Author: fifteenkey (Page 30 of 95)

Not every day on vacation is going to have a great story, but a day without multitasking is vacation bliss. As Kyle snored a tired song this morning, I realized over stimulating my boy takes a toll on him, so after a 6 hour cross desert drive Monday and a still synching 3 time zone transition, today’s pace would be Kyle’s. I blogged as Kyle giggled at Rachel Ray cooking humor. (It’s 8:09PM and he’s done for the day…) After shaves, showers and morning meds, we headed out for a satellite guided trip to Balboa Park and the San Diego Zoo. In a short visit, we did the bus tour, tram and searched unsuccessfully for the Basilisk in the Reptile house. Maybe they knew Kyle was coming and didn’t want their snake stabbed through the roof of the mouth with the Gryffindor sword. I’m just sayin’.

From there we roller-coasted the Coronado Bridge so Kyle could see where his big sister stayed when she visited with Dad in 2003. As I parked parallel style, Kyle was unimpressed and asked, “what are you doing?” “You want to see the hotel, right?” A quick head shake – sour puss said no. Tired guy…

Back at the hotel, Kyle found a favorite spot mid-pool and just was. Submerged to the neck, he slowly rotated and took it all in. His father lay on a lounge chair occasionally looking up at an orgy of wind tangled palm leaves drenched by the sun and backlit by a brilliant blue screen. The iPod wasn’t on shuffle, but I flipped through some Tom Petty (so California to me), Uncle Tupelo and even VH “Ain’t talkin’ ‘bout Love.” All those songs brought me back to places we visit while watching eye floaters behind pink lids. You know, close tight and redden; lighten up and almost get to yellow while you make them move… And any day you’re doing that doesn’t really need a story.

The Landing

I imagine Neil Armstrong’s bio-suit was firing off all sorts of “oh shit, I’m gonna die” signals as his body tried to cope with the stress of having one eye out the window of the “LEM” (Lunar Exploration Module) and the other on a fuel tank that said, “Idiot: you should have gassed up at that old floating Gemini carcass in Earth orbit.”

Yesterday’s trip from Tucson across a landscape that constantly reminded Kyle of some “Star Wars” (Sand Dunes) or Narnia (Mountains made of giant boulders) began of course with my boy ordering the “All American” breakfast in-room at the hotel of baked Pringles and 4 sides of assorted chocolate candies. He had so much sugar in him for the trip, only a breakfast of peyote & eggs would have provided the same buzz for Dad. Sadly, the “Blue Willow” was all out of peyote, so I settled for turkey sausage with dual cackleberries, scrambled.

Unsurprisingly, my boy wasn’t hungry when we sat for breakfast, nor was he very energetic as we cruised slowly through the U of A campus. For most of that he was reclined, only poking his head up on occasion to satisfy the old man. That sugar comedown is a bitch. After scoring a $9.95 “Arizona Baseball” tee, we (and when I write “we” I mean “me”) were off to see a few of the old apartment complexes I lived over 30 years ago. They were all still there… Casa Royale, Casa Espana, and of course, Casa Del Oro which had been re-named to “Arizona Commons.” Renamed or not, the ghosts are still there.

I’ve got to say, while Priceline can occasionally zing you (hotel in Arroyo Grande, CA when “Pismo Beach Area” was selected is an example), it’s been great so far, and our sweet metallic blue 2009 Nissan Altima with under 5,000 miles for $27 a day is Exhibit A. At the counter, I specifically asked for an iPod friendly car and that’s what we got! Anyway, as we cruised along Interstate 8 munching organic fruit, trail mix and beef jerky, the dulcet tones of Jim Dale poured out of the tweeters and woofers reading us “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.”

OK, so skipping gas in Yuma at under ½ tank wasn’t too bad, but breezing by El Centro like a dementor on a mission was in hindsight, stupid. As we approached yet another set of mountains, the gas light came on and indicated 60 miles left in the tank. By the time it was in the 30’s I was engineering siphoning plans. Someone would stop AND have a hose, right? “Ocotillo – 8 Miles” was some solace, but was there gas there? The mountains were looming and my stomach was churning. We were in a desolate area so close to Mexico, there are way more Border Patrol employees than inhabitants. Oh! “Trust your car to the man who wears the star! – Texaco!” I was never so happy to hand cash to a young Mexican man working for a giant multinational corporation.

From there it was an easy couple hours (and 2 Border Patrol stops) to our hotel on Mission Bay Boulevard and directly into the beverage. After a nice dip, we headed to a “Gringos,” a Mexican joint in Pacific Beach. About 30 seconds from the restaurant I realized I forgot my wallet… and I didn’t care.

