Out with the old, in with the new.

I wrote this about two years ago as an article for the Minnesota Off-Road Cyclists newsletter. It’s a little bit about biking, but mostly about what’s become an annual ritual of purging excess possessions and unused objects from my life. Having just passed another Black Friday/Buy Nothing Day, it seemed like a good time to dust it off. I left my t-shirt drawer alone this year, mostly because I have a basement that’s currently home to six bikes that need a little breathing room. cky

The day after Thanksgiving has come to be known as “Black Friday.” The source of this appellation, it’s said, is that the first day of holiday shopping is the push that merchants need to get them out of the red and into the black. For my part, I’ve always thought that any day characterized by pre-dawn stampedes of bloodthirsty deal stalkers pushing, shoving and occasionally punching their way to savings is a black day indeed. It’s hardly our finest moment as a species, and not an experience that I want any part of. Even my wife, who loves bargain hunting so much that I expect her to enthusiastically shop for her own casket, has chosen to sit out this year’s melee.

I usually spend the day after Thanksgiving combing through drawers and closets in search of items not recently worn or not likely to be worn any time soon. If it hasn’t seen the light of day in six months, it’s on its way out. If its drawer folds and hanger creases haven’t been broken in a year, it’s definitely in the donation box. A little sartorial Darwinism, if you will. But never before has this exercise included my t-shirt drawer.

For most people (OK, most men), t-shirts are a wearable time capsule. Men who couldn’t remember their own anniversaries without sneaking a peak at the spouse’s day planner can recall the date, place and circumstances of a t-shirt purchase with astonishing clarity. Concert t-shirts are a gimme, of course, as are vacation souvenirs. Who could ever forget the trip that produced, “It’s not a bald spot. It’s a solar panel for a sex machine.” Good times.

But truly, a screen printed t-shirt is always among the most durable and treasured items in the wardrobe of anyone sporting a Y chromosome. My wife has made some serious inroads in her attempt to cull premarital (and thus ill-advised) clothing purchases from my closet. For example, back in the grungy 90s, I used to live in flannel shirts. They disappeared faster than Candlebox. I can live with that, but I’ve defended my t-shirt drawer with a tenacity that’s at times bordered on alarming. Alas, today was judgment day for the short-sleeve set.

Most of my t-shirts were in no condition to be worn by me, much less anyone else. Hence, they were destined to be reduced to rags. Ripping up one obsolete tee after another, I started to feel like a pro wrestler. I discovered that if you stand with one foot on the tag side of the collar and pull up on the front side with a good tug, you can rip the average t-shirt clean in half, sleeves and all.

(For some reason I found myself thinking, wouldn’t it be cool if you could clean fish this way? You have to admit, the thought of planting your foot in the mouth of a big walleye and giving the snout a good yank beats the daylights out of trying to separate skin, bones and innards from tasty filets the old-fashioned way.)

A few old favorites tugged at the heartstrings. The black t-shirt with the word “Useless” reversed out of a white oval on the front, and “100% Nothing Guaranteed” on the back. Still true, but a little too threadbare to keep around. The jet-black $75 Hugo Boss tee that the owner of the agency I worked for at the time casually tossed to me while he was sifting through an entire case of identical shirts that he’d purchased. A gift accompanied by the words, “Here. This’ll get you laid.” It didn’t. Not once. It hadn’t ever really fit me (in oh so many ways), but I think I kept as a reminder of something I didn’t ever want to become. Now, it’s the most expensive rag in the house. Four of them, actually.

And then, there were the biking t-shirts. A ratty, once-white IMBA t-shirt from the “Long Live Long Rides” era. And a newer, brown one emblazoned with “Ride to Live.” The obligatory Cars R Coffins tee. Shirts from friends’ shops like One on One and Behind Bars. At least eight shirts from the Twin Six lineup. And of course, the Minnesota Off-Road Cyclists collection: The Riders Unite shirt done for the 2006 Minnesota Mountain Bike Summit. This year’s “Shut Up and Ride” fundraiser, as well as two of last year’s “Riders” shirts. A “Dirty Work” shirt that. And a couple years’ worth of the generic old logo shirts that used to get handed out to trail workers.

