I stepped onto Market Street at 11:30 with the intent of buying shoes and packing.  I somehow completed both in under two hours.  Two spare lenses, two pieces of bedding, two sets of spare clothing, and two toothbrushes, proving that I had made a poor inventory.  Two bags, two light sources and too much time that had passed since I had experienced “elsewhere”.  My inventory for the trip was simple but the inventory for myself was less obvious.   My physical abilities were a shadow.   This time last year I was prepping for a half marathon.  This year I was struggling to finish a 5k.  The shoes on my feet felt beyond me being “Moab Desert Hikers”.  I was maybe worth Crocs.  My emotional state wasn’t what I wished it had been.  “Micro USB cable” never made it onto my check list leaving me stuck for charge until I touched down in Vegas and I was sweating the whole time.  The cabin of the airplane seemed cramped and I started softly sobbing when two kids started crying after we had taken off.

Then I looked around the cabin at the sacred cattle of humanity and started to calm down.  Nothing from Philadelphia could bother me here; I could edit photos, and I did; I could nod off, and I did; and I could chew on things.  The fellow next to me saw me editing photos and struck up a conversation.  He said “within 10 years the photographer will be dead”.  By the time I landed I had myself an enemy and couldn’t have been happier.  We traded numbers and I wandered to my hotel, hoping to never see him again.  The night was bring with opportunity, appropriate for Vegas.

The Excalibur was the cheapest place to stay so there I did.  I laid out my things on the other twin bed for no reason, I was leaving the next morning.

 

Suzie and I met two Chicagoland friends for breakfast.  During the meal, I found out my surgery was to take place at 6 am the next day.  It takes 13 hours to get back from Chicago and we wound up leaving around 4pm which made for a somewhat tight window.  Suzie offered to drive but a combination of snow and back pain prevented her from doing so for long.  There’s a different feeling to being in the car alone driving over a long distance and being in the car with someone and doing all the driving.  Switching drivers would have been unsafe so I tried to think of Suzie as a hologram or foreign exchange student and that prevent the emotional part of my brain from being annoyed.  Suzie offered to come home with me and be there after surgery but I declined.  My abdomen would be hit with the surgical equivalent of a battering ram.  I wouldn’t want anyone there.
Today was my last day as a fat man and I lived it up.  I had sticky buns with breakfast, some toffee with lunch, and when the fasting mark started 8 hours before surgery I celebrated with a large quesadilla from Sheetz.  When that proved insufficient, Suzie gave me some of her french fries and popcorn chicken.
It was 10pm, I was five hours from home, and I was having mediocre popcorn chicken in a car with my best friend after we drove 1800 miles to go to an anime convention and Chicago.  This is the life I feel I’ve earned and for the first time I feel proud of it.
Time to face tomorrow.

Road trips are broken down by scale:
<600 miles – Not a road trip, doesn’t even require filling up the tank twice.
2500>x>600 miles – Minimum road trip.  Have to fill up tank at least once strictly to cover distance but at no point are you more than a day from home.
5000>x>2500 miles – Road trip.  There’s a point in the trip that if you left at that instant, you wouldn’t be home for at least 16 hours, a full day, of driving.
>5000 miles – Grand road trip.  At the 5k mile mark, you need to have an oil change at some point.  Requiring vehicle maintenance on the road ups the stakes a bit.
This weekend, Suzie and I are going to Ohayocon in Columbus, Ohio and this marks our first dip into the category of “minimum road trip” since August.  We got underway and Suzie was to my right as we began driving West.  There was a wonderful strangeness to driving to Ohio with her in the car after so many cases where this was the solo leg of the trip.  The driving was easy and I got a parking spot immediately in front of the Ohayocon venue.  We walked in and slowly made it to the room where I was participating in a panel Suzie was running.  The going was slow from the infinitude of people stopping Suzie to say “hello”.  Here, she was a rock star.  The closest analog would be me at Ockanickon when I was ecology director and ran the Magic tournaments.  There I would have a cloud of people following me around.  A staff member referred to these kids as my “electrons”. Luckily, my electrons never hit on me.
I need to use the bathroom before the panel started so walked to the bathroom.  On the way back in, a convention staffer moved to stop me but I did what I always do when I don’t have appropriate credentials to be somewhere; I walked with purpose and a certain aloofness at a pace a little bit faster than most people.  He gave up stopping me after a few strides and going “sir!”.  Had he gotten in front of me and asked me what I was doing he would have received a “that’s a stupid question”.  This Star Trek-inspired tactic has about a 50% chance of success but is well worth the effort.

