Photomoon.

Barcelona, Spain:
Before our departure on our Mediterranean cruise, we spent an afternoon and morning in Barcelona. Our first destination was the famous La Rambla, a chaotic street stretching from the Placa Catalunya to the statue of Christopher Columbus at the edge of Port Vell. The street itself is a magnet for vendors, street performers, tourists, and pickpockets, but the narrow side streets hide classic Spanish architecture, an endless of sea of shops and restaurants in tunnel after shaded tunnel.

The next morning we made our way to Club Nou, home of the 2008-2009 European League champion FC Barcelona, which also boasts an ice skating rink, stadiums for Barca basketball and baseball teams, and an immense construction project to modernize the transit access. A 17 Euro ticket gets you access to a self-guided stadium tour, the soccer club's museum and storied history, and a saturation in rich tradition of tenacious play, dogged fight, and Catalan pride.
Europe's largest stadium, a day after the couple's largest day.

In Catalan, the seats say "More than a club." They were resurfacing the pitch on the day of our visit.

Our ship, Royal Caribbean's Brilliance of the Sea, left Barcelona promptly at 6:30 pm that day. We watched the port drift by through the window of the main dining room at dinner.

1.) Port of Call: Villafranche, France; Destinations: Nice and Eze.
There's no port in Villafranche. We dropped anchor in a small bay and took a tender boat to the dock where we boarded a bus for Nice.

The view of the French Riveria and the topless section of the beach.

In every city, every tourist, including me, stopped to take pictures of the narrow streets.

Herding through Eze, a pedestrian-only town on top of a hill with too many glass shops and a gorgeous church.


2.) Port of Call: Livorno, Italy; Destinations: Florence and Pisa.
We walked the streets of Florence, stopping here at Piazza del Duomo, where the Cathedral, Bell Tower and Baptistery share the same square.

Amid the throng at Piazza della Signoria and the copy of Michelangelo's David. Stephanie and I are ashamed to admit that this is the location where learned that the sculpture's subject is the youth before he slew Goliath. Oh! That David!

Ponte Vecchio, a bridge famous for its covered design and shopping opportunities (about which we had zero interest).

Pisa is all about peer pressure. You can't help but pose with everyone else.


3.) Port of Call: Civitavecchia, Italy; Destinations: Vatican City (the Sistine Chapel, St. Peter's Basilica, St. Peter's Square) and the Colosseum.
Amid the holy cows, slowly shuffling through the Pope's hallways. Then we stepped into the Sistine Chapel and it shut us up. No pictures, of course, and someone hushing us like unruly children, but a truly unique experience.

Inside the largest Catholic church on the planet, standing next to Michaelangelo's Pietà, I decided to give in to a higher power. I stopped taking photos and surrendered to Wikipedia.

When in Rome...

This is where I started chanting, "Max-y-mus, Max-y-mus!" But seriously, it was a massive structure and a stunning experience.


4.) Port of Call: Mykonos, Greece; Destination: Mykonos, the island of Delos.
Situated at the center of a ring of islands called the Cyclades, Delos is "one of the most important mythological, historical and archaeological sites in Greece." The excavations are some of the most extensive in the Mediterranean.

The island served as the cultural center of Greece, a duty-free zone of its time, popular for slave trading. The Greeks made it the birthplace of Artemis and her brother Apollo, and also built a palace for Dionysus.

The suburbs.


5.) Port of Call: Kusadasi, Turkey; Destination: Ephesus, the House of the Virgin Mary, and grave of St. John the Baptist.
"Ephesus was one of the seven churches of Asia that are cited in the Book of Revelation. The Gospel of John may have been written here."

What does every visitor need on a 98 degree, 95% humidity Turkish afternoon? A frozen towel hat, that's what.

On stage in the amphitheater, likely making a scene.

At the Turkish Ministry of Education's Loom Center, they harvested the silk and sold handwoven rugs no one could afford.


6.) Port of Call: Santorini, Greece; Destination: Oia, Santo Wines, and Thira.
In Oia, looking across the caldera.

We had a cappuccino on the edge of a cliff just before reenacting scenes from The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.