A 100% cotton history of my days as a mountain biker – each shirt attached to its own set of memories. Some dating back to the time when Lebanon Hills was still mostly double-track ski trail. To the time when riding Battle Creek started by climbing straight up the face of the hill. To the time when all of the trails at Theo Wirth were strictly don’t ask, don’t tell. To the time before ten miles of new singletrack at Murphy Hanrehan was a twinkle in anyone’s eye. To the time when mountain biking in the Twin Cities didn’t much resemble what it is today.

While the likelihood of me wearing some of these relics hovers somewhere on the latter side of slim and none, they’re all safely ensconced back in the t-shirt drawer. Last time I checked, we’re not running short of rags. And besides, I’d rather wipe the grease and dirt off of my chain with the remains of a $75 t-shirt I never cared about, than a free one that I always will.

Please return me to the upright and locked position.

A stream-of-dissolving-consciousness piece I barely managed to hunt and peck my way through during a flight from Calgary to Minneapolis a few years ago. I re-read this whenever I need to be reminded that drinking doesn’t make me a better writer, but does give me something to write about. cky

When it comes to bourbon, Canadian bartenders are strangely parsimonious. In my book, if the liquor level falls beneath the apex of the uppermost ice cube, then the bottle should still be poised and pouring. Yet in bar after bar, without fail, ordering my usual bourbon on the rocks yielded a veritable polar ice cap floated by nary a finger of liquid bad judgment. It’s like getting a burger and fry: technically what you ordered but in entirely the wrong proportion.

This means one of two things: either I drink too much bourbon, or Canadian bartenders are engaged in a highly organized, subtle-but-pernicious attempt to defraud me of my rightful portion. I’m going with the latter.

In any case, I do not want to die just now, but a few hours ago I wouldn’t have minded much. Pleasantly stoned on Canadian over-the-counter acetaminophen and codeine, I am more than happy to continue breathing. Eyelids flapping at half-mast, synapses deserting their posts and going AWOL in alarming numbers (some part of me still knows there is no v in numbers). Right now, my sense of wellbeing is positively bulletproof. I roll that word around on my tongue without letting it out of my mouth, enjoying the soft pop of the p as it springs off of the tip of my tongue and the gently rebounds off of my palate (there is no s in palate). I am making a concerted (no v in that, either) effort not to say it aloud, recognizing that “bulletproof” is not a word that the average traveler wishes to hear muttered aloud by his or her seatmate (no n) in mid-flight. Seatmate is not a pretty word, no way around it. I will not type it again, and I’m sorry for having made you read it twice now.

Cowboy. That’s the name of the bar we ended up at last night in the name of a wrap party that sputtered a few times but never really turned over. Cowboy was an excellent place to observe the time-honored rituals of underage drinking and hormones run amok, as well as the car-wreck compelling consequences of both, alone and in pairs. An honest-to-goodness, grain-fed meat market where the steaks come wrapped in Stetsons and polo shirts and the cutlets come barely wrapped at all.

The drinks were ridiculously expensive and typically skimpy, which certainly didn’t stop me from ordering them. I did have the option of paying an even steeper premium for the privilege of having a buxom, bottle-wielding bartendress clad predictably in daisy dukes and an entirely inadequate tank top perform a dry lap dance all over me while pouring sickly sweet shots down my gullet. An option I clearly remember declining. Repeatedly.

Yes that is my story and I am sticking to it, being too threadbarely with it to lie convincingly anyway. I’d say I’m long past the point in my life at which I frequent such places, except that I was never really at that point. And based upon the way I felt this morning, completely sans sleep and plus the post-traumatic echoes of moderate tomfoolery, I remember why. Enter codeine, exit consequences and hello rambling narrative.

