Retrospection

Before Facebook added its “On This Day” feature, indeed, before Facebook was even a thing, I established an online presence through what has become known as the “blogosphere.” A little more than 12 years ago, I created a blog I titled “The 25 Year Plan.” Although this thing called a “blog” (a hybridized word crafted from “web log”) had been around for a few years prior, the blogosphere concept came about while I was actively blogging. It denotes the idea that blogging was a community. It was actually a community of communities, almost like different circles of friends, each with intersections into other circles of friends, but in virtual space.  Through it I established relationships with people, most of whom, to this day, I have never met in person. It was social media, but it had far more depth than the status updates that are the norm for Facebook. My community consisted primarily of people who wrote, at length, about the things that were going on in their real worlds. It was intimate and it was personal.

I started the blog at the suggestion of one of my journalism professors. He used it to keep his writing “fresh” during the breaks in school, between freelance assignments and to be able to say things that would normally not have any other “public” presence. I was writing quite a lot in those days and the idea that staying with it even when I had no deadline, no requirement to fulfill, no other reason to write than the writing itself was appealing to me. On December 18^th, 2005, I published my first blog post. It was aptly titled, “My First Blog Entry - Ever!” complete with an unnecessary exclamation point. That month saw three more blog posts and in the following two years I posted well in excess of 100 posts each. I slowed down somewhat for the next three years (80, 75 and 54, respectively) before dropping down to just a handful each year from then until now. There are a number of reasons why, not the least of which is Facebook’s world domination, but I was also writing for newspapers, for my undergrad classes and, when it came to grad school, much longer and far more complex papers, some of which were published at various academic conferences in my discipline, communication studies.

While Facebook, and its more recent feature, “On This Day,” gives us a snapshot at activity years back, it does not provide the same depth that my blog posts do. Even with my abbreviated blog activity (and I used to maintain a few blogs, only “The 25 Year Plan” is still active), I still find myself inspired to write and post my musings here. Of course, I link them to my Facebook “timeline,” and those links also show up in my yearly archives, but the response I receive from them is seriously limited. Facebook is not the place for longer, detailed posts. It could be, perhaps should be, but it is not. The corner of the blogosphere I lived in has largely been abandoned. Most of those I regularly followed are now abandoned or simply no longer there. My blog “community” is a ghost town. Regardless, and even though I am like most writers in that we write to be read, what drives me to write is not the feedback I might or might not receive. It is nice, but not necessary.

Even with my sparse writing for this blog, I usually do manage to write some sort of year-end reflection. Sometimes it falls at or very near year-end, others it occurs near the beginning of the month on or around my birthday. In 2006, I titled that reflection, “The Year in Review.” In just that one year of writing regularly, I was fully involved in a thriving community of writers - not only was I writing and posting, but I was also reading and commenting on many others’ posts. That entry had 24 comments, most of which were also longer than a standard Facebook post. The next year, “Ringing out the old…” I reflected on another good year. On New Year’s Eve, 2008, I wrote a post titled, “1962 to 2008,” in which I attempted to bring my entire existence into some sort of perspective. In 2009, my year-end post, “Still a Seeker,” spoke to the journey I was, by then, well on my way to. Interestingly enough, I never dreamed it would lead me to where I am now. On December 20^th, 2010, I was back visiting Truckee, CA, a small mountain town I once lived in for about five years. That post, “Mountain Song,” opened with a decidedly more poetic paragraph that spoke to the nostalgia I was feeling. For some reason, in 2011, I did not write any sort of personal reflection, but I did write about some things going on in the world that directly related to academia, a world that I was very much part of. The next year, 2012, was a strange one, one in which I had way too much personal shit going on in. I must have shut down, as far as writing here goes; it was a year in which this blog saw just six entries. I got married that year and by the time it was over, for all intents and purposes, that marriage was, too.

My post in 2013, “Don’t Let the Door Hit You on the Way Out,” was bitter. It was the year of the fallout. It was not a good year, and I documented what it meant to me. The title of that post was in reference to 2013 - good riddance. In 2014, my post, “Home Again,” was written from a coffee shop near my house. Although it was (and is) still my house, it was not my home. I was living full-time in Baton Rouge trying to finish a PhD at LSU, my house was rented to people I never met. The title was ironic, it was not home anymore. My entry two years ago, “Another Banner Year,” is similar in nature to this one. However, it was the first good year after two exceedingly bad ones (spoiler alert - the years since have also been very good). The last sentence, “This has been a very good year and… 2016 looks like it will be even better,” turned out to be true. Last year, written on the winter solstice was titled, “Winter Solstice.” That post was also a selective chronology of how I got to where I was and the nature of the first word in my blog’s subtitle, “purpose.” It was also the first time I revealed in a very public space that I have been clean from drugs and alcohol for 12 years - I am happy to say that number is now 13 years.

This past year? It was very good. I am in a space now where I feel like I am making a real difference in the world. I am going into the second half of my third year as an adjunct professor of communication studies at California State University, Sacramento - my alma mater. What I did for a part-time job as a graduate student is now what I do all the time. And, once again, I am on winter break. I got past that ill-advised marriage and subsequent divorce and have found a relationship with a girl who is more than I could have hoped for. My immediate family, all things considered, is hanging in there and while there are some things to deal with in the coming months, we will deal with them. The coming year will be filled with challenges, however, there is every reason to be optimistic and, a year from now I hope to be writing, once again, that it was another great year.