The panel was on survival horror games and involved bringing up unwitting audience members and trying to scare them.  Dim lighting, unfamiliar controls, scary games, and some well placed screaming made the event go well.  The costumes at Ohayocon were not too impressive and some didn’t even show any particular sense of craftsmanship.  Some people seemed to just ape the colors and ideas of their favorite fandom and for me that was unappealing.  Dragon*con had spoiled me.  This was the first convention where I felt exposed to “con folk” and my initial reaction to them was overly strong.  They were unwashed, poorly dressed, and were identifiable by the sound of their knuckles scraping behind themselves, or at least that’s how it was in my head.  On reflection, I’ve encountered the same people in Scouting and at Magic tournaments.  Just like in those other communities, they wanted to be there.  This was their hobby, a way of getting social engagement with people like them, and probably is the foundry of some of their finest memories.  They will grow-up a little, hopefully, and convention culture will have helped them bootstrap themselves into proper society… or they may become furries.  Who knows.

Dave and I were friends in high school, both members of the AP Bubble for which Great Things were destined. We did Great Things like after school activities and watched movies between Great THings and then went on to Great Things with the thousands of other people in their respective high school analogs who were also destined for Great Things. We both settled out into the lives that were appropriate for us. He as an investment banker and I as a whatever I was until I became a whatever I am. Dave and I got together once every two years or so when he was visiting family.  I was a 405 lb lump of man during the one time I visited him and he met me at the door while my arm was still partly covered in blood and my pants were ripped. Dave also took the most important picture of my life so far.  The Golden Gate bridge is behind me and I have the tallow pallor of a copse.  I was wearing a baby blue oxford, khaki shorts, and a hair cut appropriate for someone in a mental institution. That photo is in my Dropbox folder labeled BigMe.jpg and I try to keep it around as a reminder of where I was.

Dave, to me, hasn’t changed. He’s still smart, he’s still driven, he’s still slightly nervous to talk about his personal life.  He still moves his forearms in and out when his arms are propped on a table and he is speaking.  My opinion of him has risen over time as I overcame a neverrivalry.  I wonder if he views me as equally unchanging.

We met for breakfast near Carnegie Hall and he talked about lady troubles while I talked about my recent unwinding of romance from my life.  He asked me why nothing ever happened between a friend and I and then asked the question again about another friend.  In both cases I simply smiled the smile I give that reveals nothing of how I feel.  Sometimes it’s a smile that says “I’m happy” other times “I hate you” other times “I forget your name”.  Were I to make resolutions, it’d be to stop using that smile except on my enemies.  He asked what I thought of actuarial science and we compared places we liked to go running.  This was the big kid version of the conversations we had before but now they had an added weight.  Our time was more valuable.  The fact that he and I met randomly in New York City, a place home to neither of us, meant something as did the fact that we were both wearing collared shirts and been in bars the night before.  This summer, I will make a good faith effort to meet up with him.

On the train ride back, I chatted with my seatmate who was visiting the US to see her boyfriend for two days before she returned to Germany where her father, an Air Force officer, was stationed.  She would see him next on July 4th.  Her mother was in the armed forces too.  A family of soldiers.

I got back to my house sixteen hours after I thought I would and my dad met me at the door.

Dad: How was where ever you were?
Me: Interesting.
Dad: Good to hear.

I find road trips hard to write about. Sometimes I want to be thorough which is boring, sometimes I want to be brief which is a disservice to those I see. I’ve been told by those I’ve traveled with that they enjoy my after the fact retelling and what I found interesting but I find this trying. Whenever there’s a long break from me writing, it coincides with a trip. My most writing streak stuttered in the run up to this trip which, in retrospect, has proven to be another hammer blow in the annealing of my character. This isn’t to imply that the trip was a bad one, but it was a case where I learned something. Usually I learn things but this was a systemic change to how I viewed the world and those moments are rare and precious.  People are rich and deep and should be ends and not means if they are at all important to you.  The ones we love sometimes follow different paths than us but with effort this will result in perspective rather than alienation.

The four of us had a nice lunch before Suzie and I left in the early afternoon.  I dropped Suzie off around 6 despite my best efforts to get there earlier and I drove back to PA listening to the Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks.  Another 1500 miles on my car and another Monday where I will be running on fumes.  If this be the price of friendship, I pay it gladly.

Peter and I slept in and caught a late lunch at Jimmy John’s where we talked for about 3.5 hours.

Every day of this trip was wonderful.  Thank you, Chris, Christine, Suzie, Chad, Peter, and Audrey for supporting my nomadic notion of Thanksgiving.

Chicago to Philadelphia is a little under 800 miles and I made the trip home with no more than 10 minute gas/food stops and while listening to The Bonfire of the Vanities with a brief “OH GOD GIVE ME MUSIC NOT WORDS” break across Ohio.  I arrived home tired but neither aggravated nor worn down and I am glad I can still be old iron butt and pound out 800 miles in a day.

