Train Brain

After awhile on the train I fall into a pleasant condition that I'm referring to as train brain. In my experiences so far, train brain only occurs after at least 24 consecutive hours of rail riding. Here are some of the symptoms of train brain:

-Distorted vision: After looking out the window for so long, sedentary objects (a wall, the floor, etc.) inside the train appear to move sideways.

-Zen state: Everything seems to fall into place nicely and neatly, while time disappears. Well, that is an overstatement, but time definitely takes a back seat.

-Frequent dozing: The rocking back and forth is very soothing and puts me to sleep. However, I will only doze for about 15 or 30 minutes and I wake with unusually high energy and focus after a nap. Then, as a new project (music listening, conversation, reading, writing) continues the energy slowly fades until I am ready for another brief snooze. The whole cycle seems to take 2 hours.

-Lowered social inhibitions: When I am not on a train there are times when I like to engage strangers in conversation, getting to know them while practicing social skills. Of course there are times when I enjoy simply keeping to myself, maybe because I don't have the energy required to be a good conversationalist. During train brain this becomes confused and I speak to strangers as if I've known them for years with no care for whether or not I'm engaged or engaging. There is no pressure to cast yourself as an interesting person to speak to, nor is there any internal judging going on inside my head. I walk around and speak to whoever about whatever captures my attention. It is very much like being in a home filled with family members who already know who you are.

-Understanding: Traveling by airplane is a lot like being told the end of a story. Or better yet, just an abbreviated version of a story.  On the other hand, a train is more like taking the time to read a whole novel or watch an entire movie.  Yes cliff notes (oops, I'm showing my age), I mean sparknotes, are quicker, more efficient and you can hear more stories in less time. But looking out the window at the ever-changing topography, geography, climate and culture is like the beginning of the story. The train traveler approaches his or her destination full of context. And what is it that makes a story so good? Well, it's understanding isn't it? Understanding the characters; their motivations; the dos and don'ts, the cans and cannots of the setting; understanding everything that occurred to make the ending possible is why I like to read.

-Sustained hunger: I am constantly hungry when dealing with train brain. Last stretch I devoured a package of peanuts, four cans of sardines, an entire box of triscuits, three bananas, half a pack of sunflower seeds, an oj, an aj, a tj, and two granola bars.

-Power: After watching people board and deboard while remaining on the same train I develop a sense of ownership over the car that I'm assigned to. I walk up and down the aisle telling the new riders how it's going to be. Not really, but it's fun to pretend.

-Lack of photography discretion: I'll take pictures of anything. It's like I've exhausted any filter for what is and what isn't a good picture. I wouldn't be surprised if I posted a picture of my feet on facebook soon.

Here's one of 25 videos that I shot out the window in full blown train brain:

My Mission in the Mission

Most of what follows is true.

It all started in the "soldiers wanted" section of craigslist. Recently home from two trips: one to the Arctic Circle to wrestle polar bears and the other a failed attempt to replace Carl Crawford in left field for the Tampa Bay Rays, I was seeking an adventure a little more conducive to my laid back demeanor. Voila! Baseball Games, Trains & No Automobiles was hatched. That's where craigslist comes in. I needed a subleaser and found Lieutenant Colonel Eingurt. LTC Eingurt responded to my ad saying she had just finished a seven-year tour of duty down in San Francisco and was looking for a nice place in Portland for her two-month leave. Things were working out nicely.

Craigslist is a wonderful idea that has previously helped me out in 100 ways. Although I use the site frequently I had never explored "soldiers wanted". This is where you voluntarily solicit a favor or favors from a commisioned member of the armed services in exchange for an indivudual enlistment. I was skeptical at first, but the advantages of this situation for both parties soon became mutually obvious. I was to receive guidance and discipline from an experienced source while she could order me to do whatever she wanted.

Under a Tahitian moon and with soft grey-green eyes that betrayed a stone-set jaw and healthy teeth clenched around the demolished end of her Corona Maduro, LTC Eingurt commanded me to carry out two objectives, both of which have proved enjoyable. The first, a leisurely directive, required me to frequently correspond with her via email under the expectation that the messages would be both humorous and thought-provoking in nature. This would be easy and was in fact a cover for the second objective, which was my true mission.