Peace

Precarity

On September 29th - almost three months ago, I was rear-ended by a moron riding a 2002 Honda VTX1800. The impact on my right saddle bag and exhaust was strong enough to shatter my right saddle bag, lid and shove my exhaust forward about a quarter inch, breaking its mounting point. It also propelled me into my son riding his new 2016 Sportster Roadster. His bike had a little more than 3,000 miles on it, my (almost to the day) one-year old 2017 had about 21,000 miles on it (yes, his 2016 was newer than my 2017). The impact of my front wheel/fender/crash bar/fairing/turn signal (they all had damage) was enough to put him into a slide which high-sided him when it instantaneously corrected. He went left, the Sportster went down on its right side. I managed to keep my bike upright, but dropped it as soon as I stopped (maybe not quite stopped) because I saw my son go down and things like kick stands don't seem too important in those few seconds of not knowing if he was hurt or not.

He was fine. He had minor road rash, but otherwise no injuries. I was fine, too, no injuries at all. The other guy was not fine, he had non-life-threatening injuries (busted shoulder? collarbone? something like that). At the time I had some empathy for him, but now, almost three months later with every new headache and delay - some his fault due to not only his negligence, but also his minimal insurance coverage, and some not his direct responsibility except that he caused it all in the first place - the more time that has passed and with every new twist... I hope it still hurts. I hope it cost him his bike. I hope he never rides again - for his safety as well as ours.

But I digress. Since my son and I both have full coverage that greatly exceeds the state mandatory minimums, we were covered. The estimate on my bike was right about $10,000. The estimate on my son's bike was almost $7,000. Both bikes could have been fixed and looking good for less because not every little thing had to be restored to new condition. The money saved on, say, a minor scratch on the fork tube (replacement = hundreds of dollars, a back Sharpie costs much less) could be used for something else. Our local dealer won't do that, but the independents will; my friend owned a shop that could do both bikes the way we wanted them done. However, my son’s insurance company decided that $6,900 was too much to spend on an $11,500 bike and, after fighting them for two or three weeks, they totaled it. They ended up paying the shop more than $1,000 in estimate and storage fees and took the bike away. It was not cost-neutral for my son, but in retrospect, it wasn’t the worst outcome.

Because my bike cost almost three times as much, it was not totaled. The insurance company had a $9,978 check made out to me and the shop about a month after the wreck. Then we ordered parts, the first were the custom rear fender, saddle bags and one lid, painted to match, from Bad Dad. The lead-time on those parts, because we were having them do the paint, was about a month. Other parts would be ordered as needed because the lead-time was shorter, but the new two-into-one exhaust and front fender were supposed to have been on order as well. Just about a month later, I got word that the owner had committed suicide. No one, at least no one I knew, saw it coming. It’s sad. While not among his closest friends, Dennis was my friend and it saddens me that he would choose a permanent solution to a temporary problem. But it also left me in a very precarious position and the end result, while not absolute yet, looks like I will have lost more than half that nearly $10,000 check.

It also meant that I would have to finish acquiring parts and complete the build myself. I needed a front fender, exhaust and some minor body work done on the outer fairing. Then both the fairing and front fender had to be painted. I also had to get my garage squared away - it has been a very long time since I have done anything remotely resembling major work in there. It was a long overdue project that is now done. In the end, putting my bike together cost me about 15 hours of labor, much of that is longer than normal due to a learning curve for certain tasks I was not familiar with - others I have done before, but they are just time consuming. It also cost me around $2,500 out of pocket to cover what was not ordered, but already paid for. I had to wait a couple of weeks for the paint to get in before the painter could shoot the outer fairing and front fender. And during the two-day reassembly process, I was frustrated to the point of trading her in more than once - of just saying, “fuck this!”

But she ultimately came together beautifully. There are only a couple of things I’d like to revisit, but they are not critical and, more importantly, they are not preventing me from riding this gorgeous Street Glide (very) Special. The name of the shop was (because it no longer “is,” it died with Dennis) V Dawg Cycles. Dennis was in business for more than seven years and worked on all of my bikes at one point or another. This one was going to be different, this one was going to be a V Dawg build. I guess in a way, it still is. It is, in a way, a tribute to a man I had a lot of respect for, even if the end was more than a little off-putting. Suicide is generally a tough thing for those left to deal with and in this case, it left me with that and a large sum of money that disappeared into thin air.

I haven’t ridden much or far since finishing her up yesterday, but I can say that it was just like old-times, but better. She runs better, looks way better and now, there is not another Street Glide anywhere that is just like this one. We ride Harleys and other similar bikes for a lot of reasons, among them is that they are an extension of our creativity, our individuality, and, in part, of our identities. A Harley commercial a few years ago finished with, “What you ride says a lot about who you are.” Who I am is not easy to nail down - just like this build. It was messy. It was complicated. It was frustrating. And it still all came together. Just like me.

