The "Invincible" Blogger

Well, an enormous amount of water has passed under the bridge since my last blog post on Halloween of 2018. I figured enough time has passed that perhaps a few of you might have missed me so I’m gonna turn the key and see what happens.

 First, a declaration: “My name is Travis and I have hyperfixation.”

 All of you, my dear readers: “Hello, Travis.”

For my non-psychology majors, hyperfixation is a trait associated with neurodivergent conditions such as ADHD. It refers to the rapid, intense, and often expensive (LOL!) immersion into a new topic (e.g. collecting watches or guitars), followed by a sudden shift once the initial dopamine rush fades. Anyone who knows me will immediately think, “Wow, you’re just now realizing this?” and for anyone who doesn’t know me, yes, I’m mentally ill.

I’ve had many “hyperfixative” phases if you will over the years, most recently, collecting watches. So, I figured what better way to blow the cobwebs off my blog than to post about my love of timepieces.

It started with an Apple watch a couple years ago. “How cool is this?!” I thought as I strapped the silver case and blue strap to my wrist. Now I can ignore all my text and email notifications TWICE…once on the watch and again on the phone. It wasn’t long before I grew tired of the constant pings and decided to browse Marketplace to see what kind of “real” watches were out there. That was my first mistake. When you suffer from hyperfixation, one Facebook search quickly becomes nightly Facebook searches, which become hourly searches, and the next thing I know, my phone is smoking like the brakes on a runaway semi!

Anyway, I found a cool replica of a Rolex Explorer II GMT (and I didn’t even know what a GMT was at the time) for $75 and I still wear it from time to time as my collection has blossomed from one to 14 pieces. Nearly all my collection consists of relatively inexpensive watches, and I’ve come to embrace this niche as dropping 10 grand on a Rolex Submariner is not likely to be approved by my CFO anytime soon.

The one that started it all.

This brings me to the real topic of today’s triumphant return to the blogosphere: My Invicta Pro Diver.

Invicta is a polarizing brand that stirs up a lot of shit amongst “watch aficionados” for many reasons you won’t care about. Suffice it to say, they make a watch that looks A LOT like a Rolex Submariner for 1% of the price. These are called “homage” watches as they look like uber-expensive famous pieces and that can cause a reaction among watch elitists known as “butthurt.” So, as a lover of the Rolex Submariner, I ordered one to see if it would scratch my “Sub” itch. Short answer: It absolutely did.

Prior to this, I’d bought a couple of “mod” watches: one that is built from different parts and made to look almost identical to its iconic counterpart. What I discovered is that, to me, these modified watches lacked their own identity and were a bit “soulless” if you will.

Enter the Invicta Pro Diver, which is unmistakably an homage to the Rolex Submariner, but walks unapologetically into the room like your quirky uncle who shows up at Thanksgiving dinner wearing a yellow blazer and white buckle loafers.

This watch has so many unique characteristics that create a strong and unique personality that, for me, strike the perfect balance between “homage” watch and an “I am what I am and I don’t give a fuck what you think” watch.

Invicta Pro Diver

First off, the name Invicta is Latin for “Invincible.” The logo is a set of wings with a Swiss cross in the middle. This logo is boldly placed just under 12 o’clock on the dial and as a counterbalance on the second hand. Some find it tacky; I find it boldly authentic.

Another thing I really love about the Pro Diver are the indices (the markers used instead of numbers.) Many dive watches today have large indices that are easy to read. Since 2003, Rolex has used oversized markers on their Submariners. Contrast this with Invicta’s small indices, reminiscent of the “five digit” Rolex Submariners from the 1990s. I absolutely LOVE the vintage look of these smaller markers.

Invicta Pro Diver next to a 2010 Rolex Submariner

Next, the bracelet (that’s proper “watch snob” terminology for the band) on the Pro Diver WAY exceeded my expectations! It feels quite substantial (but not heavy) on my wrist and has a polished texture that I feel myself rubbing throughout the day like a tiny stainless steel security blanket.

Perhaps the most polarizing feature is the engraving on the side of the case. I've seen many posts that decry this as outright graffiti on an otherwise nice watch. Me? I like it. There's no doubt about who just walked into the party, is there?

"Hello, my name is..."

 And lastly, the pièce de resistance: the yellow rotor. The Pro Diver is an automatic watch, meaning you never have to wind it as long as you wear it because a rotor moves as your arm moves and this motion continually winds the watch. On most dive watches, you never see the rotor because it’s inside the case. The Pro Diver has an “exhibition case back” that allows you to see the actual rotor and mechanism (or “movement” if you’re a watch snob.) Most companies use a silver rotor. Not Invicta. They stick a yellow rotor in this bitch; a boldly glowing beacon in a sterile stainless steel prison. Some may find it ridiculous; I think it’s the best part of the watch! Unfortunately, newer models have switched to the silver rotor, likely to cut costs, which is disappointing but makes finding an older model on eBay something special.