Who knew "wine country" could sit on a cliff over the ocean?

7.) Port of Call: Piraeus, Greece; Destination: Athens, the Acropolis.
Hey, anyone know how to get to the Parthenon from here?

Nevermind. I found it.

A wife overlooking Odeon of Herodes Atticus, the amphitheater built and recently refinished along the south slope of the Athenian Acropolis. Athens beyond.


8.) Port of Call: Naples, Italy; Destination: Pompei.
We played miniature golf and ping pong instead of arming ourselves in the streets of Naples. Then we went to Pompei and looked up at Vesuvius.

The streets were a bit quieter in Pompei.

Steph eying a fresco to avoid the dead guy encased in ash and protective glass to her right.

Near a central meeting ground in Pompei.

I define preservation as the ability to distinguish this phallic street sign directing Romans to the whorehouses.

Chariot ruts between a raised crosswalk.


Barcelona, Spain:
Back in Barcelona, the cruise ship preparing for another voyage full eager travelers, we continued our honeymoon deep in vacation-mode. We purchased tickets for Barcelona Bus Turistica, a bus system with on-off privileges and stops throughout the city. We visited the Museu Picasso, fortunate to arrive on the first Sunday of the month, and enjoyed free admission!

Barcelona (and Italy, really) led to my current plan to buy a scooter.

Barcelona is all about Gaudi.

Sagrada Familia.

Park Guell.

Park Guell.

Barcelona from Mount Juic.

We stopped here near the Olympic grounds to pour one out for the Dream Team. We were rewarded with a highlight reel in the Museu Olimpic i de l'Esport de Barcelona.


An absolutely amazing honeymoon. The soundtrack to all the images was an ongoing dialogue about all the ways our friends and family contributed to an amazing wedding.

Selective Memory

Thank you, Michael Jackson, for reminding me of the popular human condition commonly called "selective memory." It's the act--nay, a skill--where collective understanding is decided through a summation of a particular aspect or aspects attributed to a person or event. Somebody can literally decide what minute details warrant consideration on a grand scale. Selective memory permits the ignoring of ugly details; it winnows the breadth of a body of work into tiny soundbites that scintillate and satisfy and send us ambling on our way, content in what we know. Selective memory permits us to turn the page and keep writing a clean, collective history.

I'll remember two distinct moments from last Thursday, the day I found out Michael Jackson died. I was rushing around the kitchen trying to make three appetizers and an entree before guests arrived to watch the NBA Draft. One of the guests, my buddy Scott, called to explain why he would probably arrive late. During the conversation, he told me about MJ's death, and before I knew whether or not the news was legit, I had to wade through a child molestation joke and David Carradine-connected homosexuality reference. This is no fault of Scott's. His voice didn't crack. I didn't feel I'd been sucker punched. I didn't collapse on the floor. In fact, I laughed a bit, repeating, "Really though? Is he really dead?" Awhile later, when my soon-to-be brother in-law arrived, I broke the ice with a general So did you hear about Michael Jackson? lead, to which he wryly replied, "That dude died a loooooong time ago."

I didn't lament the loss of the man behind Thriller. No one around me did either. We didn't launch into any introspective monologues about where we were the first time we saw him moon walk, or who we danced with to "Man in the Mirror," or how "Smooth Criminal" inspired one of us to pick up a bass guitar. We weren't quick to wash away all the ugliness with the shiny pieces of our memories of the man. One look at a television or the internet, though, and all I could decipher was that someone supremely important had left us tragically. According to all I saw and read, I wasn't sad enough about the fact that I'd get no more joy from the supreme genius of Michael Jackson.

Don't get me wrong here. This is a tragic event, and the man did amazing things in a short lifespan that offered little in the way of any normalcy to ground him. But I refuse to shave all the insanity away and praise a nice little discography, idyllic ambition, and collection of dance moves. How can I forget all the oddities, the court cases, the awkwardly televised public addresses, the Never Land Ranch tales?