Peace.

Malcom and Slash

Last night I was fortunate enough to be gifted two tickets to see one of the latter iconic bands of my youth, Guns N’ Roses. The GNR story is, in many ways, typical of the excesses of the time. They hit hard and flamed out almost as fast. In less than 10 years they went from the very top of the hard rock world to non-existent. They came and went, flashed in the news and went away for years until just last year, guitarist Slash returned to the band and their current tour, “Not in this Lifetime” took off. The Sacramento date was announced a while ago - I knew they were coming. I saw them back in their heyday. I was good. Pass. My girlfriend and I went to a lot of concerts this year, we were pretty sure we’d seen it all. And, it was GNR - not exactly on the top of my “must see” list. So… the seats were good, it was free and we had no other plans last night; with about a day’s notice we placed another concert on the agenda, thanks to an old and dear friend.

Also, yesterday, one of my very early rock icons passed away. Malcom Young, AC/DC’s driving and creative force died way too soon at 64 years-old. Those who are less familiar with the band might be tempted to say that his younger brother Angus was the leader, or maybe lead singer Brian Johnson (after original lead vocalist Bon Scott died tragically in 1980) was the driving force. While all played their roles, and while both brothers received writing credit for all those timeless hits, Malcom was the glue, the driving force behind AC/DC. The tweets coming from so many in the music business acknowledge that very fact and how, because of his song-writing, the loss is that much greater. Slash and the rest of the members of GNR dedicated Bob Dylan’s “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door” to Malcom Young, but they did more than that. They inserted AC/DC’s “Whole Lotta Rosie” into their set last while an image of Malcom Young was displayed bigger-than-life on the screen behind the stage.

I never saw AC/DC after Bon Scott died. While I fully acknowledge what Brian Johnson brought to the bad, and I recognize the iconic hits that were created with his vocals as just that - real, classic, rock - I was just too connected to Bon Scott as the voice of AC/DC. I could not let that go. A lot of rock stars - my heroes - have passed in the many years since I came of age. Some died due to their own excesses, their hubris; others, like Malcom Young, died due to more natural causes, even if those causes came at an unnaturally young age. There have been many, far too many to name, but Bon Scott hit me like none other until just recently when Tom Petty died of cardiac arrest, also young at 66 years old. However, I did see AC/DC twice in 1979 and I remember it like it was yesterday. Every one of AC/DC’s early albums, up to and including the first two Brian Johnson albums, are on my iPod, always on whatever playlist I have going.

Guns N’ Roses were never what so many other bands were (or are) to me. I wasn’t too concerned about missing the show. It just didn’t really matter to me, especially since the last concert I saw was at the same venue - and that was none other than Tom Petty just a couple of weeks before he died. I like GNR, I liked them enough to see them in their heyday, but my expectations last night were not high. I was blown away. They were tight, the musicianship was better than it was 30 years ago and Axl Rose, whose excesses are (or were) the stuff of legend, belted out his lyrics like a man half his age. All told, the band played a three-and-a-half-hour set - straight through without a break. And, to be clear, with three original members (Axl Rose, Slash and Duff McKagen), this is Guns N’ Roses, despite additional or new personnel. Too many “classic” touring bands have just one or no original members. I was impressed, and after all the performances I’ve seen this year, that is saying something.

It's Been Real, It's Been Nice, But it Hasn't Been Real Nice

My 17-year love/hate relationship with AT&T is almost over. I just ported the last phone left on that account over to Verizon; now the number that I've had for more than 10 years is back online. All that is left is a lonely iPad Mini, and it will be disconnected in a week when this current billing cycle comes to an end. Of course, AT&T had a lovely parting gift for me - more of the incompetence I have come to expect from them. But the truth is the wheels were already in motion, this decision was made months ago. This is just the end of the end.

However, from a customer service, technical competence/incompetence perspective, Verizon's performance has not been stellar. In fact, it has been - in just three months - a microcosm of AT&T's. I am not impressed. I didn't move because I figured they would embrace my business or my money with any more enthusiasm than AT&T did. I moved my service because of physics. The technology that CDMA networks use (Verizon, Sprint, Xfinity, etc.) has a larger cellular footprint than GSM networks (AT&T, T-Mobile, etc.) do. For AT&T to have the same coverage as Verizon, they would have to have more towers, more cellular sites. In urban areas, it's not an issue. In rural areas, it is. Guess where I ride my bike - a lot?

My history with AT&T predates this particular entity which is now called AT&T. The last piece of the once mighty AT&T that still bore the name was AT&T Wireless, a competitor of Cingular. Cingular was a joint venture of two of the "Baby Bells," SBC and Bell South. Both of those two companies, once only regional phone companies after AT&T's break-up, were swallowing up smaller local systems and expanding. SBC was the parent company of both Pacific Bell and Nevada Bell - each with its own new-at-the-time GSM cell service. SBC finally bought Bell South and then AT&T wireless, thus owning the AT&T name. It also ended what was left of the original AT&T.