She (who shall not be named) arrived at 6:20 for a 6:00AM pickup and was dressed smartly in a charcoal suit. I “didn’t mention” the tardiness by suggesting, “if I were the one 20 minutes late, I’d be hearing about it.” Above the din that ensued I requested a stop at the local bagel shop right on the way, but that was diverted with a reference back to my “non-reference” to timeliness and a now acute intent to deliver us on time. I see. Once on the highway, the first exit was taken and I wondered if a new route to the airport had been constructed in the strip mall. One hadn’t, but there was a mega-corporation with “Golden Arches” and apparently they serve the best coffee anywhere. “Do you want anything?” “No” emerged from my brooding self as my desire of healthy eating for Kyle and I took an early wrong turn as Kyle scarfed a “healthy” hash brown… Once back on the highway the incessant stream of nouns, verbs and other words commenced again. It was at that point I stared out the window and wondered if $24 bucks a day parking times 12 wasn’t such a bad idea… I do know she means well.

Not having an assigned seat fed my angst, as did the 45 minute wait line to have the privilege of accessing a cold check-in kiosk. Hey, I’m just happy we go seats, even if they were (36E and F) the last two on the plane.

It’s one thing to be comfortably cruising up the Pacific Coast highway with nostrils full of salt air and doing hand acrobatics as it hangs out the window riding the breeze. It’s quite another to be transversing mountainous hairpins against a big sky sun, bloodless white fists crushing the wheel. As our road trip sneaks up on my rear view mirror and is now “closer than it appears,” I’m closely examining rural routes and the Yosemite-Las Vegas express has me stuttering and stalling like a rental with a 469 mile capacity coughing up one last barren incline of a 500 mile stretch while cursing its driver for not fueling in Fresno. That run-on sentence aside, drives like that can be maddening and the thought of me glancing from the GPS and looking up to some Death Valley gorge conjures an image of Chris Farley screaming, “OH, NO! WE’RE GONNA DIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” I’m fairly certain it won’t be so Dante-like, even though going through Death Valley in August (Average high 117.9F) is a perfect spot for living the Italian’s poetic nightmare.

That’s enough drama. Now I need solutions! For any of you who’ve driven the Southwest:

• What routes to you recommend?
• What should we not miss?
• What should we definitely ignore?

Here’s the draft itinerary for Kyle (17) and his dad:
Day 1 – Arrive Phoenix/Tucson (friends)
Day 2 – San Diego (Drive)
Day 3 – San Diego (Zoo, Beach)
Day 4 – Long Beach/San Luis Obispo (friends)
Day 5 – San Jose (friends)
Day 6 – SF/Napa/Sacramento
Day 7 – Sacramento (friends)
Day 8 – Yosemite (nature stuff)
Day 9 – Vegas (Drive)
Day 10 – Vegas (wave pools, sharks, shows)
Day 11 – Canyon (Hoover Dam, big hole, Flagstaff)
Day 12 – Sedona/Phoenix (colors and friends)
Day 13 – Phoenix (chill by pool)
Day 14 – Depart

Ritualistically nearly nightly I scan several news and social networking sites. Tonight one suggested I might know a dead guy. That got me wondering: what will happen to my blog and accounts like email, Facebook, LinkedIn, Twitter, etc. when I die? I have no departure plans, but neither did the guy who passed away over a year ago. I also got a marketing letter from a local funeral home recently… I think it really sucks that in their database segmentation, I’m now a “warm lead.” Anyway, just as a precaution, everyone using sites like these should leave a list of the sites, logins and passwords that someone can access in case rigamortis limits your keyboarding. “Uh, Megan…”

Shifting to the living for a moment, is it proper public bathroom etiquette to lower ones trousers to mid-thigh level, exposing ones whitey-tighties whilst adjusting ones shirt-tails prior to the tuck-in? No, I didn’t think so either.

Two words: “Road Trip!” I’d been kicking around the idea of a bi-costal binge with my son Kyle for some time, but hadn’t actually committed to it… Until yesterday. As I sat in this position, half working on a Saturday and half wishing I wasn’t, the looming two weeks in August traveled back in time like a cloned T-Rex and jumped me, or as Kerouac brilliantly scripted, I felt “the sensation of death kicking at my heels to move on…”

It’s not that I haven’t done a road trip. Attending the University of Arizona provided several opportunities for multiple time zone road excursions. Of course, the first one was the best. As Mike Gonnella and I approached the MA Turnpike West around midnight back in August of ’77, we were, “at the dividing line between the East of my youth and the West of my future…” It’s a certainty these words would not now be appearing had we not paid that toll. We were not yet 20 year olds from Wakefield, MA wanting more out of our college experience than the many local venues could offer, so we hit the highway West. Already best friends, that trip bonded us with a unique experience only the two of us lived. I want Kyle to get a taste of that being “on the road.” Well, without the beer, pot, and crazy satanic chick we met in Springfield, IL…