The Lieutenant Colonel had spent a lot of time in the bay area and my trip was to take me there for two games (Giants and A's). So it seemed reasonable that her order would take place in San Francisco. Scrawled in squid ink she handed down the real objective on a yellowed parchment. I was ordered to stealthily infiltrate San Francisco's Mission district and devour a burrito: "... eat a burrito in the mission.  Not all burrito joints are equal, and everyone has their favorite.You will need to walk into the nearest bar and ask the bartender what their favorite burrito place is and then go there."

I didn't want to draw too much attention to myself, so I began my approach on foot at AT&T Park where I could blend in with the other 41,000 baseball fans. The stadium was over 3 miles away and gave me plenty of time to assess the situation and analyze my best options for advancing upon my target. I approached from the northeast and my path was soon blocked by a group of confused hipsters that believed they were extras in a STYX video. But I persevered and discovered an unguarded pass along 18th street.

Now I was in the thick of it all. The first step was to indentify the appropriate bar. I passed a place called the Double Play bar and grille and decided against entering due to its rally-killing connotation, but I was still searching for an establishment that felt serendipitous... BANG! I heard a shot (or a tethered pug yelping for its freedom) ring out and I scrambled for cover. To establish my exact position I poked my head out saw a sign from above:

I heeded the harbinger and descended onto The Phoenix, located adjacently.

Of course Phoenix, AZ is where I began this whole baseball tour of duty so I was encouraged by such obvious foreordination. I slinked in and obtained a position at the bar.  In the guise of ordering a Boddington's I met my compatriot already planted on the inside: Tansy. She informed me that this was a region littered with burritos and that if I wasn't careful I could run into some "bad shit." To accurately direct me she swiftly beckoned for her informer and resident burrito expert, Misael. "El Farolito" with a wink and a whisper were the words I'd come so far to hear. I was assured that Misael's information was clean. He passed me a cocktail napkin map that showed me where I'd be sure to come across El Farolito and fulfill my mission objective. 

Tansy, cleverly avoiding direct eye contact

Misael, blurred to protect his identity

Through the war zone I attempted to blend in with the locals by deftly avoiding the haphazard meanderings of tourists while casually aniticipating the changes of all traffic lights and the automobile drivers unaccustomed to obeying them. It was hell.

Not really, but imagining it as hell was all I could do to sustain my focus and prevent myself from succumbing to the hunger bomb, presumably planted by the hot dog terrorists at the Giant's game, about to go off in my stomach. I saw detached nationals with blood rag eyes, tightly uniformed boys with black girlfriends, liberating armies of cursed females, and packs of dogs ruling the night. Who knows what these strangers were packin'?

To conceal my fear I sung my way along, "El Farolito...Kate's little treato...make me burrito...tast-ee indeedo."

There it was, 24th and Mission. I fell into line with the all the other hungry citizens. Each one called upon after the other to place their order with the man behind the counter, only to be given a number and told to wait. Dozens of starving men and women, with listless eyes and sunken bellies, simply occupied space by swaying back and forth to the tornadic demands of their hunger. Finally, I was called upon to offer my own desire. I cleared my throat, smiled and told the great man, "I have been sent here from a long way away. I was told that you have a burrito for me. Please make me the best one you have." A wry smile emerged on the man's face, "Can you eat...everything?" "Yes, yes I can" I dutifully responded. The man hurriedly scribbled notes onto a pad of paper and passed it to his comrade slaving away behind him. "You!" The man pointed to me, "You are number 40."

I did my best to find a place among the others. Shoulders rubbed and invisibly, under the heavy blanket of social tolerance, tempers flared. Time felt suspended, like an ordained penny from a lovesick teenager dropping into a wishing well. It stretched and yawned like a porpoise head under the warm caress of an equatorial waterfall...

"40! Number 40!"

I had it in my hands. El Farolito's Super Burrito full of rice, beans, cheese, avocado, grilled chicken, sour cream, a hint of salsa and a good helping of fate was now in my hands. I became excited. I had forgotten my surroundings. Without checking I made my way to an unmanned table.  I thought I was alone as I de-foiled the top of my burrito. Then, I heard the sounds of a Mexican guitar that was 5 feet directy behind me. The singing began as I bravely took my first bite. How fantastic it was to be serenaded on this occasion. My mission was complete.

Mission accomplished

*Special thanks to Kate, Tansy, Misael, the lovely inhabitants of San Francisco and Porno For Pyros*

  

All-Dodger Team

I'm traveling away from LA on a bus. It's an Amtrak bus shuttling me to Bakersfield where a train waits to take me to Oakland. As I stare out the window at the Six Flags nestled amongst all these anonymous burnt-brown hills I have the Dodgers on my mind.

