An Afternoon In Alaska

On Monday, October 16^th, I headed out on my last trip of the semester to visit incoming students. I rose at the Witching Hour (that’s 3 AM for you Muggles…not a good omen to start this journey) to get ready to drive to Des Moines for my 5:30 flight to Salt Lake City, Utah.  From Salt Lake City, I drove up to Blackfoot, Idaho through some beautiful mountainous terrain and visited a student who works in a funeral home that was converted from a Mormon church. I drove back down to Salt Lake City, spent the night, and left for Fresno, CA at 7:30 AM the next day.

An interesting thing about Fresno: there’s nothing there. Literally nothing. It’s just some buildings and roads. There were no planes at the airport, no skyscrapers heralding one’s arrival into a thriving metropolis; just small buildings and people driving rather aggressively as if they wanted to get anywhere else as quickly as possible. It’s not my intent to bash on Fresno…wait, yes it is. Don’t ever go there. There’s nothing there and if you do go, you’ll feel like you’ve slipped into to an irreversible space-time continuum.

After an uneventful night at the Hampton Inn in Clovis (I could literally say “Clovis” non-stop for 15 minutes…it’s such a fun word) near the virtually invisible Fresno airport, I left for Juneau, Alaska at 5:45 AM on Wednesday, Oct. 18th. Bear in mind that the farther west one travels, the earlier it gets. So, 5:45 AM in Fresno/Cosmic Void is, by my Circadian Rhythm, 3:45 AM. I didn’t know it at the time, but my body was getting ready to let me know that it didn’t like this early morning/changing time zones horse shit.

I enjoyed a brief layover at the Seattle-Tacoma International Airport (SEA-TAC for you avgeeks out there…that’s fun to say, too!) where I promptly got in trouble with airport security. Like a true avgeek (that’s aviation geeks…i.e. plane nerds for you non-nerds), I found a great location on the ramp going into the Alaska Air terminal. The problem was, it was outside the “safe zone” where they didn’t want weirdos like me hanging out. So, this stern young airport lady confronts me and the following exchange ensues:

Stern young lady: “You’ll have to leave this area as we don’t let passengers stay out here.”

Me: “OK…I’m an airplane nerd and there’s a big beautiful Asiana Cargo 747 ready to take off. You can see it turning down at the end of the runway. See it?’

Stern young lady: “OK. I’ll be back in three minutes and if you’re still here, you’re in trouble.”

Me: (Gazing warmly at her with my silvery azure eyes and irresistible boyish charm) “You are the BEST!”

Three minutes later, the Stern Young Lady arrives with a look on her face that reminded me of my Grandmother the first time she heard me say “shit.”

Stern Young Lady: “OK…you HAVE to leave NOW.”

Me: “But the 747 is headed this way!”

Stern Young Lady: Actually looks and sees the giant-ass plane barreling towards us.

Stern Young Lady: “Take the video and get into the terminal!”

Me: In a full state of aviation arousal, shoots the video you see below:

Needless to say, I hightailed it into the terminal before she felt the need to call in Seattle’s finest.

Flying into Juneau was pretty cool. It’s the capital of Alaska but its population is only around 30,000 so it has a delightful small-town feel to it.

I arrived to meet my student at the Alaskan Memorial Park & Mortuary and was regaled with several stories of funeral service in Alaska. This funeral home serves several indigenous tribes of native Alaskans, many of which simply use the funeral home for embalming and take over after that, not needing any further services of the funeral home. Transportation of the deceased presents several challenges as there are literally no roads into or out of Juneau. The road literally ends at the foot of the mountains. So, other modes of travel, namely boats and planes, are needed to get the deceased to their final place of rest. It’s certainly not Iowa with the fancy black cars and silk-suited morticians in shiny shoes.

They do things a little differently up here!

After my visit at the funeral home, I had 4-5 hours of daylight remaining to see some of Juneau. I could see a massive glacier behind the funeral home and knew I had to see it up close. It didn’t disappoint. The Mendenhall Glacier is nearly 14 miles long and is the crown jewel of the Tongass National Forest. Those of you who know me well, won’t be surprised that I cracked up like the 16-year-old I really am when I saw THAT sign. Those of you who DON’T know me well…you probably don’t get the joke anyway.

Tongass...snicker, snicker.

Even with the overcast, drizzly weather, I was dumbstruck by the brilliant blue hues emanating from the ice of the glacier. There were many signs of its movement all over the park. Scars etched into smooth, flat rocks where the glacier had moved over it like a gargantuan ice scraper on a windshield. The mountains were like fortress walls all around the park and there was a lonely waterfall peeking out of one side of the mountain. I’ve never seen such beauty.

My view of the Mendenhall Glacier.

NOTE: If you mouse over the video, you'll see the "Full Screen" icon at the bottom right. Click it for a better viewing experience.

From the glacier, I headed out to the Shrine of St. Therese, about a 20-minute drive on Glacier Highway along the beautiful coastline of Auke Bay. The shrine was built as a retreat center in the 1930s and looks out over Lynn Canal, with the Chilkat Mountains serving as the perfect backdrop.

Walking up the path to the Shrine of St. Therese

Inside the Shrine

Driving towards downtown Juneau.