We’re now falling back to earth, so I should wrap this up before I incur the wrath of one flight attendant or another. Never mess with a flight attendant on a bankrupt airline, especially when you’re coaxing a few more moments of serenity out of an unpredictable non-prescription source. Sweet dreams.

Where’s the Fire?

A couple weeks ago on a rainy Saturday morning, I got an email from a friend asking me a single, simple question: Policeman or Fireman? No context, just the question. I figured the question was rooted in one of those your-entire-life-is-determined-by-the-games-you-played-as-a-kid personality profile things that are the emotional currency of Facebook. And it was an easy question for me to answer. I was later informed that the question in question was part of a conversation that started with both feet in the gutter and descended to subterranean levels of smut that I can certainly imagine, but will not besmirch your mind’s eye with here. In any case, here’s my answer in its original state of blissful, ignorant innocence. cky

For boys, I think that fire fighters represent something of a harmonic convergence of manly awesomeness: Action, danger, adventure, heroism. And more importantly, big trucks, loud sirens, flashing lights and cool outfits.

Also, there’s fire. I don’t know about girls, but the power of fire over boys is nothing short of hypnotic. It is not surprising that some boys end up burning down houses by playing with fire. What is surprising is that, somehow, all of us don’t. But I digress.

My parents bought me a cheap red plastic fireman’s helmet and my imagination took over from there. I would pretend that our den was the firehouse. I’d pretend to be asleep on my bunk (the couch), Suddenly, the station bell would ring (probably my mom’s kitchen timer). I’d leap from the couch, pull on black rubber boots, shiny yellow raincoat and fireman’s helmet. Unfortunately, our house didn’t have a pole to slide down, so my dramatic exit consisted of running out the front door to my hook and ladder fire truck: a red wagon equipped with a three-foot aluminum stepladder and a garden hose. Sirens (me) blaring, I’d rattle off down the block to the scene of the fire. Sometimes, the ladder would fall off the wagon on the way to the fire, which is just about the most embarrassing thing that can happen to a fireman.

From watching TV, I’d learned that firemen always carried axes, so they could break down doors in burning buildings. My dad wouldn’t buy into the idea of letting me carry his hatchet, but he did think it was OK if I used his hammer. The hammer was stashed beneath the ladder in the truck. After I’d set up the ladder, I’d stick it in the pocket of my raincoat. It tended to fall out while I was climbing the ladder – also embarrassing – so I usually ended up carrying it in one hand, which looked cooler anyway.

When I got to the fire (various neighbors’ houses), I would pull the fire truck (wagon) right up to the burning building (front steps). Barking directions mimicked from “Emergency!” on TV at my imaginary fire crew, I’d set up the ladder and get to work fighting the fire. First, I’d point the hose at the house and pretend to put out the fire. Dad had specifically forbidden me to hook the hose up to our neighbor’s faucets, which is a real buzz kill when you’re trying to fight fires. Since there wasn’t any water coming out of the hose, I had to make up for it with sound effects.

This always got boring after a minute or two, so then I’d go to work with my axe (hammer). What I really wanted to do was break down a door or smash in a window – also specifically and vehemently forbidden by dad. So I’d just sort of whack at the side of the house – gently, I thought – with the hammer. Thankfully, none of our neighbors had aluminum siding.

I don’t really remember making up scenarios about rescuing people inside the houses. I was just there to put out the fire. So, after what seemed like a suitable amount of pretending to put out the imaginary flames with imaginary water and hammering on brick walls, I’d put the hose and ladder back on the wagon, stow the hammer and drive back to the firehouse to do what all firemen do when they’re not fighting fires: watch Sesame Street and eat ants on a log (celery with peanut butter and raisins).

Good Morning, Good Night and Goodbye.