This habit of selective memorization is the bedrock of recorded history, just ask Christopher Columbus or Albert Einstein. My favorite parallels exist in the world of sports. Just last month, global audiences tuned in to hear ABC's coverage of the NBA Finals. People listened as some of my favorite commentators in the biz called Kobe Bryant an incredible team competitor, a champion, and an MVP. They labeled him an unstoppable force, comparing him to the likes of Michael Jordan and LeBron James. No one referred to him in the less popular, Colorado-based term, "alleged rapist." No one mentioned his alienation of teammates or his propensity for postseason elbows. It's too unbecoming to bring up such atrocious allegations at a time like this. One guy did, actually, but he isn't an on-air personality working to broadcast an NBA Finals telecast.

It was the same for his predecessor, the man to which Kobe is so oft compared. Jordan retired from the league in 1993 at the peak of his career, and although many cite personal testimony and the recent death of his father, sources also point out the coincidental timing the retirement shared with the NBA's investigation of Jordan's gambling debt. Additionally, the Barons, a Chicago White Sox affiliate for whom Jordan roamed the countryside, was also owned by Bulls' owner Jerry Reinsdorf, allowing the owner close proximity to his top performer and his performer's contract. Does Joe Fan remember Jordan's first retirement or the circumstances that surrounded it? Of course not, because gambling allegations don't work well in professional sports (read: Tim Donaghy, Pete Rose). The term "allegation evasion" looks about as good next to "Greatest of All-Time" as that asterisk after Barry Bonds's name.

I can't blame telecasters or owners or fans for employing selective memories because, really, business is business. But business shapes the minds of those out there so willing to follow and forgive. Ray Lewis earned the NFL's Defensive Player of the Year Award in 2000 and 2003, along with a Superbowl XXXV MVP Award in 2001, despite his involvement in an altercation that led to two deaths and an out-of-court settlement. Legally, I can't say Ray Lewis and Kobe Bryant and Michael Jordan did anything, just like I can't accuse Michael Jackson of anything criminal (unless it's preceded by the word "smooth"). But legal claims are addressed by legal people who know about legal loopholes and the way money works as a broom to sweep things underneath rugs. Ray Lewis and Kobe Bryant are almost comeback stories, and fans love comeback tales. Look at what Jordan did after his retirement. Look at Denver's Chris Anderson. (Inversely, though, something tells me that fans aren't ready for Michael Vick to start writing his. Perhaps he should receive some counsel from Tonya Harding on this subject.)

Manny Ramirez is slated to return to the Dodgers this week. The shamed ballplayer, very recently convicted of using performance enhancing drugs, served his mandatory 50-game suspension and will rejoin his team this week. One popular radio host is already wondering whether or not he'll get a standing ovation. Really!? For cheating?

Let's be clear on two things. First, I am not insisting that dirty deeds must follow a public figure throughout his or her life. Nothing should haunt a person and obliterate any attempt at recompense. No one should be doomed to a Nixonian existence, fading away in quiet shame. I honor athletes who strive to better not only their lives, but the ones of those around them. But even when they do so, the public at large tends to ignore it as part of the process of the aforementioned selective memory. For example, do you know how much work has Ron Artest done for the SPCA since authorities seized his malnourished dog? Of course not, because it went widely unpublicized so as to maintain his role as the fan-bludgeoning nemesis, the wrong-doer who could do no right. Second, I'm not suggesting that society ignore the notion of forgiveness. Third and fourth chances do afford people opportunities to change minds, to display true and real change, and my words here do not seek to diminish the attempts for individuals to face the music, confront a fault, and ascend.

When situations call for public unity and commonality through the remembrance of an occasion, a tragic loss, or a recounting of the obstacles surmounted on the road to redemption, all I ask is that amid the sweeping nostalgia we manage to paint a complete picture. The self-proclaimed King of Pop hadn't put a dent in popular culture since 1991's Dangerous. So why start the 2009's remembrances in the tone of Ignorance is bliss?

Dry Spells, Meet Dry Vermouth.

Summer and writing typically go hand in hand for me, and if you're reading this, you know this to be true. Something's taken me a particularly long time to get the ball rolling this year. The wedding? Maybe. Lethargy? Perhaps. A DVR malfunction separating me from Anthony Bourdain's television program? It's possible. Yes, the absence of time, ambition, or inspiration don't result in outlines for subject or skeletons of worthwhile projects, though it might result in a kick-ass wedding and some fine tomatoes from the garden. With the help of a good friend and a black spear through two olives in a vodka martini, I've found some insight.