The Pro Diver's iconic yellow rotor!

Through all these unique features, this watch unabashedly proclaims itself as "INVICTA" in stark contrast to so many of the soulless mods and blatant copycats on the market...and I unabashedly love it.

Like It Never Happened

I see you during the night
You come to me every so often
We're together for a little while
Like it never happened...

My heart feels so warm when I hold you
I can still smell your hair
We could stay here forever
Like it never happened...

I never hear you speak
And as you lie in my arms, I still know
What's going to happen...

We stay together in silence
The pleasure holding back the pain
And I wonder if you know 
What's going to happen...

Like a plane fading into the sky
Our time is over
I don't say goodbye...once was enough

I'll wait 'til you come see me again
Another bittersweet visit
No words spoken, no memories shared
Just us
Like it never happened...

Contradictory Travels

I’ve been traveling by car through Oklahoma, Kansas, and Nebraska this week. I’ve always been drawn to bleak landscapes for some reason so driving through the vast nothingness of places like Kansas, South Dakota, and western Nebraska stirs up many different, often contradictory feelings.

My bladder forced me to take a brief respite at a rest stop in Nebraska earlier today when this inner force took control of my brain for a few minutes. Normally I treat any such interruption as a pit stop during a NASCAR race: how fast can I conceivably get this task completed and get back on the road? How much time will I lose? How fast will I have to go to make up for the lost time?

However, as I strolled out of the rest stop, I noticed a strange dichotomy: the constant, interminable roar of cars and trucks screaming down I-80 to my right and, to my left, amidst a sea of concrete and fossil fuel, a peaceful, bucolic oasis that proved to be the undoing of what, up to that point, was me making good time.

My inner force steered me away from the parking area onto a patch of soft, green grass, which led me to a trio of concrete benches. The inner force said two simple words to me: “Sit down.” So I sat down and let my eyes be drawn to the sad branches of a willow tree being whipped around in the noticeably cooler brisk autumn wind.  From those branches, my eyes went across a pasture that obviously hadn’t seen any four-legged visitors in months. The grasses bristled sharply in front of a tree line that naturally led my eyes up to an aggressive squadron of cumulus clouds that approached quickly from the north, one after another.

My inner force spoke again: “Get up and walk down to the fence row.” I did as my force suggested and was rewarded with the scent of grasses and plants. Not being a botanist, I couldn’t identify them. Hell, they could’ve been weeds for all I know but the scent was a welcome remedy to the residual odors still hanging around my nostrils from my visit to the men’s room. The hiss of tires on concrete was nearly inaudible by this time.

I turned around to walk back to the car but stopped at the bottom of a mild hill in the middle of the grass. I looked across the concrete river and saw hills of long prairie grass slowly undulating in the wind like underwater vegetation. The effect was hypnotic: contradiction right in front of me.

On a contradictory highway in NW Nebraska...

Several hours later, in northwest Nebraska, the grasses gave way to rocky ledges and stone formations. One minute I found myself in a valley surrounded by these natural walls and the next I found myself at the crest of a hill with a vista to the horizon. This bleakness has always made me think two distinct thoughts:  “How could anyone live here?” and “It would be amazing to live here!” In my head, there is a palpable hopelessness that hangs in the air here. “What do these people do” I kept asking myself. “Don’t they feel totally alone and isolated in this god-forsaken place?” I’ve never felt so depressed yet so stimulated by a place at the same time. It’s maddening.

I’m sitting in a hotel room in Chadron, NE as I write this. The view from my window is a rising prairie plain that stretches for an eternity to the west. It’s so inspiring yet so sad.

Contradictory view from a bleak hotel room...

I never want to come here again but can’t wait until I come back.

Thanks for stopping by…

Travis

The Jinn

Jinn – In Islamic mythology, any of a class of spirits, lower than the angels, capable of appearing in human and animal forms and influencing humankind for either good or evil.

There’s currently a jinn residing in my backyard. When the moon allows, I see him standing outside my window where the birds gather, watching me move about my home. I don’t know if he knows that I see him, though. To the untrained eye, his body looks like a newly-planted sugar maple, dressed in clumps of ill-fitting leaves. To those who don’t understand, his arms bear the curves of a shepherd’s hook on which birds find their morning meal. To those who would mock, his head is not a sinister orb of deception, broken only by menacing eyes, but a tray of sustenance for the sparrows so closely watched by God.