Downtown Juneau

By this time, I didn’t have much daylight left and still wanted to explore downtown Juneau. At the top of my list was St. Nicholas Russian Orthodox Church. I may be a Russian at heart because I have a love of Russian/Soviet history and the bleak landscapes of central and eastern Russia. As I walked around the corner of Main and 5th Street, I saw the trademark onion dome (cupola) of the Russian churches. St. Nicholas is a small church, mind you, but it’s still distinctly Russian and for a moment, I felt like a true Muscovite walking on the brick streets of Red Square towards St. Basil’s Cathedral.

St. Nicholas Russian Orthodox Church

As I walked up to the church, I saw a man bent over awkwardly, talking to himself in a mildly aggravated manner as he was attempting to fix a small white gate in front of the church. I was in luck. Here was the archetypal church caretaker literally mending fences for the Lord. I introduced myself as a traveler from Iowa who had a love of Russian Orthodox churches, apologized for interrupting his work and dared to trouble him for a tour. As if on script, he grumbled with a Yoda-like exasperation, “I’m just trying to be the best servant I can be. The church is locked but I’ll be glad to take you inside.”

Standing with Patrick in front of various artistic renderings of the Church.

Inside St. Nicholas Russian Orthodox Church

Patrick the Caretaker proceeded to take me into this simple but sublime Russian church built in 1893 and shared its history with me as if I was the most important person in the world. If you read the reviews on Trip Advisor, you’ll see many mentions of Patrick and how much he knows about the church history. In an unexpected finale to our tour, Patrick offered to ring the church bell, which I caught on video. What an experience…standing in front of this quaint, old-world Russian church, not too far from Mother Russia herself, listening to the church bell toll.

The day’s adventures ended with a medium-rare steak at the hotel restaurant overlooking the Gastineau Channel that separates the city from Douglas Island. I headed to bed, dreading yet anticipating the 5:20 AM flight that would take me home.

Downtown Juneau with the Gastineau Channel in the background.

Remember earlier in my story when I mentioned that my body was going to speak to me? Well, at 2:30 AM on Thursday, October, my body spoke LOUDLY. It may have been the afternoon of outdoor exploration in the 40-degree drizzle; it may have been the lack of sleep and early departures; it may have been the six different airplanes/flying germ canisters I’d been stuck in over the past three days; hell, it may have been the nearly raw steak I ate! Regardless of the cause, I endured wave after wave of stomach-clenching diarrhea. Normally, one just rides it out but my main concern was the impending 10+ hours of airplane travel ahead of me. If you’ve ever been in an airplane restroom, you know that it is NOT conducive to a rather large man with diarrhea. There’s barely room to stand there and piss let alone bend over, blast the bowl, and get an effective wipe.

Thankfully, it didn’t come to that. After one last embarrassing episode at the Juneau Airport at 5 AM, it subsided. However, I decided that it wouldn’t be wise to eat anything so I spent an interminable 10 hours of flying without sustenance, which was enhanced by the obligatory screaming child and scrawny guy next to me who felt my ribs were the best place for his bony elbows. For a brief time, I actually prayed for the diarrhea to return so I could make the flight as miserable for them as they were making it for me.

Mercifully, I landed in Des Moines at 5:30 PM Central time and, consequences be damned, stopped at the first McDonald’s and devoured a Double Quarter Pounder with Cheese, large fries, Diet Coke, and chocolate chip cookies. 

It all stayed down.

Peace…

Travis

Night Music

I'm writing to you from another hotel room in southern Minnesota tonight. I don't know what it is about hotels, but they seem to elicit all things bloggy so I'll strike while the iron's hot. I will warn you now, however: you won't like this entry. It's a self-absorbed, esoteric reflection of my early musical life. If I were you, I'd go back to Facebook. Just sayin'...

I’d like to devote the first portion of this entry to the greatest technological achievement of the 21st century (so far): YouTube. Thanks to the modern miracle of YouTube, we can now watch endless hours of airplane spotting videos, guys mowing their lawns, and bass solos from some of the greatest players in the world. It’s also quite handy for reliving one’s youth.

As a musician, I love to hear favorite songs from my past and dissect the various parts using the knowledge I’ve gained over the last three decades. It’s fascinating to discover that many songs I inexplicably liked when I was young had very prominent or conspicuous bass lines.

For example, most of my high school friends weren’t big into Duran Duran. Consequently, I didn’t flout my unlikely infatuation with their music to my buddies (or anyone else for that matter.) What I didn’t realize until years later is that their bassist, John Taylor, is a world-renowned talent whose lines give their music a truly distinct sound. Check out the bass line from their 1982 hit “Rio”:

At the age of 12, I didn’t have the ear to recognize this funky-ass bass part but that song really resonated with me; it’s painfully obvious now why it did. Say what you will about Duran Duran but their music was head-and-shoulders above most of the other new wave music of that time, which was nearly ALL techno/synth-driven with little in the way of bass/guitar.

One of the greatest things I’ve come across on YouTube is a show that literally changed my life. From 1988–1990, a show called Night Music was on NBC every Saturday night. Hosted by famed saxophonist David Sanborn, Night Music was a show light years ahead of its time that featured an amazingly diverse lineup of musical acts from around the world. Two episodes stood out that had a profound impact on my musical journey; one featured the Red Hot Chili Peppers and the other the greatest jazz guitarist of all/my time, Pat Metheny.

