle through its challenging course or falter before eventually emerging victorious. I just felt it there, welcoming me back.

Beyond my 9-year history with the Jamborees, the trail is a well of memories. It hosted my family's annual Kid Trip (eventually dubbed the "Heathens from Hell Trip." Yes, we have t-shirts to prove it). The trip was an unfixed number of camping families sharing a weekend until it eventually swelled in size, not unlike the Jamboree itself, and crumbled under its own immense weight. It's the road on which I took my driver's test as a white-knuckled six-year old on his father's lap, steering a '77, shit-brown Landcruiser through the trees. I learned the values of moderation, sixteen years old and sneaking tequila into my orange Crush soda. The adults around me knew what I was up to, for they'd done it in similar style, and they kept their distance while I learned my lessons.

I've grown up in the presence of other Jamboree crew members; they're uncles and aunts and cousins and family friends. Like me, they're saturated in the traditions of the trail. They stop to admire the view from Observation Point, where at least one good friend must start his "Observation Point Mix" (which opens with an amazing Rusted Root track, by the way) to establish a mood for his descent into camp. Passersby pull over to pay their respects with a beer at Sid's Grave (in memory of Sid Mainwaring, who was a Forest Service employee and Jamboree committeeman, and relative/friend of many Jamboree employees). Brothers and sisters talk of their first solo trips on the trail, reminiscing about the feeling of being dropped off at Loon Lake at 15 years old, driving their future CJ-5 across trail they'd only seen from a passenger seat, only to be picked up again in Tahoe and shuttled home legally. It was the tradition of it all--not the trail itself--that eventually brought me to my knees.

So while so many find themselves out to conquer to Rubicon, intently burning through credit card receipts and repair bills in the hopes of taming the Rubicon, I'm just hoping the tradition finds a way to live on. It's no secret that years of attempting to tame it have had destructive consequences. Recently, high counts of fecal coliform in the soil closed access to Spider Lake. In many places, oil and fluid stains the open granite slabs. If one dragged a magnet through the rocks and rubble, they'd find shreds and shavings and bolts and brackets hidden in the dirt and tracks. Erosion continues to uncover new rocks and create new obstacles, and the technology of increasingly larger off-road behemoths continues to push the boundaries of exploration--often off designated trail. The results of public usage on a county road--no matter how pristine the environment around it--are unavoidable.

And so far, mother nature, with the help of local government, is winning.

So what would Zinn say about this mess? How would he classify my attempts to write my own history on such an unstable battle ground? How can I find a footing to tell of my own tradition while, all around me, people are seeking bigger and badder ways oust the Devil and from his dark playground?

Unfortunately, like most of our recorded history, you'll find a simple page with a familiar formula: a winner, a loser, and a date. The stories we told from way in the back, our inspired retellings of small-town families and time-honored traditions, will fall silent as our attention is drawn toward the swirling back and forth between the two culprits in the foreground. And real history, we realize, is never that simple.

In the Shadow of Mountain and Man.

It was there in photo and in story. It loomed overhead every time we chugged up the winding road to South Lake Tahoe, always too distant to fully grasp, yet too monumental to ignore. All year long its snowmelt cascaded down to the highway in an awesome display, inspiring even the most ignorant of wayward traveler. I'd listen to the retellings of my father's post-high school adventure up its face; how he and his friends set off with gear-burdened packs and Scotch-Guarded Levis. He showed me snapshots of the United States Coast and Geodetics Survey marker at its summit, adding an official seal to its intrigue. Pyramid Peak was always more than a mountain; it was a looming rite of passage waiting to bind me to wilderness, to the endurance of its struggle, and to my father.

This was the year. This was the summer.

By carefully avoiding hunting, fish gutting, heavy equipment operating, and prolonged exposure to dirt and mud, I know I'm a bit of a softy compared to my old man. With this all spinning in my head during the trip’s planning, I’d come to believe that my infallible father’s trip happened in a day. A day! Moreover, my research from a certain website led me to believe it could be done in a similar amount of time.