Appearing only at night, the jinn is unsettling and beautiful at once. It is difficult to look at him but even more difficult to turn away. 

On certain nights, the jinn influences me for good. “Happiness is already yours,” he whispers. On other nights, the jinn stokes fires of discontent. “That which you seek will never be attained,” he hisses in my ear.

In spite of his duplicitous nature, I believe the jinn understands me. He embraces my different characters and acknowledges my search for truth. However, like a physician studying the cancers of life who becomes obsolete once he finds the cure, so, too will the Jinn lose his purpose if or when I discover the truth. To this end, he will push me to both sides of the river; today, good but tomorrow, bad.

Someday, perhaps the birds will find their seeds elsewhere and the Jinn will leave this place. Someday...

The Way to Jeddah - Pt. II

Faraj saw the landscape in his window disappear as the massive Saudia jet banked to the left and hugged the coastline of the rolling hills of Rancho Palos Verdes. All he could see was the infinite blue palette that was the Pacific Ocean and it took him back again to the ports of Jeddah. He had always been fascinated by the size of the cargo ships when he saw them up close but was equally as fascinated by how small the ocean made them look once they had departed. The same was true of this airborne ship he now rode. What had a few hours ago seemed to him an enormous flying metal tube bearing 400 people with room to spare was now barely a blip on the radar over the largest body of water on the earth. He suddenly felt very small.

As the plane leveled out, Faraj took out the bottle of medication recommended by several friends as the best way to travel: unconscious. He popped a couple pills and hoped he would sleep for at least half of the 15-hour trip to his home. By the time the lights of Las Vegas were visible, he was fading fast.

Six and a half miles below, on the desolate plains of western Nebraska, Jonah waited with anticipation as the flashing lights came closer into view. With the help of his smartphone, he knew whenever the big jets were about to fly overhead and never missed the opportunity to watch them, even at night. He would try and guess the type of plane first and where it was going, then he would check his phone for the answer. The more exotic the airline and final destination, the better. He was excited tonight as a massive Boeing 777 was headed right towards him. There wasn’t much to do in Sidney, Nebraska and this was the only way to indulge his love of aviation. From the icon on the app, he knew it was a 777 but he didn’t know the airline yet nor where it was headed. His first guess: “It’s gotta be out of LAX; probably a United 777-200 heading to JFK or Boston at this time of night.” He checked his phone. “Holy shit!” he said out loud, even though he was alone in the pasture behind his house. “Saudia Airlines 777-300 headed to Jeddah! Big sonofabitch!” This was a rare treat. Usually those big planes on international routes didn’t fly over Nebraska. It was as if they were too good be seen flying over this part of the state, he thought. But tonight, for whatever reason, there she was, a flickering giant in the sky. He could see the distinct triangular pattern of the white lights underneath the plane. It wasn’t long after he could see the lights that he heard the unique rumble of those enormous General Electric engines, the biggest in the world.

This activity had recently become a sort of church service for Jonah. His wife didn’t even ask anymore when he would put on his coat, grab his binoculars, and head outside late in the evening. After the death of his daughter, who had suffered for several years in her battle with leukemia, his faith had slowly worn away and was now nothing more than a tattered garment where a regal robe used to be. He no longer desired to believe in a man-made construct in which a loving god intervened for some but not for others. Those biblical stories he had once read to his daughter now seemed laughably foolish. It had never occurred to him that, according to his long-held sacred beliefs, the world was populated from the womb of one woman; the only men available to procreate being her husband and her two sons. This was one of many such stories that, in the light of new ways of thinking, he actually regretted sharing with his innocent, naive little girl those many years ago.

What he couldn’t shake, though, was his love of certain religious rituals: the Catholic Mass, the Sacred Liturgy of the Eastern Orthodoxy, the history of Judaism, and the mesmerizing musical drone of Islamic worship. He had, however, walked through that forbidden doorway and knew that once he had passed through the door, there was no going back. Those rituals and the comfort and hope they brought was nothing but a pleasant memory; just like the images of his little girl, filed away for future reference but of little use now.

Jonah took a quick look on his phone to confirm the location of Jeddah. He knew it was in the Middle East but wasn’t sure exactly where. “Ah, the west coast of Saudi Arabia. Wouldn’t have guessed that.” he thought to himself. The exotic allure of Jeddah now resonated sharply inside his mind. He could picture the sandy landscape, dotted with mosques, minarets, weathered old men drinking tea, and dusty shops with Persian rugs hanging on the walls. What he wouldn’t give to be on that plane. He thought of all the passengers floating miles above him and wondered if there were any looking down on him at that moment. He wondered if any of them new how lucky they were to be headed to such a unique and, in his mind, mysterious destination.