I’d never seen anything like the Chili Peppers and it literally blew my mind. Not just your ordinary punk/metal band, their bassist, Flea, is known today as one of the greatest rock bassists of all time. Again, at the age of 18 and lacking any semblance of a musical education, I didn’t realize why I was drawn to their music. Check this shit out and pay close attention at 0:20 into the clip:

Did you hear that bass lick??? I remember sitting on the couch watching this with my jaw nearly resting on the floor. It was around this time that I began to realize there was a much bigger musical world out there and I might be able to make a place in it.

Lastly, Night Music was the first time I was exposed to the brilliance of Pat Metheny. Metheny is not what you think of when you think about the typical turtleneck-wearing, soft-strumming jazz guitarist. He uses a vast array of sounds, including his trademark guitar synth sound, and relies heavily on what I call the flat-6 chord structure. I won’t bore you with the musical pedagogy but this particular chord structure lends itself to an ethereal sound that creates a noticeable sense of urgency in the music. You musicians will know what I’m talking about…think of the classic Am – Fmaj7 progression. Here is his performance of “Have You Heard” from the October 29th, 1989 episode of Night Music:

I had never seen guitar played like this by a man who looked like that with musicians who looked and played like that. Honestly, who plays drums like Paul Wertico? Look at those cymbals and watch how he plays. It’s absolutely fascinating! Do yourself a favor and watch all 6:34 of it. 

Unfortunately, Night Music only lasted two or three seasons. I don’t think America was ready for its eclectic content. Hell, this was right in the middle of “Wayne’s World”…who could compete with that? Alas, a country full of musical simpletons spoke and the axe fell. 

Being able to watch it now on the YouTubes brings back such mixed emotions. I remember the exhilaration of hearing and seeing this new music and how inspiring it was, making me want to play music for the rest of my life. I also remember how helpless I felt. I was an unpopular, awkward, obnoxious kid with some musical talent that was at that point, untapped. In case you didn’t know, chicks aren't into unrealized musical talent. You have to have it on prominent display for it to work. Watching Night Music every Saturday night (there’s your other hint: I was home every Saturday night), I knew something in life could be better, I just didn’t know how to get there and it was very frustrating.

Then, in 1989, I went to college, lost some weight, learned how to play bass guitar, got really good, had chicks hanging all over me, married one, and all as well. I still like to go back to those nights on the couch, though, meeting my future musical heroes. Thanks for those trips down memory lane, YouTube.

Larga vida de la música nocturna!
Travis

Kansas: Land of Crushed Dreams

Remember when you were about nine or ten years old and you began to stumble upon certain mysteries of life? Remember how disappointing it was to find out that certain things you believed with such fervor and that brought such joy were nothing but a sham? We all remember that moment when we learned the Big Guy wasn’t real. No, not God, you silly goose…Santa Claus. That’s how I felt while driving through Kansas today: crushed - just like the day I learned that Mom and Dad had lied to me for ten years.

What’s the first thing you think of when you hear the word “Kansas”? Do you think of Dorothy? Toto? Carry on Wayward Son? No! You think of WHEAT!!! You think of vast expanses of wheat, caressed by the wind and undulating like a boundless amber ocean. You all think of that, right? I’m not the only one, right?

What I expected to see during my travels today...

As any regular reader of this tome knows, I am required to visit my online students when they start the program, wherever they may be, come hell or high water.  So, you can imagine my giddiness when I saw two Kansans on my class list for the coming term! I’ve always wanted to see the great wheat fields of Kansas and now was my chance.

For some reason, bleak, simplistic landscapes have always fascinated me. Perhaps it stemmed from my love of jazz guitarist Pat Metheny and his use of these barren naturescapes on his album covers.

Or, perhaps that’s just how God wired me. Regardless, I was totally stoked this morning as I headed westward out of Beloit, Kansas towards the beckoning western expanse.

It began slowly. I saw some fields of short corn and what appeared to be an alien strain of mutated soybeans. “OK, that’s a start,” I reassured myself. Then I saw it: my first wheat field. Much to my dismay, however, it was only about 10 inches high and as level as a Marine recruit’s haircut. “THEY’VE ALREADY F@&$ING HARVESTED IT!!!” I screamed at myself.  My second, less obscene thought was, “OK, maybe they harvest earlier in the central part of the state. Maybe the amber waves are still flowing out west.”

What I actually saw during my travels today...

Nope.

Four hours later, when I arrived at my destination funeral home in Garden City, Kansas,  I shared my consternation with the fine folks there and was informed that the harvest is in June. Sonofabitch. June. I just missed it.

I was inconsolable as I began my four-hour trek eastward towards Topeka. “Where is God?” was all I could think as I drove past the short stalks of wheat that had now become a metaphor of my Kansan Dream: a beautiful dream abruptly sliced off at the base by a metal blade and left to die, forgotten and neglected until next spring.

As I sit in my hotel room here in Topeka tonight and reflect on today's wheat-less journey, I’m trying to focus on the positives: I technically did see wheat fields. Even in their shortened form, they were still somewhat awe-inspiring with the limitless landscape behind them. 

Conversely, I also saw an assload of sorghum. In case you didn’t know, sorghum is the Seth Rogen of crops: a moderately-repulsive soybean plant with a giant turd-like growth on top. The more sorghum I saw, the more pissed I got that all the wheat was gone.