All excuses aside, I admit the trip into Desolation Wilderness and eventually up the giant rock pile was hastily planned. My good buddy Matt and I decided we’d hike the east face from Twin Bridges, following the Pyramid Creek Trail up Horsetail Falls. We’d stay to the left of Avalanche, Ropi, and Toem lakes and settle in at Gefo, the closest body of water to the peak. We’d relax by the water, plan the morning’s climb and full wilderness descent, and enjoy a nice dinner. Somehow, I failed to realize the final three miles to the summit meant a sheer scramble of vertical bouldering and a near 2,500-foot rise in elevation. All told, while day 1 included an afternoon trek of four miles and 1,000 feet, day 2 meant an ache-awakening three-mile climb immediately followed by a blistering ten-mile descent.

Somewhere before the ascent, I conceded underestimation, and was ready to throw in the towel. Matt wasn't, however, admitting that it would be unbearable to face my dad having not done what we set out to do. It didn't help matters that I was somehow convinced the guy'd originally done it in one huge push.

Did I enjoy the natural splendors, the star-strewn sky, the quiet solitude of the wilderness? Did my lineage, like a magnet, pull me through my vision quest as I resolutely marched into the clouds? One thing's for sure: I am my father's stubborn son, and despite the requisite planning flaws, I trudged on in enjoyment--or by God I faked it.

So with that, I present shreds of the trip. The photos below recount the all-encompassing nature of the ascent. You’ll see backpacking, camping, hiking, mountaineering, sight seeing, cliff scaling, trailblazing, and trail scouting.

Concern nowhere to be found, Matt is still not convinced I ever followed a trail.

Toem Lake, 3.5 miles into the journey, and far nicer than our destination of Gefo.

Consulting the map at something labeled "Kama Lake." Pyramid in the hazy background more than a ridge away.

Base camp, sheltered just below Gefo Lake.

Matt in the kitchen just before we lost the sun.

From left to right: cabernet, lentils, rice medley, and pita.

Looking down on Toem, Ropi, and the pointed shadow of the fabled beast.

Matt in repletion.

Me, satiated.

The calm before the storm.

I can't tell you what time we woke up because we left our watches in the car.

Matt scaling rocks above Gefo Lake without oversized backpack or complaint.

One of many heave/water breaks while scaling the east face.

I'm not even close at this point, but I've convinced myself I'm making progress.

The view became increasingly expansive. At the top of the image you can see the south shore of Lake Tahoe. At the bottom, a spec of Matt.

How sweet it is.

Looking quite accomplished, though still less than one-third done with the day.

Summit view west.

Summit view east.

A bit more in focus than the copy my father took nearly thirty-five years earlier.

You’ll notice no pictures posted from what I’ve built up as an extremely grueling descent. Truth be told, only three exist, and all of them were taken before arriving back at Gefo and rekindling our affairs with fifty-pound bags. (Ironically, the final photo from the trip is of a flower.) Naturally, the compulsion to document got lost somewhere between fatigue and delirium.

Hawaiian Vacation 2008

After six lovely days on the islands, we're happy to be home. Below I've included some photos from our adventures on Kauai and Hawaii. Highlights you won't see include snorkeling (turtles, eels, and countless gorgeous fish in brilliant coral gardens), time and money at the Royal Kona Coffee Company, more of the same at the Mauna Loa Macadamia Nut factory, and a crazy nighttime adventure to Volcano National Park's "End of the Road" (which included heavy rain, flashlights, and fickle strangers hiking craggy lava). Enjoy what made it!
A day's worth of travel deserves a mango margarita at Brennecke's in Po'ipu Beach, Kauai. I helped.

Enjoying the first vacation sunset looking back toward Po'ipu Beach Park.

Trailing Stephanie on a hike through the isolated Na Pali coast. This trail turned into a muddy, miserable mess.

Cliffside in Waimea Canyon. We hiked to the left lip of the waterfall pictured below.

Looking back at our destination. Estimated drop between 800-1200 feet (discrepancies permitted for obvious reasons!).




Sights from the National Tropical Botanical Garden!

Rainbow Falls, Big Island.

South Point, the southernmost point in the United States. Here we saw crazy local cliff jumpers and their sheepish children.

Stephanie braving the wind at Black Sands Beach.

Me capturing the millionth moment at Black Sands.



Another trip highlight: the South Kona Fruit Stand. (Get a smoothie!)

Our route through the Kilauea Iki Crater--across a hardened lake of lava.

The outpour from Halema'uma'u. The sulfur dioxide emitted is substantially larger than the previous day's.