At that moment, in seat 28L, Faraj was jolted from his Ambien-induced coma by the harsh voice of the captain on the intercom. Irritated but not yet completely coherent, he used his sleeve to wipe the drool that had started to run down the side of his face, checking to see if anyone noticed. He looked out the window and saw a tiny group of city lights surrounded by boundless darkness. In his stupor, he again thought of the ships he used to watch and wondered if anyone among those lights was watching his ship pass by in the night.

As the rumble of the engines began to dissipate, Jonah sat in his lawn chair, completely alone and surrounded by dark silence. As he prepared to dismiss his church service and let the hopelessness of his new life return, he watched the flickering lights of the large ship disappear into the clouds and dreamed of being a pilgrim…on the way to Jeddah.

The Way to Jeddah - Pt. I

Faraj stepped across the threshold of the jet bridge into the cabin of the massive Saudia Airlines jetliner with its two-tone paint, tan on top and white on the bottom, and distinct yellow palm tree and crossed-swords logo on the hulking blue tail fin. He was immediately struck dumb by the seemingly endless rows of seats divided by two aisles that stretched back as far as he could see. He knew many of these passengers and also knew how many made the long pilgrimage each year but it was still difficult for him to comprehend that this plane would be filled with nearly 400 people, all going to the same place. A Saudia flight attendant, mysteriously efficient in her round hat and signature scarf draped around her face, directed Faraj to Row 28, Seat L. After an irritating stop-and-go trip down the crowded aisle and a brief struggle finding his seat belt, he sank into his seat and thought of how much had changed over the past year and how improbable this trip had been one year ago.

It had been 12 long months since his wife and young son were killed in that car crash, the image of which had been seared into his brain like a brand and which he relived many times each day. He had been following them home from dinner when it happened. The mangled wreckage, the smell of gasoline, the blood of his own family flowing down the road; these memories were inescapable and had driven him to near madness at times. The only thing that saved him from planning and executing his own demise was a return to his faith. Those long hours at the mosque, five times a day, prostrated on his prayer rug, fervently praying to God for the strength to make it through the next hour had borne fruit in a renewed religious fervor that, one year later, now manifested in this mandatory Hajj, or pilgrimage to the holiest place on earth: Mecca, near his beloved seaside home of Jeddah.

The Kaaba...House of God.

In the few moments each day he wasn’t reliving the accident, Faraj would relive his youth in Saudi Arabia. Jeddah was on the western coast of the country, right on the Red Sea. As a boy, he would often walk alone to the sea port and watch the oil tankers and container ships come and go into the harbor. He daydreamed about being the captain of one of these gargantuan ships, plying the trade routes of the Red Sea, south to the Gulf of Aden, and out into the vast expanse of the Arabian Sea. He dreamed of returning to a hero’s welcome, his ship full of exotic cargo from faraway lands. But, like the dreams of many kids whose parents struggled to provide for their family, it slowly vanished into a harsh reality of a job he didn’t like to make money for a life in which he found little joy.

Early in his third decade, Faraj decided he’d had enough of the heat, the sand, the wind, and of Jeddah, and applied for a scholarship to study abroad in the United States. When the letter arrived, informing him of his new future, he excitedly contacted his relatives in California to make living arrangements. It was here that he met his future wife, Rana. They married after a brief courtship and, within a year, welcomed a baby boy, Amir. After graduating from the University of the Pacific in Sacramento, Faraj had turned his Data Science degree into a nice middle-class living for his new family. It was a short-lived American Dream, however. Within two years, his wife and child were dead and his life was without direction and hope.

Now, a year later, he was on a plane at one of the busiest airports in the world, standing at the precipice of a new life. The Saudia 777 powered west out of LAX and was immediately over water. From his window seat on the right side of the plane, he could see the smoky hills of Topanga State Park to the north and the serpentine crawl of the Pacific Coast Highway winding along the shore. It was in stark contrast to the desolate, arid landscapes of Jeddah, a place he thought he’d never miss when he left so many years ago. Now he was invigorated by the thought of the dry desert air on his face and the short journey from Jeddah eastward to Mecca, the Holy City and birthplace of Muhammad. The anticipation of seeing the Holy Kaaba, (the “House of God”), the black granite cube in the middle of the Sacred Mosque in Mecca, was like an innate driving force that led him blindly on this pilgrimage. Faraj silently wondered how many others on the plane shared his passion or if, for them, it was merely a religious duty to be fulfilled and no more. It didn’t matter to him. In 15 hours, the wheels of that plane would be landing on holy ground and his new dream would become a reality. 

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