First of all, I'm really great at mental initiation. I can take a momentary idea, begin fleshing it out, dissecting it and adding perspective, then finally settle on an angle and a valuable conclusion. I'm just terrible at picking it up again the next day and developing it in a way that's worthy of sharing. It's almost as though I'm satisfied by my own internal pontification, and as a result I'm less compelled to make it known outside of myself.

Second, I do so much dabbling in novels, short stories, songs, essays, newspapers, blogs, talk radio, podcasts, television, and poetry that I haven't found my genre. Plot ideas with plausible engines, possible symbols and allegories to develop and characters to drag through the process of learning, exploration-worthy themes demanding navigation and ambiguous justification, and no decided spot to send them with any consistency. I am, at least in my mind, a Renaissance man of the ideas that may or may not lead to the written word. Focusing on a genre might bring about real material, right?

This second conclusion gets more complicated when I consider what I do day in and day out for nine months out of the year. Exploring all of these genres with classrooms of teenagers doesn't simplify the wrangling process I'd have to endure if I found a home for my own work. I'm afraid of what might happen if I lose touch with all those lovely genres and the possibilities they offer. What if I mail it in during a poetry lesson because I no longer write poems? Might the next poet laureate, unassumingly sitting my class awaiting inspiration, remain dormant, silent, and listless in their own confused and muddled potential?

Here in the blogosphere, at the end of this essay, I don't have a simple answer except to say that if I really want to write, I'll find a way. It will happen not by season, nor network programming. It will happen when it needs to and as I see fit. Furthermore, I don't believe any potential poet laureate will decide to pursue poem writing solely based on my teaching skills or knowledge of his or her genre. I can go right on teaching just the same. What is clear, however, is that I need to spend more time with my good friend, and keep ordering those vodka martinis, with extra olives please.

When Everyone Showers Together.

It wasn't born in our progressive ideals or a result of a mutual inseparability. It was an idea floated by the bridesmaid and her mother, and though we'd never heard of such an arrangement, we found some literature to support its increasing popularity. So we did it. We had a couples shower.

No, naughty brain, not that kind, but the evolution of the bridal shower, a gathering that includes the groom to be, couples with whom the bride and groom to be are close, and certain family (emphasis on your mother's generation) looking to celebrate the union. Saturday, June 13, with help from our gracious hosts and in the presence of close friends and family, Dr. Z and I took--and later relinquished--center stage at our co-wedding shower. Thanks to Carrie's handiwork, I present some images:

Unscramble these jumbled wedding words--winner gets a prize! Despite their hard work, the Sandoval's couldn't beat Brittany. Perhaps too much posing for pictures?

These ladies didn't shy away from the sunshine. Low-80 degree temperatures solidified the beautiful morning.

The spread.

Happy, and in agreement that we can't believe so many people want to celebrate with us.

Brittany, elbow deep in one of our presents. At our party, the guests opened the gifts.

Bill put the camera down long enough to relish in passing the yard work torch. I can mow the lawn from here on out.

It's June and not sweltering, everybody smile!

Everyone sitting with the florist got plenty of water and sunlight.

Cheers!

Special thanks to the Ewbanks and everyone for showing love and support! Feel free to steal the party idea. Call it progressive, call it informal, but a couples shower is definitely a great way to gather, nosh, and celebrate.

My Predictable Father

He started what we now affectionately call "The Black Rock Trip" out of his own zeal for American history and American isolation. An avid reader and researcher of the emigrant wagon road and overland trails traveled during the rapid period America’s westward expansion, his first trip to northwestern Nevada only served to extend the hobby he’d exhausted in his own back yard. And so, thirteen years ago this Memorial Day weekend, after reading The World Rushed In and Trails West Driving Guide, my father coerced his brother into taking a weekend expedition in search of pristine high-desert history.