It is sad to see such a storied franchise limping along; playing uninspired baseball; entertaining only the cynical or naive. At the game last night, between Vin Scully impersonations and google-informed hecklings of Jayson Werth, I experienced very real pangs of understanding Dodger significance to both baseball and cultural history. I was mid-pang when the Nationals' Jerry Hairston smoked a grand slam in the top of the ninth putting the game out of reach and cementing my vision of a Dodger freefall from grace.

So, in sympathy with and total respect for all things Blue I've compiled my all-Dodger team:

C- Roy Campanella
1B-Steve Garvey
2B-Jack Roosevelt Robinson
3B-The penguin, Ron Cey
SS-Pee Wee Reese
LF-Pedro Guerrero
CF-Duke Snider
RF-Kirk Gibson
LHP-Sandy Koufax
RHP-Orel Hershiser

Ted Williams: greatest fisherman ever?

Last night I watched the Padres whip the Marlins 14-3. Sometimes, if the announcers are crafty, these are great games to watch simply for the stories that are told to make up for the lack of anything competetitive occurring on the field. Such was the case last night with Dick Enberg and Mark Grant.

Somewhere around the 6th inning the guys started swapping stories about the self-proclaimed "greatest hitter of all time": Ted Williams. They talked about Williams and laughed about how his ability to hit was rivaled only by his ability to talk. "But what about fishing?", Grant asked Enberg. "Did you ever get to go fishing with him?" Enberg replied that he hadn't but someone he knew had.

Enberg continued to say that Teddy Ballgame was a hell of a fisherman. This was a fact that was not lost on Williams himself. Evidently at one point Ted turned to Enberg's lucky friend and, imitating the cocky proclamation of his younger self asserted, "I'm the greatest fisherman to have ever lived." Enberg's friend asked, "What about Jesus?" To which Williams replied, "Well, you had to go back a hell of a long way!"

The Curse of the Sea

I'm not comparing myself to Odysseus, but it does seem like Poseidon has something against me. I love the ocean and everything that comes with it: the beach, boats, seafood (animals and vegetables), waves, natural beauty, global weather patterns, whales, good story settings, etc. However, since I was very young I've had a remarkable (and humorous) string of unfortunate events that have occurred within a close proximity to the sea. So yesterday, as I made my way to the water and stepped on a bee in the sand that stung the bottom of my foot so deeply that I had to pull the burrowed fellow out with my fingers, I decided that it might be fun to share the list.

The first one happened when I was 7. My mom and her friend were taking my sisters and I to Daytona Beach for spring break. This was very exciting for me. For a kid growing up in Ohio, Florida was an exotic tropical location and I had never seen the ocean before. My mom's friend had a son a year older than me and we were pumped to go swimming in the waves. The day of departure (we piled in the van that evening) I was playing basketball at recess. During the game I was pushed to the ground and I used my hands to catch myself. Unfortunately a small rock became deeply imbedded in the lower part of my left hand. We couldn't get it out. I had to go to the hospital for an extraction. I spent the week with my left hand (I'm left handed) in a bandage, unable to throw any of the balls that we took along to play with. What was worse was that I wasn't allowed to get my hand wet! I got to see the ocean, but could only watch while the others played in it.

Next was the time I sliced open my right big toe as a 10 year-old. Our family headed back to the beach for a vacation in '87. I was really excited to get another chance to swim in the ocean. We made it to South Carolina and I got my first taste of ocean action. I loved it, swimming and playing for hours. On the second day I was barefoot while playing video games in the hotel arcade room. Running out of quarters I hurriedly dashed back to the room for some more. In doing so I pulled one of the doors right over the top of my toe, slicing the skin off the top. Another trip to the emergency room followed where I endured what was at that time the sharpest pain I had ever experienced.  The doctor slowly scissored off the partially attached flap of skin still on my toe. I spent the remainder of my beach time in a lounge chair with my foot bandaged, encompassed in a plastic bag, and propped up and away from the water.

Two years later I was back.  More determined than ever to get some beach time in I refused to leave when my face had already had enough sunshine. The result: a huge sun-poisoned blister under my right-eye. I wasn't allowed direct exposure to the sun for the rest of the trip.