A scene composed as it happened in front of me and inside my head, on the day I left Spain. There is day, there is night, and there is another world entirely that exists in the small space between the two. cky

4:30 a.m. If you are young and beautiful in Madrid, you are squinting and rubbing your eyes as they adjust to the difference between dark, smoky club and the bright cone that peels back the night from a street corner. If you are me, you are squinting and rubbing your eyes as they adjust to the difference between dark, peaceful slumber and this excruciatingly lit hotel lobby. Watching Saturday night angels gathering softly under Sunday morning halogen halos.

If you are young and beautiful in Madrid the last traces of the magic potion, powder or pill that carried you aloft through the night’s subterranean adventures are in the process of returning you somewhat suddenly, but not unkindly, to earth. If you are me, the striated patterns in the hotel lobby carpeting that sprawls across the floor and crawls halfway up the walls are causing you to hallucinate slightly and not altogether unpleasantly.

If you are young and beautiful in Madrid, you greet the coming day in the arms of someone else—possibly several someone elses—also young and beautiful. Kissing shamelessly on the stilted streets of almost morning, lips meeting to cast a shared spell that keeps the sun from coming up. If you are me, you greet the coming day in the company of a cab driver who farts repeatedly, but makes up for it by driving you to the airport at 170 kilometers an hour, and by not trying to bridge the lingual divide with small talk that is even more inane than that conducted in a shared tongue.

If you are young and beautiful in Madrid, you pile into buses and taxis and cars that carry you off to the soft forgiveness of sleep, spending your last moments of wakefulness in animated conversation, delirious silence or somewhere in between. If you are me, you lack both the interest and the fundamental syntax to generate even the most idle of chatter, so you sit in yawning darkness and silence in the back of a speeding cab, watching the city wake up or go to sleep, and thinking warm thoughts of faraway places and waiting arms that grow closer with every second that passes beneath you.

The young and beautiful of Madrid and me, we’re going home.

The Apocalypse is calling. And also texting.

I am neither a technophobe nor a Luddite (and it’d be more than a little ironic if I claimed to be either on my blog). But I do believe that for every step forward that the new communication technologies grant human beings, they deliver a kick in the shins (or points north) to the cause of basic humanity. Anyway, this screed was written back in the days before the government had to expand the taxonomy of words ending in “-illion” to quantify our national debt. But now that the Bill of Rights has been amended to include ownership of an iPhone, it seems freshly relevant. cky

I checked my email the other morning, and found a message from Rico Wagner, the subject of which was “moon-gazing Miana bug.” It contained the following sentence fragments: “certain and immediate, which she had looked forward to as possible at some future time. a man who has once been refused! how could i ever be foolish enough to expect a renewal of.”

I know no one named Rico Wagner. But it sounds like an appellation that might’ve been adopted by a high-ranking official in the Third Reich who fled to Argentina in the aftermath of World War Two. In fact, I’m sure there must be at least half a dozen Rico Wagners in the Buenos Aires phonebook today.

But I’m at even more of a loss as to what a Miana bug is, or why it might be gazing at the moon. The message itself is obviously an elaborate code detailing some nefarious activity conducted by Mr. Wagner and other South Americans with suspiciously Teutonic surnames. Perhaps the moon-gazing Miana bug is some sort of super-weapon destined to return the Nazis to power and complete their global conquest. Probably not, but it does make you wonder.

The term for such unsolicited email is “spam,” but I have a hard time even calling it that. To me, spam presupposes some sort of commercial aim: the sale of prescription medications at suspiciously low prices; the pandering of supposedly can’t-miss stocks; or the promise of anatomical enhancement through semi-legitimate organic or pharmaceutical means.

But if Mr. Wagner and his ilk hope to make a fortune from marketing moon-gazing Miana bugs, I’d advise them to take another look at their sales strategy. There’s not so much as a link to a moon-gazing Miana bug e-commerce site, for crying out loud.