Views of the ever-growing island. The lava meets the sea.

And of course, there are a million more, but you get the idea.

Not There.

Hawaii is the quintessential American paradise. It's a slice of heaven beneath a familiar flag. There's no messy exchange rate, no adapting to operating a car from on the other side of the road. There's no thong-laden, oil stained beaches, and there's no pocket translator. It's a string of islands offering different personalities and flavors, and it's right there off the coast of California.

For me at least, Hawaii's always been cloaked in a mystical aura. It's a weird cultural mural of Polynesian-hippie-volcano lore mixed with pure American commercialism. The state (or multiple states, as I see it) is all happenstance. It's an oasis the earth spit out smack-dab in the middle of the big blue Pacific. In my mind, it was always a place where the cars are Woodys, the drinks are mai tais, and the surfboard racks are never empty. You replace waves with a shaka, or the "hang loose" if you're from da mainland. It was a postcard colored in tanned white skin and tropical flowers, in Tommy Bahama and Jimmy Buffet slack. It was never authentically Hawaiian, though.

And growing up a white kid in America, Hawaii stood as the answer to the Whuddle I do if I ever win the Lotto? question. It was the place everyone wanted to live on elementary school MASH charts (actually we adapted it to C(astle)M(ansion)A(apartment)S(hack)H(ouse)G(arage)), right next to New York and Florida (the other lands fabled in cinema). Hawaii was the light at the end of any number of self-imposed tunnels, a prize that, when attained, could alleviate all of the ailments of a life of servitude off the island. Living out my teenage years in what I considered a small, boring town, I couldn't help but imagine an alternative to the Bud Light cans I found thrown in our driveway. I couldn't help but daydream about an end to late nights spent in parking lots discussing our lack of options; the sweet breathing to follow countless sighs at how nothing ever happened in The Ville. I figured anything with palm trees and smooth shore break would be better than what I was living.

Even as undergrad drew to a close, I continued to find myself fantasizing about a retreat to the islands. Unattached at the time, I put the island on my plate of possible temporary destinations. I thought I saw things clearly and simply. Work, surf, fish, live aloha. I convinced myself I could handle the tourists. I could cater to them. I was fresh off a stint in the hospitalities industry, so I could endure. Vacationing in Maui in 2005 only furthered my fantasy.

Actual life, of course, happened much differently. And thankfully so. In my actual life I returned to the islands, this time to Kauai and Hawaii, and do you know what I found? I found the result of my silly fantasies. Without even looking, I found those same Bud Light cans, this time littered on beach front streets. I noticed numerous groups of locals standing around truck beds in parking lots, presumably talking about how there's nothing to do. I found paradise--it's a string of small, boring towns surrounded by a steady flow of visitors and the same big blue ocean.

And I again learned my Gertrude Stein, as I tend to do from time to time. In her book Everybody's Autobiography, she recounts how the desire to visit her childhood home in Oakland led her on a fruitless journey on which she was unable to locate the actual house. She said, quite profoundly, "There is no there there." That is, what we concoct and envision rarely manifests exactly the way we hoped. Like Stein, I went on vacation hoping to enjoy the paradise I'd constructed in my mind. Instead, I felt the familiar strain of perpetual human longing. I saw general dissatisfaction surrounding tiny glimmers of hope. It's all the same, just in a different setting.

Actual life in paradise is no vacation. It's still just actual life.

Yoga for the Modern Time Traveler.

Not since CSUMB's free evening classes of 2004 and 2005 have I practiced yoga. At the time, I saw it as a hip alternative to stretching, something I rarely coupled with my frequent aerobic exercise and strength training. And, of course, the sessions were free. Undergrad, an endless mecca of identity creation, also allowed me to sample all things hippie, so at the time, free yoga seemed a nice complement to an afternoon of thrift store shopping, drum beating, beatnik reading, and granola buying.

More often than not, these yoga trips were aided by, well, the other additive of green living, so it goes without saying that practicing yoga was never really about the breathing. In fact, I largely considered it an incense-doused guided meditation with friends. But, it proved an easy place to give in to the practice itself and enjoy experiencing a new way to let go of the world outside.