The coagulation of the CDMA networks was similar, but since I was not working with them as a dealer, my knowledge is less extensive. Dealer? Yes, I activated my own Pac Bell Wireless account way back sometime in 1999 or 2000 - my "comp code" was SA-151. The company I worked for, Cellcom International, was a chain of Pac Bell Wireless/Nevada Bell Wireless turned Cingular stores in the Reno/Tahoe/Truckee area. I ran the Truckee store. When I started, text messaging was a brand-new thing, but the GSM technology in Europe was way ahead of the Johnny-come-lately United States. However, because of that, I was able to find some of their software and adapted it for our benefit. We were doing things with our phones that no one else in the US was doing. It was a geek fest to be sure, but it was one of the best, most fun jobs I ever had. My boss and the owner were über-cool and allowed me the freedom to fuck around with the phones in ways that produced some of what we take for granted now - things like custom ring-tones and screen images.

Verizon is what Cellular One, GTE Mobilnet and others became. They were based on the new-at-the-time CDMA technology developed by Qualcom. While it was GSM that most of the rest of the world adopted, CDMA has a serious foothold in the US - and it has some advantages (and some disadvantages) when compared to GSM. GSM is, in fact, the world standard, but the CDMA market in the US is huge and it’s not going anywhere. It’s also not compatible with GSM - the two technologies don’t “talk” to each other. Some phones have both technologies built in. For instance, all Apple iPhones from the 7-series up are built in two versions. A GSM only version like the one sold through AT&T - it is Apple’s “world phone” because it works on all GSM networks worldwide. They build many more of it than they do the CDMA version that is for the US only. However, that version also works with GSM networks. In simpler terms, a Verizon iPhone will work with an AT&T SIM chip, but an AT&T iPhone will not work with a Verizon SIM chip. Trust me, I learned that the expensive way.

All of this history doesn’t change the fact that way back when I was selling phones, it wasn’t really the phone or the tech I was selling. I was selling service. When my customers had an issue, they knew they could come to me to solve it. And I always did. When GSM was new in the mountains around Lake Tahoe, the coverage was not as good as the competition, all of whom could access the old analog cellular system. We could not, we were digital only and while that gave us a serious technological advantage, we had a major infrastructure disadvantage. Yet I blew away my quota (usually double what was expected) every month. It wasn’t the phones or the system that I was selling. I was selling service and, unfortunately, the bigger these companies get, the less they care about us.

The Smartest Smart Phone

The first iPhone was released in June, 2007. At the time, I was using a Blackberry, what was considered to be the most advanced phone of the time. It was not, however, the first "smart phone" I ever owned. A few years earlier, Nokia released its version of a smart phone - a phone that could not only send and receive email, but one that could also access the new-at-the-time World Wide Web - about ten years before the iPhone. The Nokia 9000 Communicator is sometimes recognized as the second smart phone, behind HP's hybridization of their palmtop computer with a Nokia phone. Without splitting too many hairs, it's safe to say the Nokia 9000 was a the first fully integrated smart phone. And I had one in 1999. I was working for a small cellular retailer and the rep from Nokia gave me one. It had already been superseded by a more advanced model, but it did what no cellular device before it could.

Fast-forward through a series of excellent Nokia, Ericsson and Motorola phones, each with more features and more power, when the Blackberry emerged as the first phone that could really do email well. It also had a full QWERTY keyboard. That was my phone when we rang in 2007. When the first iPhone launched, I was impressed, but not to the point of running out to get one. I didn't even bother to go to a store to see one as I was happy with my Blackberry. It had some web capability (remember that the web was far less robust than it is now) and I had no "need" for any of the other stuff the iPhone offered. That word, "need," can be interpreted in a number of ways, however, and part of the genius of Steven Jobs was not just to foresee what the market would want, but to actually create that need.

It was not until I actually held one in my hand that I needed one. Okay, I wanted one. The design was beautiful, the engineering was precise and the interface was pure magic. It happened at a vocational event for a local high school while I was working as a reporter at the Colfax Record, manning our information table. The representative at a neighboring table had one and was using the exquisitely soft microfiber cloth that came with every iPhone to wipe her already pristine devise. It was more than just mere adoration, she looked as though she truly loved this handheld device. And she actually let me hold it, just for a minute. It was hefty, solid, not at all chintzy like so many cell phones had become. It was sleek, glimmering and tight; every seem, every joint and every transition was perfect and as an entire unit, it was in perfect harmony with itself. Nothing didn’t belong. When I handed it back, she immediately wiped off whatever fingerprints I might have left and set it down in front of her, gazing upon it.

I bought my first iPhone days later, but I should make a couple of things clear. First, I am exaggerating my exposition neighbor’s adulation. It was certainly novelty, but her love for her iPhone was nothing like I just described it. However, the beauty and engineering of this material thing should not be underestimated. It was exactly as I described it and, without getting too ahead of myself, so has every iPhone since – right up to my current and brand new iPhone X. At the time, I was transitioning over to from PC to Apple Mac computers as well. While the Apple product über-integration wasn’t a “thing” yet, the quality and stability of Mac OSX was becoming legendary. My Blackberry served its purpose, it did email really, really well and I held it up as the gold-standard of its time – I still do. But that first iPhone, archaic by today’s standards, did email as well, but it also did so much more.