Still mired in my agnosticism, I can honestly say this trip, which held so much promise of natural beauty, didn’t help much. However, next month brings a visit to Alaska. So God, if you can arrange a flowing wheat field ready for harvest that lies juuust a bit south of the Arctic Circle, I’ll renew my membership!

Pax...

Travis

A Farewell to the Solstice

For an enhanced reading experience, click "Play" before proceeding to the blog.

The Eastoner - General Midi

It has finally passed. The days were growing longer, immeasurably, minute by minute, just as a child whose growth goes unnoticed by those who spend each waking moment with him, until you realize that, at nearly news hour, there is still not complete darkness. I found it depressing to pull the shades before turning in only to see sunlight in the northwest sky. Our planet, tilted in such a way as to maximize our exposure to the sun in our little corner of the hemisphere, was bathed in sunlight for what seemed an eternity each day. No early evening leisurely strolls in the gathering darkness; no artificial table top fires; the flickering lights of airplanes gently rumbling overhead were snuffed out in the extended twilight. But we’ve made it. We’ve started down the other side of the mountain.

This past Wednesday, June 21st, was the Summer Solstice; the longest day of the year. The western sun worshippers, so thankful for the prolonged agony of daylight, are now beginning the downward spiral experienced by us eastern night dwellers back on December 22nd. On that day, the day after the longest night of the year, the westerners emerged from their colorful cocoons, drawn out by the promise of each day becoming longer. Now, we easterners are awakened from our dreams of nocturnal harmony by the promise of ever-shortening sunlight and the lonely yet oddly satisfying feeling of being the only ones outside in the darkness.

Shorter days means autumn approaches. Even in the stifling heat of July and August, taking a moment to notice the fading orange haze as it dissipates earlier each evening can bring a respite from the heat and the scourge of God’s annoying winged creatures looking to literally suck the blood from our veins. Shorter days means the first falling leaf is within reach of our rake. It means we’re closer to the browning of the crops than we are to when they were first planted. A shorter day brings with it the reminder of the first stinging north wind in early November when everything has turned brown and desolate…perfect in every way.

Rejoice with me, my fellow Easterners, as hypoxic, exhausted alpinists, we take the final step over the summit of Mount Summer Solstice and begin our descent toward the Autumnal Equinox and the long nights beyond. Let’s not ponder December 22nd yet, though; leave that for the Westerners. They need something to keep them warm tonight.

Peace…

TC

To Be Titled At A Later Date

Fickle: "Changing frequently, especially as regards one's loyalties, interests, or affection."

Being a fickle person isn’t all bad. There are certain benefits to frequently changing one’s views on life, be they political, religious, or NFL-related for example. As William Cowper so succinctly put it, “Variety’s the very spice of life.” When you don’t know what particular god you’ll be worshiping in the next five years, there’s some edgy apprehension. When there’s a chance you could become a disciple of Donald Trump before the impeach…within the next 4-8 years, it tends to generate some static electricity. When you know Tom Brady’s retirement is imminent and you have to start planning which seminal dynastic bandwagon to jump on, you tend to question your manhood. These “fickalities” as I’ll call them may sound awful to you and make you wonder “what lunatic could live like this?” The answer: Me.

There have been studies that suggest (i.e. "many people are saying") fickle people are weak-minded and lack the moral compass necessary to lead a fulfilling life, a life pleasing and unobtrusive to the other non-fickle/normal people associated with said lunatic. While I have never been the focus of such a study, I think there may be some merit to that theory. What else could explain how I so conveniently changed my allegiance from the Dallas Cowboys to the New England Patriots? There are other theories, however, that suggest the open-mindedness (or, perhaps one could say "genius") of fickle people allows them to examine arguments and change their course of thought based upon the evidence before them. For example, there was a time when I, the left-leaning radical you’ve come to know and love, didn’t support the legal union of two people who love each other very much…but I got married anyway. BUH-DUM-TISH! I’LL BE HERE ALL WEEK! 

I jest of course as I'm talking about the legal union of two people who love each other very much but who are...GASP...the same gender!!! I certainly wasn’t as (suspiciously) fixated on same-sex marriage as many conservatives are (i.e. “methinks the conservative doth protest too much”) but I don’t think you could’ve called me a supporter of gays or gay marriage back in my care-free "trickle-down economics works for everyone" days. Then, through an act of capriciousness perhaps brought on by an increase in the number of gay friends or maybe it was just common sense, I realized that if two dudes (or two chicks) are attracted to each other (because they’re wired that way and there’s nothing they or Mike Pence can do to change it), then they should by god be able to get married. Call it fickle but I call it…well, yeah, it’s fickle but it’s a good fickle.

Conversely, one of the more difficult aspects of being fickle is when it leads you to question those undeniable truths in life, namely one’s faith. If you know me, you know that I’ve traveled an irritatingly zealous and capricious path of Christianity; lukewarm Protestant praise band leader to Super-Duper “Knows more than the Pope” Catholic to Eastern Orthodoxy to my near conversion to Judaism (see my March 28 entry) and even a brief foray into Rastafarianism (which ended abruptly when my wife wouldn’t let me smoke weed.) There was always one constant, though, the Big Man Himself: Joel Osteen. I’m kidding, of course, it was God. But, when one is fickle, one must be prepared for the occasional spiritual off-ramp and I inadvertently took one last summer. Since then, I’ve been mired in the quagmire of agnosticism. Is He or isn’t He? It’s an awful position to say the least. It’s not the “cold turkey and cigarettes” assuredness of atheism nor is it the “hot turkey sandwich smothered in gravy” that is the total submissive faith; it’s a miasma of ambivalence and ambiguity that results in a phenomenon known as cognitive dissonance: a fancy term for being mentally uncomfortable ALL THE TIME because of these incongruent beliefs.