Now, no longer an undergrad and no longer desiring incense or thrift store t-shirts, I decided to again partake in yoga, but this time at the weekly yoga class offered at 24-Hour Fitness. Now a paying customer, you'll usually find me sweating it out like the rest of the lifeless souls who decided a gym open 24 hours a day is the nautilus of choice. Actually, I fit in surprisingly well there considering 24-Hour houses some of the most neurotic and image conscious individuals I've ever seen. (I concur with my friend Kaylan--it's a meat market, but you can't beat it for an evening of exercise with a side of people watching.) So there I found myself, in sandals and soft cotton waiting for class, momentarily stuck on the other side of the fence, looking back at a factory of sweating, heaving machines running their equipment into the grimy, dark floor.

The doors opened and saved me from more self reflection on my role as usual sweater/heaver. Setting my water and towel down, I expected some Nazi spin coach with a Madonna head mic to put on a down tempo house mix and start coaching. While setting up, I ran down my history: three years since the last unfurl of my sticky, purple mat; three years of inadequate quad and deltoid stretches pawned off as "warm ups" before any number of 6-10 mile runs or weight room tour; three years holding my yogic breath. This will probably hurt, I thought.

All said and done, the session was both challenging and soothing and exceeded my expectations. This time, feeling less like a hippie and more like an athlete exploring another facet of physicality, I huffed and puffed my way through the hour-long exercise. While considering all the possible differences I could encounter after my three year break, it was the one unforeseen details that proved the largest hurdle.

The adult mind--mine, at least--would not stop running its internal monologue during the session. (Perhaps the neuroses of the gym is in my brain now?) Ideas and thoughts ran on in a seamless line like tracks on a iPod playlist, and my ears rang with, Am I doing the pose correctly? Should I look like her when I do this? Did I pay my credit card bill?

Oh, inhale.

Isn't Friday so-and-so's birthday? What should I cook for dinner?

Exhale.

Oh. She's changing positions. My leg doesn't go as high as hers. Is that a cramp? Ahhh! It is! Shift! Do I need to go to the store?

It took me nearly an hour, but I finally turned the volume on my brain down. I either organized or ignored the clutter and gave in to the breathing and the focus. I am not yet willing, however, to consider yoga the appropriate time to do such business. I have too much hope that it's more of a purposeful time than personal thought time, that it's more about accomplishing the let-go than sorting through things so you can let go. Other time--driving, say--is a time for interacting with mental lists.

As the session ended, I opened my eyes and reentered the well-lit world refreshed and relaxed from roughly seven minutes of changed perspective. I felt pride for finally escaping my own boundaries, despite the time it took to get there. Victory tasted sweet. So sweetly effective, however, that I was a useless lump of thoughtless sighs for the next 90 minutes.

Therein lies the danger of letting go in a world so driven to perform. Once you book your ticket, you find the vacation too enjoyable to abort.

When I finally came to, it seemed I'd gone back to 1989: TV listings revealed another hideous Gong Show remake, Bush held the office of U.S. president, the words "troops" and "Afghanistan" appeared in the same headline, airlines folded, and Batman and the Joker were all the rage.

Cooking with Culture.

Anne Lammott summed it up nicely. "There is ecstasy in paying attention."

Though she was urging budding writers to act as recorders and conveyors of the human condition, her words undoubtedly send ripples that lap at all shores, no matter your place or purpose. Because it's true. The more you see, the more you allow what's around you to permeate your beliefs and self-created certainties, the more you're apt to learn and understand. And hopefully, in a cyclical sense, you find yourself more equipped to pass on some shred of insight to others who are, like you were, finding ways to observe.

My summertime attention-payment is putting me in debt. Everywhere I go, whether at market, running circles around a downtown park, or in quiet contemplation on a layover in Salt Lake City, I always find myself wading in the endless primordial ooze of my own cultural theories.

Today's observations are the result of Bourdain overload. Now if you don't know Anthony Bourdain or his recent foyer for television and travel , I can bring you up to speed in a New York minute: Lifelong chef writes on the side. His book is well received, so he decides to travel to far off places to explore the food and culture, using his name and cooking connections as a platform for his adventures.