Since that first iPhone, I have upgraded to every major version since. I have been an early adopter and sometimes, like this time, a first adopter. Once, and only once, I did not pre-order and actually stood in the ridiculously long release day line at the Apple store. It was not all that – it is not an experience I’ll ever repeat. I do not have to be the first kid on my block with a new toy. That experience revealed the ego attached and also that, for me, it’s not about, “hey, look what I have and you don’t.” I like my toys, but they don’t define me. And my newest toy? Yes, I like it, too. The iPhone X is a step apart from and beyond what the iPhone has been for the past several generations and, in one key respect, beyond all iPhones since the very first.

There is no “home” button. Actually, the home button on the iPhone 7 and 8 is just a “virtual button,” a mere indentation in the glass that resembles a button, but the “click” and the feel are simulated, there is no actual button. But the iPhone X dispenses with any pretense, initiating new conventions for accessing the contents and linkages in the flagship device. Personally, it was a natural progression, an outgrowth of one convention to another. It did not take long at all to “get used” to it. Indeed, it was as though I already was. The new conventions – swiping up and such – are already part of how the later generations of iPhones operate. The iPhone X just takes it a step further.

Regarding the phone itself – it’s an iPhone. It works and it works exceedingly well. This one is faster and sleeker than its processors. The display is magnificent, but to really appreciate it, lay it next to an iPhone 7 Plus (which also has an excellent display). It is truly remarkably realistic. I do have just one gripe, if it can even be called that. While the screen is taller than the “Plus” versions of the iPhones 6, 7 and 8, it is a little narrower. I wished they would have kept the width of the “Plus” version phones. Having said that, it is nice to have a phone with a larger overall screen fit in my hand. As much as I loved my iPhone 6 Plus and 7 Plus, it was a big phone.

I have more than a few friends asking if it’s worth it to go with the iPhone X or settle for an iPhone 8. While I have no direct experience with an 8 (however, both my son and my girlfriend have an iPhone 8 Plus), I think the answer is couched in the "need vs. want paradigm." The iPhone 8 and 8 Plus are, technologically, very much as robust as the iPhone X. Also, the form-factor is the same as the iPhone 7 and very close to the iPhone 6. The iPhone X is a departure – if you are into the newest stuff, like I am, then by all means, get the iPhone X. If you are just looking to upgrade and older iPhone, the iPhone 8 will amaze you, even over an iPhone 7. And, of course, the iPhone X will still be amazing when the iPhone 11 is released next year. Amazing and cheaper. The iPhone X is not a logical choice, but not everything is logical. Some things not only defy logic, they transcend it.

Sixteen Years, 364 Days and Three Hours.

I am, and have been for the past 16 years, 364 days and three hours, living on bonus time. On October 17^th, 2000 at about 8:00 a.m., my expiration date came, I was heading to “meet my maker” (whoever or whatever that might or might not be), I was not expected to survive. For almost 16 years I have come across this day with, always, some degree of gratitude, but the reflective process itself has also changed over the years. I can’t say whether the processing of what went down is the change agent, whether my age and “new” lifestyle (not so new anymore, but compared to what it was, still new) is responsible for my outlook or what, but one thing is sure: October 17^th, 2000 was a red line, a demarcation, a catalyst - if not for the events of that day, my life today would be much different.

I don’t remember much of that day, nor do I remember in any great detail the days leading up to it. I do, however, remember pretty clearly what my life was like at the time. In a word, it was chaos. It didn’t get that chaotic overnight, and there were numerous periods where I was more or less “in control,” at least compared to the out of control periods, but as soon as anything externally upset my life, I went off the deep end. But even that, while true when looking at a particular period in isolation, is not the whole story. Going off the deep end was easy for me, anything that shoved me even a little could be my reason to jump. At the end, I didn’t need a reason. Or… anything was a reason, because being responsible for the consequences of my behavior was not part of the deal. At least not yet.

I don’t know if I slept this night 17 years ago. If I did, it likely wasn’t much and if I did, it was likely the first night in probably three or four that I did. My chaos was both created by and manifested in drugs and I liked the ones that took me up, not down. In the end (this end, there were others not as dire), as long as I was well supplied, I’d be up for anywhere from three to five days before sleeping one. Don’t ask me to explain what was attractive about that, I could not say, but I do know that at the time, it was my everything. I didn’t know it, I didn’t think so and I would not have believed it, but I was absolutely dependent on drugs.

I kind of remember being woken on the morning of the 17^th, but it was not like I actually had gone to bed and slept all night, it was more like I was trying to make it to the morning and fell short. I kind of remember dozing off right about dawn and being shaken awake by one of my “friends,” of maybe one of my two younger sons (my eldest lived with his mother). Yes, this chaos went on around them and as much as I tried to isolate them from it, there is no way, especially towards the end, I could keep their lives and that world completely separate. I needed to get up so I could drive my boys to school and then go to work.