It’s a little like losing your Grandma and now all you have is Grandpa.  When Grandma is alive, you love to go there for all the warm-and-fuzzies. You walk into Grandma’s house and the aromatic power of chocolate chip cookies and talcum powder is intoxicating! There are hugs and kisses and food and stories and more food and love and it’s awesome. That was Catholicism for me from ’06 to last summer. I absolutely LOVED it (except for, you know, that whole "sexually abusing children" thing.) The history, the bread and wine, and the whole “being better than everyone else” part was awesome! The incense at Mass was like a cartoon where the smell of an apple pie actually picks you up and makes you float towards the pie. Then Grandma died and all that’s left is grumpy ol’ Grandpa.

Now, when you go to Grandpa’s house, there are no more cookies, no more stories, no more kisses. When you walk in, you smell Ben-Gay and farts. When you open the fridge, all you see is a half-empty jar of relish and some week-old ham. That’s agnosticism: relish, ham, and a fart. No more warm-and-fuzzy Grandma stuff, just Grandpa. You know that POSSIBLY something good could come from it, like a barely-palatable relish and ham sandwich and maybe some flatulence that makes you laugh, but you just don’t know for sure. Being fickle has its drawbacks.

As for my beloved New England Patriots, yeah, they’ll probably win the Super Bowl again this year and it’ll be awesome rubbing everyone’s stupid nose in it but let’s be real. Tom Brady’s not gonna live forever and I’ve got to start planning for my next team to follow. I mean who wants to follow the same team for their entire life?  

The ideal scenario is that Brady plays until he’s 50 (which would be a miracle and solve that whole God question for me) and goes full-gay and marries George Clooney, putting an end to the divisive issue of same-sex marriage (except for Mike Huckabee, who’s most likely a closet-gay anyway.) I’m not going to hold my breath on the G.O.A.T. being that fickle, though. Those hardcore, steadfast types need to leave the vacillating to experienced fickle bastards like myself.

Go Chargers!

Thanks for stopping by…

Travis

My Brief Life in Asia Minor

Istanbul has always fascinated me.  At one time the capital of the Byzantine Empire and the cultural and religious center of the world, this city literally lies on two continents, Asia (hence it being historically referred to as Asia Minor) and Europe, with the waters of the Bosphorus Strait splitting the city in half.  For centuries, it was known as Constantinople, after the Roman emperor Constantine who, as the first mega-church pastor, legalized Christianity and made it all the rage in 313 CE (that’s Common Era for you AD folks.) I also recently learned that Istanbul is still known as Constantinople by certain folks, mostly Eastern Christians who may or may not still have their tighty-whiteys in a bunch since the Ottoman Turks rolled into town in 1453, converted everyone to Islam, and changed the name on the water tower.

Istanbul, separated by the Bosphorus Strait, showing off her mosques. 

   

A trip to Istanbul has always been on my bucket list and, in recent months, I’ve felt the pull even more acutely. However, given the current state of affairs, the U.S. Department of State is currently advising us ‘Mericans NOT to visit Turkey, giving it a “2 out of 5 Trumps” rating due to concerns of “suicide bombing” and “kidnapping and assassination” risks to American citizens. Sheesh, they’re so sensitive at the DoS.

I lived in Turkey from the time I was two years old to four years of age when my father, a fresh-faced 25-year-old member of the U.S. Air Force was stationed at Balgat Air Base in Ankara, Turkey. A few months ago, while visiting my parents’, Dad played me audio recordings of his old reel-to-reel tapes we made during our time in Turkey. To pass the time, we would make recordings of ourselves talking about our day, of Dad playing the guitar, and of my infant sister crying; we would then send these tapes back to the States for the rest of the family to hear. In 1972, it was no doubt riveting entertainment for the folks back on the farm in western Illinois. They in turn would make their own tapes and send them to us. It was the prehistoric version of FaceTime.

As I listened to these recordings for the first time in probably 30 years, my fascination with Eastern culture and music began to make sense.  My mother told me that the only thing to do in the afternoon was to listen to the local Turkish radio station that was on the air for a just a few hours a day.  I could hear the music in the background as I listened to our recording and, in a moment of true epiphany, realized THAT’S where my love of eastern music developed. The YouTube clip below is a good representation of our afternoons listening to Turkish radio. I listened to it repeatedly as I wrote this and I think you'll enjoy listening to it while you read. 

My Mom also sent me some pictures of where we lived in Ankara. I was somewhat taken aback by the first picture of our front door.  It literally took me to the opening sequence of the Exorcist when Father Merrin is stumbling through the dirty streets of northern Iraq. But then I remembered that it was Turkey in 1972; that’s how it was everywhere.

The front door of my home in Ankara,Turkey.

There have been many studies on memory and how early we can recall our first memories. I swear to God that I have memories of my time in Turkey. Perhaps I was closer to age four than age two but I swear I remember us being excited to see that a donkey had suddenly appeared in our front yard. I use the term “yard” very loosely as I don’t recall a single blade of grass in the entire city of Ankara. 