And I must say, in a summer void of all things new in the televised world, it's been nice catching up on Bourdain's adventures. He's a bit verbose at times, silly at others, and always a notch below annoyingly self-involved. But recently watching episodes from past seasons (in no particular order because it's not necessary), I've noticed the ways the show creates a harmonic aura around the bonds between food, culture, and community. Whether he's eating in with a farming family in Laos, at a vendor cart in Korea, or at a rooftop party in the slums of Columbia, the show puts exotic notions of cuisine and culture to rest by highlighting the way food tells a story. Bourdain himself confessed the belief that when someone serves you food, they're presenting to you a version of their life and story.

These stories are made enjoyable because the show lacks a pretentious Western view commonplace in the kitchen. No Top Chef, this man is neither teacher nor critic; he does not descend upon the people and places to guide their culinary hand. He's no Ramsey, yelling and shouting in a chaotic madness. He shows the necessity and value of sacrifice, ceremoniously offing a pig in one episode, and shooting rice whiskey to pay his respects in another. He swallows grilled sparrow and smiles, not because it tastes exquisite, but because he's a guest in a foreign place and knows the value of respect. In same vein, he also knows the merit of fried food and beer. He complements the hands that serve him pig "poop chute," and he's quite liberal with his cigs.

It's great watching a man who refuses to dance get up and do so at the request of his host. He arrives and leaves as a quiet guest, merely traveling and paying attention, and asking viewers to do the same.

And the more I watched, the more I cringed--at its genius, that is.

The sad brilliance of No Reservations isn't apparent until you set the stories told in worldly episodes next to those that unfold here in the states. Aside from a the fantastic display of food and culture produced in Hawaii (to speak plainly, it's very unAmerican), and the Pacific Northwest (odd), Tony's work at home paints a bleak picture.

The underlying connection between food and tradition so clear in his offshore work is absent, and in its place, we're left with a hodgepodge of ideas and pallets gone awry. Invited to parties and celebrations in other countries, we see nothing of the home or the community in the states. In Vegas we're left with upscale casino discomfort dining, trips to shooting ranges and strip clubs. In Jersey it's more of the same, deep fried something-or-others and TV-based bus tours. Once cliff jumping in Sicily, now we eat grilled cheese and Heineken at a dilapidated Ho Jo's on the Shore. They tell the same story, but in undeniably different tones.

Cleveland, Los Angeles, South Florida... there's no continuity here beyond the fact that we're in a place where the culture is distance.

Now, maybe it is Bourdain overload. Maybe I've taken too much time to observe. Maybe that cultural theory muck is like quicksand, and I'm just shouting my last thoughts before going under. Or maybe this travel show from a chef's perspective is pretty damn insightful. But can food really be the glue to hold it together? Can we really only focus on sustenance as it pertains to self, family, and community, and still make ends meet? If we set our schedules to include setting our tables, if we decide that tradition need be no more than nourishment and good company, will the rest fall into place?

Truth is, we probably can't pull off a large-scale value shift. But maybe as we scatter our stones through life, we'll send off the kind of far-reaching ripples that return the favors of the ones we've received.

But then again, it's only a television program.

Summer Days, Drifting Away.

Who would've thought I'd sit here, in the finance- and grief-stricken summer of 2008, typing out a piece of choppy verbiage that recalls and makes relevant the words of John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John?

Tell me more, tell me more.

The summer's been oh-so kind to my mind. But as it speeds off like grease lightening, I'm realizing I have little to show for it.

Enter my third (or fourth, or fifth?) rendezvous with le blog. Bear with me, I can explain.

I'm a dabbler. Always have been, always will be. I am an accessory in the creative world; but a grain of sand in a musical desert, a leaf on the art tree. I can't write much more than a poem or a short story because of the grandeur of the commitment. Same goes for reading. Why do you think I stopped at Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire? It's hard for me to take a lot of what I do seriously because most of it only represents a momentary conviction. But that doesn't mean I'll stop doing it.

And that's why the blog and I should get along. There's just enough time and space here to record an observation, dissect an issue, or detail an adventure. There's no plot, no extensive revision, no performance-based component. I'm going in with the mindset that I'm writing a column, pure and simple. It'll be right here in print, and if you want to read it you can. I'm not charging admission, so there's no anxiety for perfection or to perform.

It's getting hard to send out 30-plus Christmas letters in which I hack down a year's worth of details into three nice paragraphs. I haven't even considered what this blog might save me on postage.

News flash to a dabbler desiring stability: "diligence"--not "grease"--is the word.