I didn’t want to make the drive from eastern Truckee, CA to Squaw Valley, CA. It was about a 20 to 30-minute drive and I was tired. I suggested to them that they might be “sick.” My younger son smelled the bait and took it, but my middle son was struggling in school and told me that he was not too sick to go to school, that he couldn’t afford to miss a day. I was tired, I didn’t want to make the drive, but I didn’t think for a moment that I couldn’t. I also, despite the humbling acknowledgment that I put my kids in harm’s way too many times, still had that sacred parental commitment to my kids. Drug addicts deal with their kids differently - some leave them behind with family, the “system,” wherever, others drag them through it and try to function. I tried and in many cases succeeded in giving them experiences that any boy would love to have growing up. But with that came the chaos and way too many things that no kid should be exposed to.

I piled my 13 year-old son and roommate into a Jeep Cherokee (a rental, a story for another time), and made it to the old industrial section of town to drop off my roommate. My son had dozed off in the car on the way (they both frequently would, it was a bit of a drive early in the morning) and while in the parking lot, I took a little “break.” We were already going to be late, so a quick cat-nap seemed like a good idea. I don’t know how long that lasted, maybe 10 or 20 minutes, but my roommate came out and woke me so I could continue my drive to Squaw Valley. I went down West River Street, turned left onto Highway 89 and that is the last thing I remember. It was just about, almost exactly, 16 years, 364 days and three hours ago. So, why not write this tomorrow, on the actually anniversary? That’s a fair question, I promise I’ll answer it.

I don’t know when it happened, but because I had fallen asleep at the wheel, I drifted into the northbound lane, about one mile before Squaw Valley and, although traffic is usually light at that time, there just happened to by a loaded logging truck coming toward me. None of this part of this story comes from my memory - what I remember is sketchy and seriously distorted by what was about to become my condition, a condition that should have (not could have) killed me. I might have been awake until then, I might have nodded off and instantly came too (most drivers have encountered that when on a very long drive, especially at night), it is unlikely I was that soundly out until the scene of the wreck because that road is not anywhere near straight. In fact, it was on a sweeping right turn that I went straight - straight into the logging truck.

The police report states that the truck driver sounded his horn several times and moved as far right as he could, but the front left of the Jeep still managed to find the front left of that Kenworth in an impact that was estimated to be a combined 100 mph. The truck driver could see me and he stated that it looked like I was asleep. My left foot was up on the dash and I was “kicked back” in a way that I drove with some frequency. This time, however, my relaxation was complete. I’ll dispense with the mystery of how my son came through it; he survived with minor physical injuries. He had to extricate himself through the back window and he saw more than any 13-year-old should have to see, but he was in front and on the right - away from the impact. His seatbelt, the airbags and perhaps the fact that he, too, was asleep, saved him from any major injuries.

My injuries were much, much more serious. The first responders from the Squaw Valley Fire Department had to cut me out of the vehicle. My left leg was almost torn off at my pelvis. I had an open compound pelvic fracture, a compound femur fracture, a lacerated kidney, liver and femoral artery, among hundreds of other less serious injuries. All of those major injuries listed, the fractures of those large bones as well as the laceration to two organs, not to mention the laceration of a major artery, all contributed to a mass exodus of blood from my body. I was, literally, a bloody mess. I was taken by ambulance to Tahoe Forest Hospital in Truckee and flown by helicopter to Washoe Medical Center in Reno, NV. By the time I got to Reno, they emptied 16 units of blood into me. Between that hospital and a rehab hospital also in Reno, I would spend the next three months in northern Nevada.

I woke up after about five weeks, sometime prior to Thanksgiving. I was in a “medical coma,” so what I remember from those five weeks is only very loosely based on reality. I don’t know how long it was before I became fully lucid, but I know it was a process. Eventually I knew where I was, why I was there and what happened. I was in utter disbelief, but the reality was all too real. I would spend the next four or so years on recovery. Not just physical recovery, but also recovery from drug addiction and a way of life that almost took me out at 37 years old (I turned 38 in the hospital). As I mentioned above, that day was a turning point, but I did not all of a sudden straighten out and stop. I said to myself I would. I meant it. Even though the investigation did not find any drugs in my body and I faced no criminal repercussions for that wreck, I still knew exactly what happened and why. And I was never going to do that again. Who would? This was not a close call, it was a direct hit. I’m not stupid. But I can do stupid things and once I started again I could not stop. I had to be stopped. That happened, too, but it’s also a story for another time.

Throughout all of this, there have been people in my corner, some who knew of my indiscretions and loved me anyway, others who were just determined to save my life, and one trauma surgeon who was too ornery and stubborn to give in to my condition or the suits from my insurance company. He has since passed, but the lives he saved, not only mine, live on. My family, my kids and my parents, particularly, were hit the hardest and yet they were the most steadfast. They never left my side. The friends and mentors I have become associated with in the years since have helped to make me who I am today, and I owe them all a debt of gratitude. Seventeen years is a long time, but it doesn’t feel that way.

So, why not write this tomorrow on October 17^th, 2017? Well, because I’m busy tomorrow. I am now 13 years clean from all mind and mood altering substances, I have gone back to school and completed not only my undergraduate degree, but also two graduate degrees; now I am working in a job that I could never have dreamed of all those years ago. That wreck changed my life, ultimately for the better, but first my old life had to die. Maybe that’s kind of how it all went down. Regardless, every day of these past almost 17 years, as hard as some of those days, weeks and months were, have all been marked with the profound realization that I might not have made it. I am not some believer in a magical being that created the universe, us and everything, but I do believe in magic when defined in a way that leaves out the super-natural. In that respect, I have been given a gift and I try, really hard, to make the most of it.