It's 1972 in Turkey...don't be surprised if a donkey wanders into your front yard.

I also remember a stone wall near our house with some steps carved into the side so one could climb from the lower level up to the next level. I remember being scared to death trying to climb these steps, which at the time seemed like climbing Everest to me, but in retrospect, were likely only 3-4 feet high. Why my parents were letting their little boy climb daunting stone-carved Turkish walls I don’t know but, like I’ve already said, it was Turkey and it was 1972. There wasn’t a lot to do.

As with most kids, I had a trike (and, according to the picture below, a hat fit for a Soviet Premier.) I also had a Turkish friend whose name I’ve long forgotten. I remember being quite jealous of my Turkish friend and her cool Turkish pedal car. Perhaps this is where my lifelong inferiority complex started: my trike and I couldn’t hold a candle to that cool little car!  

That's me on the trike, green with envy, wearing my Leonid Brezhnev hat. 

I remember learning to count to five in Turkish: “Bir” (beer), “iki” (icky), "uc" (ewch), "dort" (dirt) and "bes" (besch.) I remember my American friends being mildly fascinated with this for the first hundred or so times I did it. Not so much after that.

The snowy streets of Ankara, circa 1973. I've no idea what's holding my sister up on that sled.

Present-day Ankara and the Kocatepe Mosque.

From the towers and domes of the mosques that dominate the Turkish landscape, to the serpentine scales and mesmerizing melodies of Turkish music, all the way to the dusty, ancient stone-front neighborhoods, it’s become obvious to me that the city of Ankara and Turkey itself were indelibly etched upon my psyche at a very early age. The pictures and sounds of my past have given me a new-found love and longing for a country that, unbeknownst to me, has been calling me back for the past 45 years.

Thanks for checking in...

Travis

A Moment along the Roadside

Today brought more travels, this time to central Nebraska for the Nebraska Funeral Directors Convention in Kearney.  Granted, Kearney doesn’t have the same salty coastal allure as Myrtle Beach nor can it compete with the Big Apple in terms of an iconic skyline or vast cultural diversity, but Kearney does have one helluva cool archway over I-80! The Great Platte River Road Archway is the crowing jewel of a visit to Kearney and it takes approximately 0.42 seconds to drive under it at 83 mph (that’s the coolest thing about Nebraska – 75 mph speed limit!)  All sardonic comments aside, the Archway is quite a sight to behold as it spans 310 feet over the interstate and does create a sense of passing through to America’s western territory, which is its intended purpose.

Great Platte River Road Archway - Gateway to the West!

I always get a feeling of reminiscent sadness when I make this trip across Nebraska. I don’t know if anyone else experiences this but the sadness causes a physical tingling in my left arm, every time.  I’m not sure why it happens, but that’s how I know it’s real. I get sad when I make this trip because I pass one of the most innocuous yet cherished places in my life: a roadside rest stop.  It was at this mundane little wide spot in I-80 that an unexpectedly beautiful moment occurred with Jenna and Jace. 

Here's the rest stop as I passed it today. Doesn't seem that long ago...

It was July 2008 and we were on our way to Colorado for a family vacation. I’m guessing it was 20-30 minutes after a lunch stop that Tara needed to use the restroom (maybe not, but you could see that happening, right?) so I pulled into this rest stop in the middle of Nebraska.  My memory of how the event started is fuzzy, but, as I recall, Jenna, Jacer, and I eventually started running around to burn off some steam; frolic, if you will.  I vividly remember the coolness of the long, green grass on my bare feet.  It hadn’t been mowed recently but it was impeccably clean, thick, healthy grass with no weeds or dandelions and it felt wonderful. 

Funny the things that happen when you least expect it...

I remember the look of unadulterated joy on Jace’s face as we all stood hand-in-hand, ready to play whatever game he had no doubt just made up. I remember a feeling of absolute contentment and peace, not worrying about when we would get to our destination or wondering how bad the traffic was getting. Most of all I remember forgetting, for just a few minutes, that Jace had that terrible thing growing in his head; a thing that would take him from us just a few weeks later. Tara captured this unexpected, unplanned moment perfectly and I’m so thankful she did.

Our entire stay there was no more than 15 minutes and we piled back in the car to continue on our westward adventure, totally oblivious of how special the moment was we had just experienced. As I drove past that rest stop today and remembered our time there, it reminded me of when you buy an expensive Christmas gift for a child and they end up playing with the box. Here we were, on a week-long excursion to the majestic Rocky Mountains, and the best part turned out to be a rest stop on I-80.

Peace…

Travis

How to Interact with Children on an Airplane

As any of you who follow me on Facebook likely know, I spent the week before last at the ABFSE Annual Meeting in Myrtle Beach.  This is the annual meeting of educators from the 60 or so mortuary science programs around the country and we were stuck on the beach this year.  Unfortunately, it doesn’t get any better next year as we’ll have to deal with the swaying palm trees and Pacific breezes of Los Angeles. Ugh…I’m already dreading it.

Here I am, not hating children, while "working" at Myrtle Beach.

Anyway, due to the locale of this year’s meeting, air travel was necessary which brings me to the topic of this blog: the proper way to interact with children; specifically, when stuck in the claustrophobic confines of a metal tube careening across the sky at nearly 600 mph.