I Googled “moon-gazing Miana bug,” but the two results I got were even more suspicious and incomprehensible than the original email. So much so that I immediately shut down my browser, shut down my wireless Internet connection, turned off the main power switch in the basement and triple-locked every door in the house. Just in case Rico Wagner and the SS (Special Sombreros?) come goose-stepping down the block with a shipment of moon-gazing Miana bugs and the shredded remains of my credit rating.

What’s most remarkable is not that I received this message. But that receiving it, and hundreds of other similarly incomprehensible missives from fictitious personages, is an utterly unremarkable part of my daily routine.

E-babble such as this is a ubiquitous, defining symbol of the current age. It serves no purpose, not even a dishonest one. It’s disposable nothing.

Yet, if I had a dollar for every time I’d heard some awestruck doofus wonder aloud, “What did we do before email/cell phones/PDAs/etc.,” I would be an obscenely wealthy man – filthy rich in the filthiest of fashions.

Not one-tenth as rich, mind you, as the über-smug technophiles who’ve foisted these infernal technologies upon us. How they delight at enslaving humanity with a never-ending procession of silicon-hearted gizmos. How they mock us with planned obsolescence and specious upgrades. How they cackle with fiendish glee as we lap up their every offering with unnerving zeal. I have it on good authority that they suck the blood of infants and torture puppies, but don’t quote me on that.

To answer the rhetorical question, I’ll tell you what we did before all of that stuff. We respected others – their time, their privacy, their god-given right not to have meals and movies interrupted by digitized versions of “Livin’ La Vida Loca.”
We made plans and stuck to them.
We made an honest effort to be on time.
We did our shameful, pathetic drunk dialing of former significant others in private.
We did not force conversations with friends, family and business associates upon buses and trains full of innocent bystanders.
We used our thumbs for honorable pursuits, like hitchhiking and video games.
We didn’t begin, conduct and end relationships exclusively via text message.
We could walk down the streets secure in the knowledge that the only people gesturing wildly and talking to themselves were the insane.
And we, as a species, were better for it.

As it is, we’re fast becoming a nation of helpless device junkies. I’ve heard Blackberries referred to jokingly as “Crackberries.” I’d laugh, except for the fact that if you actually try to pry one of these devices from the hands of a user, they’d garrote you with the charger cord without giving it a second thought.

Not so long ago, our government had a zero-tolerance policy for global drug dealers. We flew covert middle-of-the-night missions to Cali and Medellin to seize cocaine magnates. We took down the president of Panama, for Pete’s sake. The President! Don’t expect me to believe for a second that we couldn’t dispatch a half-dozen Blackhawks and a platoon of Army Rangers to snatch chief Blackberry pusher Mike Lazaridis from his posh lair and bring him to justice.

I can see him now, standing in the docket, wearing the rumpled, unshaven countenance and uncomprehending Bambi-in-the-high-beams expression universal to suddenly seized.
“How does the defendant plead?”
“There must be some mistake, your honor.”
“Guilty or not guilty, pal. Pick one.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“Yes, and you’re lucky I don’t have you bound and gagged. Now enter a plea.”
“This is an outrage! I’ve done nothing wrong!”
“I’ll take that as a ‘not guilty.’ Bail is set at, hmmm, let’s see…One. Billion. Dollars. No. Better make it two.”
“But I’m a pillar of the community!”
“A community of scoundrels and thieves, Mr. Lazardis. Bailiff, remove this unctuous weasel from my court. Next case!”

And how I would laugh. But I digress.

Don’t get me wrong. I love technology. Honestly. Technology is making it possible for me to write this right now, and is helpfully reminding me that no matter what my hunting and pecking digits might think, there is but one “i” in “possible,” and absolutely no “u” in “might.” Technology makes it possible for me to communicate with friends and family all over the world – in seconds – via email. That same email technology also allows me to communicate with co-workers who sit mere feet from my office, with the added bonus of not actually having to talk or listen to them.