He lured my typically eccentric uncle into an obviously uneventful commitment by swearing the landscape was chalked full of coyote. My uncle liked coyote; he liked to shoot them. My dad needed a truck capable of traversing what the map labeled “dirt road.” Armed with the Trails West Driving Guide and an old 250cc Yamaha motorcycle, the two brothers set out for High Rock Canyon, a treeless plane of sagebrush and long, sweeping canyons quietly hidden behind Nevada's Black Rock Desert. (The title of "Black Rock" comes from the desert's jewel, an oasis of charred ebony jetting up at the end of a long alkali flat. British drivers broke the land speed record here once, but its current claim to fame is the annual Burning Man festival held on its playa.) Far above the desert floor, my dad was able to locate the elements of the history he so eagerly sought. He pointed out landmarks chronicled in pioneer diaries, showed my uncle rock carvings left by weary westward travelers, and immersed himself in the beauty and isolation offered by such a stark, lonely country. My uncle never saw a coyote.

Then it rained. A lot. Frustrated, wet, and angry at the darkness, the brothers broke camp, bunched it into a sopping pile, and started driving (and cursing) along “dirt” roads that now resembled small streams, flash-flood channels, and drainage canals. But the boys returned home with plans for another trip, for while the rain had soaked their resolve, it had not washed away their ambition.

My first trip to High Rock Canyon came the next year, in May of 1997. The camping location changed, my dad and uncle opting for the permanence of an old homestead at the edge of a shallow lake, far better suited than the roadside turnout used the previous year. The guest list grew, with my uncle bringing his son and my dad packing my brother and me. My grandfather, the obstinate sage proudly leading his lineage, joined us to oversee the adventure.

My first trip wasn't about history; it was about survival. Though my dad spent the year upgrading a rickety trailer and scouring the classified ads for motorcycles small enough for his kids and cheap enough for his budget, we arrived under prepared. The elements were against us. The rainstorms saturated the powdery dust so the sun could create a hard, thin layer of dirt over a soupy, muddy gumbo. The weight of the tires and bikes shattered the trail, and we fell, slid, and skidded our way through the sagebrush. We were filthy. The bike my brother saddled that year never ran well—-at least not in the high desert. The engine seemed to choke on the air. It sputtered through the mud, and the narrow handlebars seized up every time the tire became caked in slippery gumbo. We struggled to make four miles in any direction from camp. The children sulked while my grandfather and his two sons stared longingly at the horizon at the untapped possibility and at the country they wouldn't see.

When it didn’t rain, dry summer winds roared across the treeless countryside. Embers from the fire blew through camp and burned wholes in our tent. The hollow windows of the homestead whistled in the gusts. Dad's two-wheel drive Ford Ranger struggled to carry the load of 4 days worth of food, three motorcycles on the homemade trailer, and three people. There were streams to cross, hills to climb, and time to keep. Looking back, what amazes me most is how much we accomplished with how little we possessed. This includes knowledge. We fancy ourselves experts on the country and the history. This knowledge, I think, is something that compels us to return.

The trip has since evolved. The motorcycles have grown. The homemade trailer snapped an axle one (excruciatingly long) year, so it became a new trailer. The two-wheel drive Ford became a Dodge Ram. The four daily miles we once struggled to ride turned into to 20, 40, even 100-mile day trips. The camping grew more elaborate. We blueprinted a ride-in camp one year and staged the trips from mid-way up the canyon. A year later, my father, uncle, and grandfather split the cost of a grand's worth of sheepherder’s tent so we could base camp at the opposite end of the canyon. The bigger motorcycles turned into ATVs. It kept raining. New guests joined. The uncle left. The lake dried up. The grandfather died. New guests left. More guests joined. I missed trips. It snowed. My brother missed trips. But my predictable father kept his annual excursion alive; he kept people interested, enticing them with his vivid yarns and histories and romantic stories.