View from the Top

An acquaintance whom I have not seen in a little while asked me last night, “How’s it going?” My canned, automatic response was, “Good, things are good.” But that response can usually be translated as nothing more than the exchange of pleasantries. No matter how “things” are actually “going,” my response would be the same. In fact, even if it was a real friend, not just an acquaintance, I would be compelled to keep whatever difficulties or triumphs I might be experiencing to myself. Last night it was different. For whatever reason, in a split-second I followed up with, “Really good. Everything in my life right now is clicking. I couldn’t be more content.” And I meant that. That is not to say that I have somehow “arrived,” that my life is so complete that I have nothing left to strive for. But in terms of my general mental state, I am truly, wholly, content.

There are a number of reasons for this, some easily identified, some more elusive, and I am not so naïve to think that this state of peace will last until the end of my days. Another storm will come, and I will weather it, survive it, conquer it or succumb to it. It can be no other way. However, I am pretty confident that I have come to a place where I am able to make choices that will minimize, if not eliminate, the self-inflicted variety. Perhaps the most violent of the self-inflicted upheavals in my life occurred almost 17 years ago when my choices directly led to a wreck that nearly ended my life. That was the beginning of the end of one part of my life and the beginning of the beginning of this part. But it did not happen overnight. It was not as though I woke up in the hospital – five weeks later – and thought, “Fuck, that was close – I need to totally reevaluate my life.”

In terms of the direct cause-effect of that wreck, yes, I said to myself I’d never do that again (I did do it again, but with less severe consequences – for a “smart guy,” I can be pretty dumb). But by the time I left the hospital and embarked on a long-term physical rehabilitation, my mental, spiritual and social life returned to a status quo that could be and almost was fatal. But that lifestyle would prove unsustainable and eventually the instant self-gratification through chemistry I had become so used to rapidly spiraled to a singular point of “fuck this, I can’t do it anymore.” I got clean. I had to, but that undoing of years of daily doing was a process that took some time. “Drugs are bad” for those of us who become dependent upon them, but they are also our worst best friend.

Almost four years after my near-death, and after some intervention from the legal system, I managed to quit long term on August 6^th, 2004. Those early days were a bitch, but with the help of a lot of people - some friends, my family and too many I will never know – I have been able to live a life that was beyond my conception. Happiness is nebulous term, it can be defined in a number of ways. At some point between my mid-teens and my late 30s, it became synonymous with being “high.” Today, my contentedness defines my happiness. Today, and for some time now, I am happy. I am at peace. That is not to say that I am always in some state of nirvana where nothing ever bothers me, that is impossible. But compared to the early years of this millennium especially, it is a state I find myself in regularly. It has become the new status quo.

Over the past two or three years, I have been gradually getting more open about my past to those who are not or were not part of “that” world. That was what hit me last night when I expanded upon my programmed response to what was not so much a serious inquiry as it was an equally canned greeting. Part of what my past life has given me is experience that allows me the ethos to speak on the topic. And what my life has been since getting clean is nothing short of amazing, but it is a delayed amazement. It took some time; transitioning one’s entire outlook on life is not an event, it is a process. Today I have a career and until I got to a place where I was totally comfortable with who I am, who I was and what I am doing here, I was reluctant to divulge too much. Being free to tell my story to whomever – professionally, socially, anywhere any time, is a product of the work I have done.

Those who know me or know who I am today through any number of the means I use to communicate know that I am currently a professor at a large public university in California. I am unique, my students see me as an out of the ordinary professor. Not many look the way I do, ride a Harley to work or conduct class as I do, but I look at it as just another element in the great diversity that is a hallmark of arguably one of the most diverse campuses in the world. When I got clean at 41 years-old, I was a high school graduate (barely) and a college drop-out. But like only a few others, I have an abundance of particular experiences; they are lessons on what not to do. But these stories are also means to communicate what I teach – communication.

In the process, I discovered that something I believed of myself for most of my life was not true. I felt that I was cursed with a deficiency of creativity. I felt that I was not gifted with any artistic talent. It turns out that was a lie. It is likely I would have discovered that lie much sooner had I not spent so much energy chasing ghosts. Through my return to college and in the pursuit of my graduate degrees, I found that I could weave words and punctuation into compelling stories. I have been complimented (something I still have a hard time accepting) on this gift many times. I also have found a great deal of pleasure in creating works like this, but of late, I have not written much more than an occasional Facebook rant, revelation, insight and the like. While I put care into those, too, it is not like this.