Technology as an entity is neither good nor evil. It can be used to serve any purpose, or no purpose at all. The problem is that the purposes it’s serving these days aren’t good or evil – they’re just stupid and lazy. And as far as I’m concerned, stupid and lazy is the antithesis of what this country stands for. E Pluribus Unum doesn’t mean “Fat, Dumb and Shiftless.”

(Actually, I have no idea what it means. I’m going to Google it right now just make sure that it doesn’t actually mean “Fat, Dumb and Shiftless.” Just a second. Whew. It means “Out of many, one.” Once again, Google saves my pseudo-intellectual kiester.)

But seriously, E Pluribus Unum: Out of many, one. The person who first spoke those august syllables did so in Latin. The language of Rome, one of the greatest civilizations the world has ever known. They gave us paved roads, running water, a framework for representative government, pizza and all sorts of other things we take for granted on a daily basis and yet would surely perish without. They churned out architectural, literary, artistic, and philosophical triumphs like they were going out of style. (Which, as it turned out, they were.) Their armies conquered the better part of the known world. They had it all.

But they let it go to their heads. They got stupid and lazy, while their enemies got wiser and stronger. And as quickly as it had risen, the Roman Empire was scattered to the four winds. Leaving behind nothing but shattered ruins and a dead language nobody speaks anymore.

The message is pretty clear: the rise of cell phones and PDAs portends the end of civilization as we know it. I can only hope we learn our lesson in time to avoid the fate of ancient Rome.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to check my email.

Cicada Songs

One of the hardest things about a Minnesota winter is the silence. Broken only by the searing whip of the wind, it’s an especially bleak silence that takes on palpable weight, as though the pull of gravity has grown stronger. This is a short piece I wrote in the waning days of summer in 2008, over a glass of bourbon and amid a diminishing, unseen chorus in the treetops. cky

Cicadas are my soundtrack of summer. The collective hum that radiates down from the trees like a call to prayer triggers snapshots and short movies from Waterman Avenue in St. Louis. Block after block of impossibly tall sycamores, scalloped black street lamps, brick houses all run together at dusk to the tune of a million strange insect voices freed from 18 years of subterranean slumber. From the tops of the trees, calling out a monotonous song of longing and love before returning to the earth, never to wake.

I find the hollow shells of cicadas in the back yard with increasing frequency, now that summer is glancing nervously at its watch, wondering when cousin fall is going to blow into town, paint it red and shake the leaves from the trees. Translucent amber sarcophagi with bulging alien eyes, deserted, abandoned, clinging to tree trunks and patio furniture.

The humble caterpillar spins a cocoon and emerges in flourish of color, resplendent supermodel of the insect world. The cicada claws its way into the sun, dinosaur ugly, and splits in two to reveal something even uglier. A green dragon encased in an armored carapace with black lace wings, fearsome in appearance and utterly harmless in practice. The appeal of this creature to small boys cannot be overstated.

If you are up on a summer morning at a reasonable hour, you may find a cicada as it emerges from its shell, wrinkled wings unfurling and drying in the sun. Evolution has not offered much to the singing green dragon of the treetops, beyond making it smaller. The cicada’s movements are slow and deliberate. By comparison, the bumblebee is a speed demon. But if you’d been stuck in shell underground for 18 years, I imagine yours would be, too.

On the plus side, this means that you can very gently urge a cicada from wherever it’s perched on to your finger, and examine it closely. It’s been at least 25 years since the last time I did this, but I can still feel the soft, prickly sensation of those tiny, strut-like legs grasping for purchase on my finger. The cicada does not appear to have the mental capacity to process fear. There is only room for “fly, make freaky music, find mate.” It will not flee your finger until its wings are dry. And even then, you may need to give it a little nudge. Be gentle. It won’t bite. All it wants to do is make its way to the treetops, give the performance of a lifetime, and make sure that the hum of its progeny will fill the air again after enough years for the memory of that moment to legally vote.