The very nature of the trip evolved as well. In those early years, the trip was about emigrant wagon roads. It was about seeing the deep ruts worn into the soft stone. We followed reprinted pioneer maps through river crossings and to their various camps, and imagined their hardships, their stories, and their hopes. Then, the trip became about native history, and on certain trips we made daily beelines to spots rumored to hold arrowheads, spears, and other relics of the Piute who once roamed the lands. One year, my father and I found the hot spring, and the camp morphed from a dusty, grimy sunspot into a luxuriously remote relaxation station. The more we explored, the more we needed to explore. As we increased the mileage, we found ourselves spooking numerous packs of wild horses, antelope, big horn sheep, rattle snakes, and cutthroat salmon.

This year, as I think back on Memorial Day weekend with my father, brother, (a different) uncle, and some of the other usual suspects, I can't help but feel overwhelmed by the progression of time. My predictable father will plan this trip until no one returns his calls—-which will likely never happen—-because the trip, like the stories we tell and the pictures we take and the history we recall and whiskey we drink, needs preservation. My fiancé understands this. My "Dirt Trip," as it’s called in my new family, stands as time when she and I agree to endure the six-day separation in the name of tradition. It's a time for endurance itself, for awe and isolation and tradition, just as my father unknowingly predicted 13 years ago.

Nine years ago, the year of the ride-in camp, I left my mark in the only dry spot available.

My grandfather never asked for remembrance on this craggy hilltop, but he's woven into the trip's history to the extent that my father felt he needed one.

While the focus of the trip has changed, our plans have revolved around a soak since we found this hot spring.

This year we saw more horses in more places than in years past. Far be it from us to praise the Bureau of Land Management for this.

Roughly 25 miles from camp we received an ominous sign it was time to head back.

"Dry Black Rock Trip" has become our favorite oxymoron.

The trip will always be about history.

My dad will always refer to it as a good trip, but it just isn't the same if his kids can't make it.

We're right at home in the California sky.

I’ve got to come clean here. When I went to see Unwritten Law (also NOFX, Lagwagon, Limp, and an assortment of other bands) at Boreal Ski Resort in 1998, it was the first concert I’d been to since the New Kids on the Block came to Arco Arena in 1991. Ironically, my companions at the punk show where the same companions who made the NKOTB concert possible six years prior. (Yes, my infinitely cooler cousin Lindsay and her surprisingly relevant mother made many-a-thing possible for me in my youth.) But as a falsely punkish, impressionable, tough-guy-snowboarding-wannabe-badass-self-indulged 8th grader, I didn’t dare spill those beans to my aunt or cousin between sets as we tried our best to skank and stomp and dance on a frozen parking lot in clunky snowboard boots. After all, I had a make-believe reputation to maintain. It seemed like the conversation about my journey through live music was better left for another time.

Hello, time.

My immersion into larger, more-established-in-our-fake-punk-attempts-to-find-ourselves circles during my freshmen year of high school made it easier to ignore my musical past. Along with another ski resort season pass, more access to music, and actual credibility among a solid base of snowboarding buddies, my secret remained safe.

I realized the need to take a good, long look at Unwritten Law when I found the band featured in the first snowboarding film I ever purchased. The band had a polished cut of “Harmonic” in 1998’s insanely huge Mack Dawg Productions film Decade. Not long after, when a free UL demo CD from the Boreal show resurfaced in a friend’s car, I felt compelled to wrap my arms around this San Diego band. I regarded my subsequent purchase of their self-titled album as one of the best investments made during my high school years.


I embraced these guys, backtracking through Blue Room and Oz Factor, then letting the band carry me in college for a while with Elva and Here’s to the Mourning. The ride included a show at The Catalyst Club in Santa Cruz in which Russo, drunk, shirtless, and substance-weary, asked to see (and saw) a pair of underage tits in exchange for some song requests. I left the show with a bass pick and a bruise after fighting over a relinquished drumstick—not to mention an odd taste in my mouth about a band I’d spent so much time with—but I had something more substantial to ground me.

For me, it started and ended with their self-titled CD. I played it for four years straight in high school. I couldn’t put the songs on mix tapes because there were too many good tracks to justify a cut. I wanted it on when I was on, near, or approaching the snow. Eventually, my college roommates and I used three songs from the album in our locally infamous Time for Nothing video, an hour-long collection of clips and scenes that stands as the most legitimate college transcript ever constructed.