I took a trip to New York with someone today and the number of strips of paper and bits of plastic required to run the whole loop were manifold.  This included:

1 Parking slip
2 Train tickets into the city
2 Subway tickets/Metro Cards
2 MTA tickets northbound
2 venue entrance tickets
2 MTA tickets southbound
1 Dinner reservation print out
2 Evening event tickets
2 Train tickets out of the city

16 clumps of atoms of some sort required plus keys, wallet, and notepad.  I’m glad the paperless world of tomorrow has arrived.

Normally, I have subtitles that I add to the event pictures when I travel.  I’ve tried much harder to embed this information and it’s available on the Flickr page.

[flickr album=72157626841793489 num=30 size=Thumbnail]

I’m going to Chicago over Easter to help someone move but instead of my normal tactic of driving straight through, I will be leaving after work Wednesday and and will stop for the evening at a friend’s house along the way.  Clearing this with him required some negotation:

Me: Could I stay over with you Wednesday evening?
Him: Well, the only available bed is tiny.
Me: I’ve literally stayed in a single size pink princess bed before.
Him: This isn’t much better.  Also, you may have to contend with my parents going into “house guest mode”.
Me: What’s that entail?
Him: Two things, first the first floor and where you are staying will be spotless and you can’t leave until after you’ve had pancakes.

I don’t know how I’ll survive.

Barker’s Dam is an artificial body of water in Joshua Tree that is arresting when one stumbles upon it via a desert path.  Photographing the dam in the early morning was compelling so Steve and I left a little after 6 to get to Joshua Tree National Park.  The ride was dull and the roads in the park itself had numerous “DIP” signs that Steve initially interpreted as “DERP” signs.  I thought this was a good idea for a sign and could be used to mark areas where someone was involved in a dumb accident like hitting a mailbox.

Here are my two cheesecake shots of Joshua Tree.

20110331-500-untitled

Water in the desert at Barker's Dam.

Joshua_TreePath

Pano of Joshua Tree Path, it's a big-un if you click through.

Before walking to Barker’s Dam, I received a text message; I’m not quite sure how as this is where I was at the time:

Where I got the message

I’d find it funny if the same hills that held some of the oldest petroglyphs in the Southwest also aided in modern communication through some collection of reflection and absorption of RF.

On the way in, there was some volunteer stroking a bighorn sheep that was probably struck by a car.  He insisted it was “barely alive”, but based on its stillness and the congregating flies, I think he clung to something beyond the pall.

0698-Joshuatreetoquinn-20110331And2more

If it's alive, it's terribly well trained.

On a much less morbid note, I did a keen action merge of Steve.

0701-Joshuatreetoquinn-20110331-Edit

Don't look too closely at the shadows.

Our next stop was further west where, after some difficulty we met with Eddie, the littlest Interrobanger.  We went to In-and-Out Burger where I found a fact of triumph: While in Canada for GP: Toronto, someone asked for a double-double for breakfast, which, while sounding to me like a sandwich, is a coffee build, leading to the following:

Me: I am white man from far away lands not familiar with your strange cuisine.  What should I get?
In-and-Out Burger Attendant: Get the quad.  It’s four patties.
Me: How about something smaller?
Attendant: Try a double-double.
Me: Is that what it’s called?
Attendant: Two patties with cheese.  It’s very popular.
Me: Is it legitimately called the double-double?  That’s not a cute name or an abbreviation or something?
Attendant: That’s what it appears as on the receipt.
Me: Thank you, you may have won me an argument.
Attendant: Glad to help.

So tiny

The choice of Russian dressing as a topping seemed peculiar as did the number of people who stopped to say hello to Eddie as we ate.

Steve and I dropped off Eddie and again traveled West to meet Quinn in San Pedro.  While waiting, I took what is probably the best HDR of a flower I’ve ever taken.

1151-Joshuatreetoquinn-20110331And2more

This sucker's going on me wall

Meet-ups are a function of flow.  There’s always the retreat of playing the same video game, but that’s terribly uninteresting as that’s what one does most of the time.  Quinn was genial and has an encyclopedic knowledge of film.  Only my habit of wikipedia-ing movies of cultural significance allowed me to keep up.

Quinn, master of film reference.

The harbor area of San Pedro had a timed fountain that erupted in rhythmic patterns in which children were playing.  After the sequence was over, there was a pause and it repeated.  My favorite part of the sequence was when a kid thought the fountains had stopped, would bike across and get jacked in the face by a jet of water.  Bayesian analysis should be taught earlier.

1220-Joshuatreetoquinn-20110331And2more

The Child Slayer

Our last two adventures in San Pedro were to visit a restaurant that charged $8.95 for fountain drinks and to see a consignment shop with large chested manikins.

1250-Joshuatreetoquinn-20110331

On to the Salton.