Alternately, you can just go out in your back yard and listen to that sad, strange symphony. It’ll only play for a few more nights before the trees fall silent for another long winter.

Barcelona in Wartime

In the spring of 2003, I was in Spain with my friend Eric. Our first days were in Barcelona, which is as good a place as you can pick to start wandering around the country. Not at all by design, our trip coincided with the beginning of the second Iraq war. The day before our plane touched down, over one million people marched against the war through the streets of Barcelona. To say that I didn’t know what to expect as an American would be something of an understatement. But then I went to a bar. This is an excerpt from a story I wrote about said bar. In the wake of an election that felt like the first positive change in my country in a long time, I thought it’d be worth going back to. cky

When I decided to wrap up last night with a few glasses of the finest Tennessee refreshment, I was flying solo. For the record, I have no trouble with the notion of drinking by myself. I’ve had a tumbler of bourbon, a few ice cubes and a good book to keep me company on many occasions when my wife is out of town (and more than a few when she’s simply out of the room). But drinking alone is another thing entirely. You can find yourself, cocktail in hand, shuffling your way through a room packed with strangers and still be drinking alone. I am not a big fan of drinking alone.

For the sake of convenience and minimized sodden wandering, I selected a small bar just around the corner from our hotel. I should hasten to add that it was only small by American standards, which is to say that it occupied less than three city blocks and resided entirely within a single area code. As Spanish bars go, it was quite generously proportioned, which is to say that one could trip and fall forward upon entering the front door and not hit one’s forehead against the back wall. It was a roughly triangular room that would seat about 30 comfortably, stand about 50 in close quarters and require the sharing of carnal knowledge between patrons to go much beyond that. The interior was very dark and of a color you could barely gauge with the lights low—I’m guessing green—adorned with even darker woodwork. Stools and counters ran along two walls, and a majestic carved walnut bar occupied the entire third. Jazz, mostly hailing from the cool era, was piped in through tiny speakers at a volume just loud enough to provide a soundtrack for conversations that you wouldn’t notice until you stopped talking.

There were roughly a dozen people clustered in various groups when I walked in the door. Everyone was smoking, which is what everyone does when in Spain, apparently. I made my way to a seat on the short side of the bar’s 90-degree corner, maintaining the standard American one-seat buffer zone between myself and a young couple who were deeply engrossed in themselves, their drinks and possibly each other.

Three Tuxedo-clad bartenders tended the flock from behind the bar, approximately two more than was strictly necessary for the evening’s business. As I took my seat, the one closest to me was making a great and dramatic show of concocting what I believe to have been a margarita, pouring the tequila and lime juice in great swooping arcs between tumblers as though he were juggling the contents. When he had concluded his performance and delivered the cocktail, he turned his attention to me. I deprived him of the opportunity for further showmanship by ordering my usual bourbon and rocks. Actually, what I ordered was Jack Daniel’s, because even a neophyte Catalonian bartender who understands not a single word of English knows the words “Jack Daniel’s.” I believe it’s set down in our standard trade agreement with E.U. countries. The bartender then spoke a word that I believed to mean “ice’ in a vaguely interrogative fashion, to which I assented. Luckily, I was correct.

Bourbon and rocks is a drink that requires no histrionics to prepare. It will never be given a nickname derived from a sex act, natural disaster or military hardware. Ordering it will not cause you to wince from pure reflex while half-whispering its name to a waitress, even though said waitress is wearing a bandoleer of brightly colored test tubes containing sickeningly sugary libations with equally colorful names. It is, in short, the perfect drink to share with a room full of strangers, in whose company you would like to avoid confirming the worst suspicions regarding Americans abroad.