Unfortunately, Here’s to the Mourning ultimately ended the affair. It wasn’t so much that I felt over it, but that Russo himself did. I couldn’t find the cathartic experience that self titled provided. And as the music and the band melded into a backdrop of the central coast and the CSUMB experience, I lost the connective magnetism of the music. And today, if “Cailin” or “Holiday” comes across the old KyPod shuffle, I reach for a desire to keep it playing. My mind searches for scenes from Time for Nothing, or reaches back for an antic from Decade, or seeks out a giant booter or rail from those slushy afternoon sessions in the park at Sierra at Tahoe. All of that seems so far away though; the musical bridge has lost its grip on either plot of land it spans.

I heard that payback's a muthaf***in' b*****

When I search through the haze of the years of my youth, through the assimilatory trudging, the beer foam and pot smoke, the slide show of my memory pauses on the back of an old Acura Legend. The smells work to polish the clarity the picture, but they’re too complicated to do anything but enhance the overall mystique of the hazy visions of a raw bench seat. There’s the distinct smell of harbored sweat, heated and preserved by three or four sets of snowboard boots. A grease-blotted McDonalds bag releases the remnants of the egg-and-sausage-and-cholesterol drive-through breakfast. The car reeks of sleep and unbrushed teeth; the dankness of the morning is corralled and weighted by a convenience store air freshener, two months past prime, working its strawberry-powered ass off to disguise the musty bubble. No one in the car seems to notice any of the pungency as the Legend careens along the precarious banks of the American River Canyon, and three, four, sometimes five voices bounce along with every bloody word to a cassette of Sublime’s 40 oz. to Freedom. Yes, in my memory, Sublime has a wetness to it, a nearly-dead smell that refuses to unstink.

The Acura was also a time machine. Bradley Nowell had been dead for nearly three years, and as those winter days bore on, we did our part to keep him—along with the possibility that he and his Long Beach band might not have found another way to obliterate their chances at success—alive and well. We poured through the idiosyncrasies of his music, Saturday after Saturday, as we bobbed and bounced our way to the ski ranch. We investigated from where the dialogue in the track “40 oz. to Freedom” came. We reported the results of our mission to procure pre-Second-hand Smoke translations of the song “Chico mi tipo.” We emulated the way Bradley whistles to Toby Dog and Louie Dog in the “Thanx Dub,” not to mention the drawl of his “NKOTB” call out, and “thesouthsidepardemcapreed?wassupduuuude?” line we could never quite figure out. I’d never heard the Dead’s cut of “Scarlet Begonias,” but it didn’t stop me from signing about “nitrous, opium, acid, heroin, and pcp” on the Sublime cut. One infamous trip up the hill, in a foreign car this time, my cousin Lindsay and I sang the entire album in protest of the bearded asshole behind the wheel (her mom’s boyfriend) who believed a radio, knuckle-dragging snowboarders, and teenage fun were all a waste of time because skis were holier than the two planks nailed to Jesus.

40 oz to Freedom was certainly the snowboarding soundtrack, but it permeates my other memories. My copy never made it back into the giant 200-disc carrying case; it either played in the Camry's discman-a-la-tape-coverter CD player or sat in the console while some other band, probably Unwritten Law, took its turn. Unlike later Sublime albums, it wasn't just a collection songs. The album itself was a self-contained trip that actually suffered when played in segments.

It’s only now, after seeking out countless versions of “5446 (That’s My Number)” and the post-40 oz. radio play of “Badfish,” after linking the verse, “My name is Eric I have nothing to say / ‘Cuz I am not a fucking D.J.” to Gwen Stefani’s presence on Second-hand Smoke’s “Superstar Punani,” after the inundation and exposure and tracing the reggae roots and the bonus cuts appearing on subsequent posthumous releases, this mammoth album of my teenage years holds absolutely no relevance in my current life. None. I possess not the patience, desire, or palette to travel that canyon road. The deep white promise in the rhythmic chanting of "she picked up a rock / threw it at the car/ hit him in the head / now he's got a big scar" before trading the hot stink of youthful subversion for the fresh mountain air is no longer tantalizing, even for old time’s sake.