This kind of writing is cathartic. It is not as though I ever forget where I came from, or that I am ever not grateful, but inspiration is a fickle thing. I’d say that such is art, but I really don’t know. This morning, as I was perusing my usual go-to Internet sources – news, Facebook, Instagram, sometimes Twitter - I noticed that my girlfriend posted a reflection on her Wordpress blog. Her reflection dealt with, as is usually the case, gratitude. She is, in a word, amazing, and my relationship with her is among those things I just assumed I would never find. But this life we have chosen is what precipitates that and so much more. It took time, a lot of help and a lot of work. There is no “instant gratification.” Somewhere along the line, through the early struggles and the ups and downs of life, I decided that as hard as it was, it would be worth it. I guess you could call that faith. It is all part of what compelled me to elaborate last night. Things are good. Really good. Probably as good as they have ever been. I am content.

Sturgis, Tracked

My Sturgis trip begins tomorrow. I'll have much to say and show here, on Instagram and Facebook, but I also set up a live tracking app/website that should provide live (where there is Internet connectivity - buffered where there is not) location and track data. I have, in essence, enabled myself to be tracked through GPS and the Internet. I have no idea how well of even if it will work, but to the best of my understanding, hopefully those interested will be able to follow along. That's it for now, I start this adventure in the morning. Here is the link where I can be found: https://spotwalla.com/tripViewer.php?id=15959597b839b6ca45&p=SturgisRally2017&hoursPast=0&showAll=yes

Free Time

And before I knew it, summer was one third over…

As a college professor, I enjoy the same extended breaks that many teachers do. Although I have taught and would teach summer sessions (and even winter inter-sessions), that is not likely to happen this summer. And, truth be told, I enjoy the breaks. I have an obligation to be available for work in my profession, and although I am available, I have no problem with having an abundance of “free time.” It is especially nice considering teachers are almost always working during the school year. There is always some work that needs to be done outside of class and that work often must be done at times others are traditionally off work on their weekends and evenings. In essence, we get our Saturdays and Sundays all in a row in the summer. When I am asked what day of the week it is, in the summer my answer will be a tongue-in-cheek, “Saturday,” no matter what day it actually is. Sorry/not sorry.

But back to this idea of “free time.” Presumably, that is the time one enjoys when he or she is not otherwise obligated through work or some other responsibility that demands one’s time. In that respect, my summer is full of free time. It’s not all free, there are numerous things that are part of life that must be done - responsibilities and other  things that take time - but I guess if one enjoys the freedom of when those things are done, it adds an element of freedom that I do not have during the school year. Even those things that I do outside the classroom that are largely up to me as to when I do them, they still have deadlines. For example, I still have to prepare for class before that class actually meets. And too often the only time available is on Saturday or Sunday or in the evening. If I am asked what day it is on a Saturday during the school year, and that Saturday happens to be one in which I am buried in paper grading, I am not quite so jovial in my response. Love my job, hate grading.

Where was I? Oh yes, this idea of “free time.” I have some right now. I am using it to write this. I have been writing, and writing things like this, for a long time. It is not my job, per sé (it was when I wrote for a living), but it is certainly part of it. Now I write less and read more, but I always intend to write more when I have some time… some free time. So, while I am doing what many do for money, this is not a job and I am not getting paid. I’d be willing to bet that most poets write most of their poetry for nothing, that most musicians write most of their music for nothing, most painters paint most of their paintings for nothing, most photographers shoot most of their photos for nothing, that most art is created for the sake of art itself, that most of it never realizes a profit. Most of the time, the time used to create is literally “free time.” And, speaking for myself, it isn’t really work in the classical sense anyway.

I like to spend my time during these long breaks doing both something and nothing. Downtime does not bore me, I do not feel any pressing need to always be doing something. But it’s also true that most of the doing nothing I do is doing something. Every summer for the past few I have taken an extended journey on my motorcycle - the last two summers included one that took two weeks and was several thousand miles. Some might call that a vacation and, to a certain extent it is, but it is a far cry from what most would enjoy and while mentally relaxing (again, not for everyone) it can be and often is physically grueling. Is it doing something? Is it work? I guess that all depends upon how one frames those terms, but it is clearly not a job. Perhaps one day I will figure a way of “selling” the experience - the story - through some medium, but right now that is not how I wish to spend my time. Creating it, yes - selling it, no.

I have been around long enough to have known a few people personally who have entered “retirement.” Some of them had a tough time adjusting to all the “free time” that became instantly available. When one has worked a regular job for an entire adult life, anything more than a week or two break from the nine to five, Monday through Friday can be confusing, even intimidating. None, however, ended up saying, “screw this, I’d rather punch a clock.” They all adapted and some are doing far more now than they did when so much of their time was not “free.” I am faced with two months of free time left. I have many things on my calendar, including another extended motorcycle trip, but I feel as though I need to be doing more of this, more writing.

I have been meaning to write a couple of books, a memoir and a novel, both of which have been marinating in my head for some time. In fact, some of it has spilled out in written words, but none have lit fire, yet. This summer was going to be that summer. I will not put any artificial deadlines on either project - that’s not what it is about. And though I am likely to expose both to the possibility of publication, neither is being written with that goal in mind. Because my bucket-list 48-state motorcycle summer is being pushed back to next summer, this summer is the summer to get some things done. But, the time is still free and to put any such demands upon it diminishes its freeness. Therefore, this thousand or so words will have to suffice for now. They were indeed written during my free time.