Let me give you a little backstory lest you think I’m some sort of abominable monster who hates children.  Many of you likely know that I lost my son 9-year-old son, Jace, back in 2008.  As I look back, I believe my distaste for children (and let me be specific: other people’s children) may have taken root riiiight about that time. So, regarding my concern about the perception of me hating kids, “hate” is such as strong term so let’s try to find another slightly less-pejorative term and we’ll all learn some new words together…one of my favorite things!

OK, let’s try eschew. “I eschew children.” No, that doesn’t work. According to Webster’s, to “eschew” something means to deliberately avoid or abstain from. It’s in the ballpark but not quite what we’re looking for. Let’s try abhor. “I abhor children.” No, that doesn’t work either. Abhor is to “regard with disgust and hatred” and I’d like to avoid the “H” word if at all possible. Ah, I’ve got it! Let’s try loathe. “I loathe children.” To loathe is to “feel intense dislike or disgust for” – I think we’ve got a winner!

So, here I am, on my way back to Iowa a couple weeks ago. One would think a week on the beach would put one in a good mood but I hadn’t slept well the previous night and was forced to get up at 7 AM EST (yes, Eastern time…that’s 6 AM according to my sensitive Circadian rhythms!)  That’s another thing: how in the name of hell does anyone thrive in the Eastern time zone?!  Everything starts an hour later than here yet the day still starts at 8 AM the next morning!  To quote Brennan Huff from Step Brothers, “This time zone is horse shit!” If everything in the evening starts an hour later (e.g. reruns of The Big Bang Theory don’t start until 8 PM), then YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE TO GO TO WORK UNTIL 9 AM THE NEXT MORNING!!! But I digress…

I'm heading back to Iowa. By the time I get to the Myrtle Beach airport at 5 PM E-MF-ST, my tank is nearing empty. I actually fell asleep while leaning on my elbow sitting at a table and when I woke up, my elbow hurt really bad. Now I’m in an even worse mood; the perfect time to board an airplane.

Here’s some more backstory: I’m traveling with my good friend and colleague and, to protect his identity and privacy, I’ll give him a completely fake, made-up name. Let’s call him Kelvin Pattinson. Kelvin is one of the nicest people you’ll ever meet and he has a genuine love of children and enjoys interacting with them; in other words, my complete opposite in every regard.  As we take our seats, I notice a handsome young “youth-pastory”-looking couple seated directly in front of us with their beautiful, big-blue-eyed toddler (no doubt a future bearded hipster mega-church worship leader.) I’m immediately irritated as I begin to plan how to avoid any and all contact with this child.

This is NOT the future Youth Pastor...I found this annoying lil' fella on the Internets.

Here’s the crux of this blog: DON’T ENGAGE A CHILD ON AN AIRPLANE!!! EVER!!! For the love of god, people, you’ve got nowhere to go! So what does my esteemed colleague do? HE ENGAGES THE CHILD!!! He begins waving at the child and using “toddler talk”, which this kid eats up and immediately stands up, turns around, and latches on for full-flight interaction. I quickly lean my head against the window (thank god for window seats) and feign a deep sleep. To Kelvin’s credit, I hear him whisper to the child, “He’s taking a nap. He’s sleeping.” “That’s good, Kelvin…keep it up! Keep lying to this kid.” I think to myself.

The child finally turns around and things would’ve gone fairly smoothly from this point but for the rage-inducing little bastard in the seat directly behind me. He’s begun to emit what can only be described as intermittent “verbal explosions” which he augments with some sort of battering ram action against the back of my seat.  His favorite verbal explosion was “gibberish…gibberish…gibberish…DADDY! DADDY! DADDY! DADDY!” at a volume that the air traffic controllers on the ground were likely able to hear.  Daddy was nowhere to be found, just Mommy, who offered a calm and ineffective “Ssssshhh” when she saw me jerk my head from side-to-side in response to each verbal explosion. 

It's true...children are indeed awful.

As I contemplated the legal ramifications of inflicting physical harm on a child with 150 witnesses in close proximity, I noticed Kelvin laughing hysterically. He is aware of my feelings for the little ones and was really eating this up. Then Youth Pastor, Jr. turns around again for another interaction. Quickly back to sleep I go!  This went off and on for what thankfully was only an hour flight over to Atlanta. 

In an interesting bit of karma, as I walk off the plane, I drop my bag to the ground and it immediately starts to vibrate.  At first I thought the jet bridge was moving but as I walked into the terminal, the vibrating continued.  “What the hell could be vibrating in my bag?” I thought, as I was grateful I had cleared security without this happening.  I started to dig through it and it occurred to me, “My beard trimmer!”  Since our connecting flight was leaving in 30 minutes, I quickly plunged my hand into my bag to find the trimmer.  What I didn’t realize is that the guard had come off and, when I pulled my hand out, I was missing about a quarter-inch of skin on my finger and was bleeding like a stuck hog! Who knew they could trim hair OR be used for skin grafting? Oh karma, thou art a nasty bitch. Note to self: Be nicer to children.

My harrowing experience convinced me that if the Catholics are indeed correct and there is a purgatory, this will be mine. I’ll be stuck on an airplane full of inquisitive, shrieking children who will know that I am NOT sleeping in seat 12D and, instead of going to Atlanta, the flight will go on for eternity. (Insert "Atlanta is basically Hell anyway" joke here.)

Now I know what you’re thinking: What kind of depraved monster could hold in his blackened heart such loathing for God’s most innocent creatures?  The answer: anyone who has sat between two of those angelic lil’ creatures on a flying tube bound for Hell.  