Mike now lives in Phoenix, so it seems natural to me to begin and end our trip with some Dillard time. It’s been many, many years since I’ve seen my friend, but we share a union that’s not breakable by time or distance. Kyle and his father have some trip details to work out on itinerary, but more importantly, soundtrack. Dillard and I were totally synched on Pink Floyd, Zep, AC/DC and lots of KISS, but Kyle and his father are not. Can the two of us survive over 2,000 miles in a car hosting a sonic steel-cage, triple tag-team match featuring Mary Poppins, Celine Dion and “Mamma Mia” versus Wilco, Sloan and the Drive By Truckers? I think so. After all, we’re already best friends.

Following a parade of recent inductees ranging in condition from mildly sedate to zombie-like headed to lunch, he walked slowly out of his 17 day dry-dock into the sunlight. Entering the 90 degree easy bake, he must have wished the sweater he wore was in the suitcase he carried. Over the two plus week respite, sobriety and anxiety grew together. Each phone call grew in coherence and angst, peaking with, “I can’t be in here with these people.” The behavioral danger he now saw clearly in them was completely lost on him for the rest of us. “How do you think we’ve felt all these years” I asked. “Yeah, I know.” He didn’t really, but I laid it right out there so his response was reflexive and deflecting. I straddled supportive and blunt language during the fifty or so calls we shared and during visits. I hope the mix was right.

Feeling the soft double rolling up and down sensation heading out the driveway, he said, “They say that speed bump is the beginning of recovery.” Later during the drive and between the many reminders of a needed caffeine fix I heard a description of being locked behind bars built of poppies… “H-e-r-o-i-n.” The spelling spared Kyle in row B from seeing the whole ghastly projection.

I have no idea whether that was just a speed bump or the back side a steep, treacherous, icy slope back to the deadly spike. I have only hope.

I don’t know how much the AAA chart (Adult Album Alternative – think “The River, Mountain, Crossroads or Coast” radio stations) moves records, but I hope it does and sells some for Wilco. Tonight I heard Kyle singing, “I don’t caaaaare anymore,” which blew my mind! “Kyle, are you singing a Wilco song?” “Yeah, BECAUSE YOU GOT IT STUCK IN MY HEAD!” was his feigned angry reply. Washing dishes, I had been singing the catchy chorus and after hearing Kyle mimicking thought, “You Never Know” would be such a great single! It’s a breezy, jangly summertime song with great harmonies, and sure enough, Wikipedia states it’s #4 on the Billboard AAA chart. That got me thinking about head Wilcee Jeff Tweedy. The guy is a brilliant songwriter and musician and he’s been at it with Wilco for nearly 15 years! I wonder how important a hit record would be to him… As imperative as it was to Eric Carmen in 1974? You never know.

“I just want a hit record, yeah
Wanna hear it on the radio
Want a big hit record, yeah
One that everybody’s got to know”

Overnight Sensation (Hit Record),
Written by Eric Carmen and first appeared on The Rasberries 1974 record, Starting Over

It wasn’t too long ago that walking presented an insurmountable challenge to my son, Kyle. Since then, and with the help of his doctors Madelena Martin and Christy Stine, well, he still won’t take a walk with me after dinner, but he does the 100 meter dash…

Saturday night pre-Wilco, good friend Jeff and I had a couple beers (and Jeff food poisoning) at a local (no name to protect the potentially innocent) watering hole. The place was jammed with twenty something’s that were in Grammar School when Jeff and I first saw the band back in ’95. Yeah, we’re old, especially me. (Clarification: When I asked Jeff if he thought we’d still be going to shows, “When I’m 75 and you’re 65,” Jeff made a point of parliamentary procedure and corrected the record that in fact, he’ll only be 63. Fifteenkey apologizes for the error.) Anyway, as we were exchanging words verbally, Jeff wandered into a story which prompted me to interrupt, “I already read that in your blog.” What followed was an amusing couple minutes about all the personal information we share with anyone who can read or be read to in our online diaries. Generally I’m very forthcoming with personal information outside of my Social Security number vault, and probably am guilty of “TMI” in the minds of some conversation partners, but that’s just me. In a recent management training class, I assessed as a high “I,” including the characteristics of “demonstrative” and “trusting.” At the point in the conversation where a masturbation joke happened (we overheard it from some other guys, it certainly wasn’t us…), I said, “See, if we wrote about that in our blogs, we’d have nothing to talk about in person…” There you go… TMI.