A lot of time passed between those incidents and the hilarious occurrance in 2005.  I had never seen the Pacific Ocean before and was finally getting to experience it. My friend Justin and I were on a long, long road trip and we rolled into Portland where my sister was in from New York visiting our friend Jesse. Justin, Jesse, Holly, and I packed into my Saturn and drove out to Cannon Beach. It was breathtaking. The beach was huge, soft and warm. The sun was shining, birds were singing, kids were playing; it was like paradise. The four of us, inspired no doubt by our heavenly surroundings took off together in a gallop to the surf.  When I think back to that moment I hear the Chariots of Fire theme song playing. The beach was very wide. It seemed to be a run of two hundred yards that was full of excitment and anticipation. Then, as we approached the water's edge and with the moment of fulfillment so near I heard a noise behind me.  It was a buzzing getting louder, louder, louder... I turned around to see what it was and WHAM!!! I got smoked in the leg with a remote controlled airplane. Blood ran from both my shin and my toe where the propeller hit. The plane sat there, its engine throttling down, a chunk of my skin dangling from its slowly rotating front propeller, and the "pilot" running to see if I was okay. I was. I couldn't help but laugh as I watched the other three, already in the water and staring back at me in amused disbelief, figured out what had just happened.

Picture Pages

Sedona, AZ

Hmmm

For Jack

The Pacific

Flagstaff, AZ: stuck at station on no sleep

Blogging on Henry's Couch

Whaaa?

Mmmm, just like they used to do

Out the wiiinnddooowww

Lovely, yes?

Boarding at midnight in Maricopa

A week after my first All-Star game and I still miss Jeter

It has been a week now since my Dad and I took in the midsummer classic in Phoenix and I'm still buzzing from it. What a great time! The game was a very special event that generated an energy in me I'm finding too difficult to describe. I loved seeing all of the best players (in theory anyway) and being there with the guy that taught me about the game. But for all of the excitement and wonder that I experienced, as I look back there is something else that I need to say.

For many years now there has been talk of the game of baseball and the waning of its popularity. In Phoenix that was difficult to detect; baseball appeared alive and well.  For good reason too. The Major League Baseball All-Star Game is one of the best sporting events there is. Unfortunately that appearance of vitality was soon tainted. Where was Derek Jeter?

The tradition of the All-Star game in baseball is rich and seminal. Other sports attempt to emulate baseball's invention, but fail to capture its spirit. There are several reasons for this, but none more prominent than the fact that baseball, at its core, is a game of individual contests. Sure each player is on a team and teammates help each other win.  But the essential ingredient in baseball is the contest between pitcher and hitter. The All-Star game showcases the pinnacle of these contests: the best hitters against the best pitchers.  It's a lineup of individual greatness taking on individual greatness for three straight hours. Speaking strictly as a fan of the game I can't think of anything much better than watching these greats compete against each other (Carl Hubbell vs. Babe Ruth, Warren Spahn vs. Ted Williams, Roy Halladay vs. Derek Jeter?).

Wait, no Derek Jeter this year. I know A LOT has been written about this and it is old news now, but I wanted to add my two cents.  I love the game of baseball and enjoy people that play it well. I respect Derek Jeter for all that he has accomplished and think he has been very good for the game. I like the game so much that I traveled over 1,000 miles to celebrate its top acheivers.  Bodaciously, my father joined me in the celebration from over 1,000 miles away in another direction. There were many things about the game that we were looking forward to.  But as the date approached we kept talking about one thing: will Jeter have 3,000 in time for Phoenix? I was so excited to have an opportunity to see and honor a 3,000 hit man on the stage built for the greatest active players, that I actually watched Yankees' games. Then he got it, and in such dramatic fashion that I was swept away and became a Derek Jeter fan.

But that didn't last very long. Derek Jeter, a man who makes millions upon millions of dollars playing the game of baseball, an enterprise supported solely by the appreciation of its fans, did not show at the one event intended to celebrate those very fans and the reverie they have for their favorite players.  I've never had any sympathy for a baseball player that doesn't come to the All-Star game. Especially ones that were voted in by the fans. Especially ones that were voted in by the fans and just got their 3,000th hit. Especailly ones that were voted in by the fans, just got their 3,000th hit, and don't have the on-field performance to warrant a position in the lineup (but have been voted in all the same because the fans want to SEE you).

Come on Derek, it's the All-Star game. It is one of those special things about baseball that sets it apart from the other sports. How is baseball supposed to retain its spot as the national pastime if one of its greatest ambassadors won't even show up?

Advancing the punners

Here's a list of train puns that I have used in actual conversations since the beginning of my trip:

"I'm sorry, I'll try to conduct myself a little more professionally."