Thanks for stopping by...

Travis

The Salieri Complex: My Life of Mediocrity

Do you ever have those moments where you read or hear something that perfectly encapsulates your current position in life? I recently stumbled across an unofficial psychological syndrome called “The Salieri Complex” – named for Antonio Salieri, the late-18th century Italian composer known for his rivalry with Mozart. This relationship was the basis for the 1984 film Amadeus in which Salieri, from an insane asylum, confesses to a priest the tale of how he was ultimately responsible for Mozart’s death. Incidentally, I hold Amadeus in the same regard as The Deer Hunter: if you haven’t seen it, you’re a loser (see my Jan. 24th entry.)

In the movie, Salieri, himself a confident court composer who has given his life to God as an offering in return for the musical talent God has bestowed upon him, becomes acquainted with Mozart. He eventually finds himself competing with Mozart and becoming envious of Mozart’s talent.  When confronted with the effortless genius of Mozart, Salieri sadly realizes that he is doomed to a life of mediocrity and, in a cathartic final scene, counsels the emotionally exhausted priest, with whom he has been sharing his story:

“I will speak for you, Father; I speak for all mediocrities in the world. I am their champion; I am their patron saint.”

Then, as he is wheeled down a corridor filled with mental patients, some chained to the wall or in cages, he joyfully proselytizes and offers absolution to his flock of lunatics:

“Mediocrity is everywhere. I absolve you. I absolve you. I absolve you all.”

Salieri has fully accepted his mediocrity and that of all those around him.

I stumbled across the Salieri Complex in a review written by Dan Zak of the Washington Post about Alec Baldwin’s new book, Nevertheless. As he closes, he disappointingly asks of Baldwin, “What about your relationship with God…and let’s address your Salieri complex head-on.” He follows with a line that slapped me right in the face: “How do you do meaningful work when you’re smart enough to know you’re not good enough?”

In a nutshell, those of us afflicted with the Salieri Complex always feel there is someone much better at what we do than we are.

This is a great segue into the whole Dunning-Kruger effect which states that incompetent people overestimate their own skill level and lack the self-awareness to realize their mistake. In other words, you’re too incompetent to know you’re incompetent. There are scads of articles out there now that delve into this fascinating topic, most of them apply to a certain segment of Trump supporters. If you’re one of them, go ahead and read it anyway; you probably won’t know it’s about you.

Anyway, this Salieri Complex hit me head on because I immediately realized it perfectly encapsulates my musical life: it has since I was in college. I went to a small, liberal arts school where I blossomed from an acne-ridden fat kid with zero confidence into what I thought was a pretty damn good bassist with little-to-no acne and a svelte figure...a veritable stud-muffin as the girls would say (see below.) I was the classic “big fish in a little pond” but, as Mr. Dunning and Mr. Kruger would’ve told me had I been one of their lab rats, I was too dumb to know it at the time.

That's me, the stud-muffin on the left, with a couple of my college jazz band buddies.

Let’s fast-forward 20-something years to the recent past. In spite of the efforts of Mr. Dunning and Mr. Kruger, I had fallen into another incompetent haze where I felt like I was a bass player extraordinaire and was playing with a hot band, you know, kickin’ ass and takin’ names as the kids say nowadays.

But hang on there just a minute, Guiseppe! Now we have Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, and a host of other social shit-shows that hold our attention like a bad haircut with a red tie. I follow many Instagram accounts of talented bass players from around the world who seem to be normal people like me and they routinely post video clips of themselves playing some killer bass grooves. It’s hugely entertaining but at the same time, I found that constantly watching players who are technically better than me was wearing me down. I even tried posting my own video of me “kickin’ it with a tasty groove” but removed it after deciding that is was not even close to what I usually saw on IG (that’s Instagram for all you uncool people out there.)

Then I read Mr. Zak’s aforementioned article and did a self-diagnosis: the Salieri Complex! It all became crystal clear. How do I create meaningful (i.e. impressive) work bass videos when I’m smart enough to know I’m not good enough? Answer: I can’t. I must admit though, that like Salieri, I found a certain peace when I came to grips with my own mediocrity. The complex has even become manifest in the basses I obtain. I didn’t buy a Music Man Stingray bass for $2000 or the Jaco Fender Jazz fretless bass for $1800; I bought the less-expensive knock-off brands because, in my head, I wasn’t good enough to “deserve” the top-of-the-line. Finally, it all makes sense.  

Do I write this to elicit sympathy or petty encouragement from you, my valued reader? No. I have a pretty good life and I’m a decent bassist in a pretty damn good band (that's now taking bookings for fall) with some awesome guys. Do I write this cathartically to purge myself of any Dunning/Kruger-esque ignorance or delusion? No. I am acutely aware of my short-comings as a musician and, to a lesser degree, as a person. An insane person doesn’t know he’s insane but I know that I am mediocre. My, my, self-actualization feels nice!

Lastly, as I’m wheeled down the corridor of my insane asylum (that’s just a metaphor for life, Holmes, not a literal reflection of my home life), I look at you, dear reader, and offer you tender absolution from your mediocrity, should there be any in your life. Acknowledge it. Embrace it. Learn from it and remember, there can be no excellence without mediocrity. The world NEEDS us.

I absolve you. 

Travis