"I'm not railing against the use of all automobiles."

"Did I get you off track? Did you lose your train of thought?"

"I like how you express yourself."

"Maybe we can engineer another time to meet up."

"I'm not really trained in that field. You know, not my line of work."

As the trip goes on, and more puns are discovered I will add them to the post.

*Told to me by Blue Derkin: "How do you gauge what the best train lines are?"

Olvera Street

I spent a day on Olvera Street wandering, watching, and waiting for my next train. On the site where Los Angeles was founded I saw:

Beautiful young Hispanic women in Nirvana tank tops, holding hands with boys in Dodger caps.

Lovely, older Mexican women wearing long velvet skirts with turquoise eyes standing four in a circle around a huge stone, kneading and pressing a large mound of dough into soft, white tortillas.

Young children held captive in the arms of a parent. Then, at last wiggling free and bolting, unrestrained, to their new friend selling ice cream.

A stunning young lady, helpless and confused, breaking into tears while standing in line for a taco; seeking an explanation from a knowledgeable friend. I could only wonder what uncompromising, apathetic, egotistic young punk could do such a thing. It's always that way in the eyes of a detached male. The other guys are all punks.

Austere ladies clutching open umbrellas, as colorful as their dresses, to block the midday sun.

Pale white tourists in floppy sunhats, draped with large-lensed digital cameras holding Fodor's U.S.A. books with their non-pointing hands.

A twenty-something redhead in pigtails and a bicycle helmet hustling across the bricks in search of who knows what.

Hardly any smokers. After 3 hours I saw my first two. Then, later I recognized another couple. It was the same two, they had just made a smoking lap.

A brother and sister fighting over control of the video camera. Sister won. They always do.

For 45 minutes I watched a traditional Aztec dance group in a public square just off of Olvera Street. I asked, through a translator, one of the performers about the dance and what it  meant to him. He replied that they were celebrating the creator (the sun) and showing appreciation for the world he has given them as a home. The dancers continue their traditions in an attempt to both keep their history alive as well as share some of their culture with the community.

7 Ways To Advance To First Base

1. A hit
2. A walk
3. Hit by pitch
4. Fielder's choice
5. Error
6. Dropped third strike
7. Defensive interference (bat touches catcher's mitt)

Thanks to Jack B, Jay and Holly T, Holly K, Jeanetta B, and Mike M (my old neighbor; how the hell are you?) for playing along.

The Vitalogy of Adventure

It seems like a long time ago, and I guess it was now. 16 years to be exact. July 8, 1995 at the Marcus Ampitheater in Milwauke, WI, full of excitement and curiosity, I experienced a Pearl Jam concert at the height of their popularity. 16 years is a long time. I mean it is hard to remember just how HUGE that band was in the early 90's.  Ironically, it was their railing against the blind faith of all that was huge that made them so huge; no more hugeness as usual.

Tickets were frustratingly hard to come by. Pearl Jam was fighting, in both Congress and the court of public opinion, with Ticketmaster over the $2 service fees the ticket giant was charging. In retrospect two bucks seems paltry. The band attempted to tour without using Ticketmaster.  The result was that the most popular band in the country could only schedule something like 7 shows all summer.  Like I said, tickets were scarce. But somehow I got a pair (row 20, dead center) and still remember my friend Jay coming up to me just outside of study hall saying, "I will drive to Milly-wau-kay."

Two others came along (Yoder and Peinert) for our little rust belt excursion. The four of us got to Milwaukee in record time. There were about five minutes when the mini-van wasn't going fast enough to activate the flux capacitor, slowing down because we missed an exit. It was during this time that Jay was pulled over for not using his turn signal while changing lanes. Oh Mr. State Trooper, if you only knew.

We drank beer in restaurants and smuggled booze into the show. We saw one of the best live acts of the 90's at their peak and yelled "F*** the USA Today" in a drunken show of punchless solidarity during "Not For You". We came back home and relived the trip over and over as the retellings got further and further from the actual truth. That was my first official (independent) adventure and something must have stuck.

Many more trips/quests/projects have followed. The next bigger and bolder than the last. Now here I am, 16 years to the day, embarking on my most challenging one yet. The way the excitement feels is the same and my curiosities still hold the reigns. For what seems to be the hundredth time I looked in the mirror this morning and said to myself "What the f*** have you gotten yourself into?" The only difference now is that a wry smile accompanies the end of the question.

First Pitch

Gary Numan throws out the ceremonial first pitch for my trip.