Armed with few amber ounces of home away from home, I surveyed my surroundings with an ear toward picking up a hint of English. The couple closest to me was talking lovey-dovey French and smiling cute little French smiles. I don’t know enough French to actually follow a conversation, and you can’t ask for a napkin en Francais without it sounding like a come-on. But all of the secondary signs pointed to their conversation being of a romantic, or at least mutually gratifying nature. This was confirmed when they began to engage in their country’s national kiss. At the far end of the bar, two other couples chatted amicably in some flavor of English. Between them and the lovestruck frogs were two women speaking with Limey accents thick enough to set fence posts in.

As I mentioned, I’m no fan of drinking alone. It makes me a little uncomfortable, and when I’m uncomfortable, I do everything a little faster than I need to. Especially talking and drinking. And since I didn’t have conversation to provide me with a reason to use my mouth for something other than drinking, I drained the whole glass in about a minute. Of course, I ordered a second. Realizing that my present course was going to get me nowhere but drunk alone, I thought it best to try and add “talking” to “drinking” on my list of things I would do that night.

The least threatening possibility seemed to be the Brits. Finding my feet with relatively little difficulty, I made my way around the amorous Frenchies and over to a spot on the floor that seemed within respectful yet conversational distance of one of the women. (The other had presumably vanished in the general direction of the single, pocket-doored bathroom in the far corner of the bar.) Not knowing the best way to start a conversation with a complete stranger in a foreign country, I opted for the long way. “Hi. This might seem a bit odd, but I don’t really know anyone here and I was hoping that could impose on you for a little conversation. Would it be alright if I joined you?”

After I managed to get all of this out, the woman said with a complete lack of hesitation made if not possible at least more likely by a fair volume of whatever she was drinking, “Of course. Pull up a chair. Sit down. I’m Maria, and this is my daughter Ashley.” After this last bit, she indicated in the general direction of the other woman, freshly returned from the lavatory. Introductions were made, pleasantries were exchanged, noncommittal questions intended to establish the sanity of all parties were asked and answered. They were indeed from England, somewhere in the north that, as they asserted, I hadn’t heard of. Being from Minneapolis, I found myself making much the same explanation.

We talked about the things that strangers in strange but neutral turf talk about: the places we came from, what we were doing in Barcelona, where we were staying, what we’d seen, done and eaten, how long we would be there, how the weather was compared to home. We discovered that we were both traveling sans spouses, Maria’s husband being back in England and my wife being back in the U.S. As it turns out, Ashley was all of 17 years old, prompting me to comment on how I’d never been in a pub with my mom, least of all when I was 17. They both found the notion that our country forbids drinking by those under the age of 21 to be quite bizarre and comical.

Noticing that my glass was approaching empty, Maria insisted on ordering me a third and entirely unnecessary bourbon. I needn’t have worried. I was on my third drink, but they were likely on their third bar. Apparently, mother and daughter barhopping was not a newly minted concept.

Bar conversation is actually the best way to get to know someone from a different country. Alcohol loosens your tongue, hangs up your hang-ups and allows you to ask those questions that, in the cold and sober light of day, might seem a bit pushy if not entirely inappropriate. Ashley and I talked about what a slut we thought Brittany Spears was. Maria and I confirmed that it was indeed OK to be traveling without one’s spouse. After knowing me a scant 20 minutes, she was already telling me that if we ever came to England, we were to stay with them. “We don’t have much, but we know how to have a good time.”

We got to talking about what we’d been up to since arriving in Barcelona. She was talking about how some of the people on one of their tour groups seemed pretentious, putting on airs and such. She asked me, “Do people in America act like that?”

On one hand, it was a simple and entirely natural question. One that anyone might ask of a person whose country they’d never been to and didn’t know. On the other hand it spoke volumes, perhaps, about how she saw the U.S. As if by virtue of winning our independence from her nation a couple hundred years before in a triumph of new democracy over old empire, we’d also somehow freed ourselves from human foibles such as acting like pretentious assholes.

And yes, to my jaded countenance, it seemed a bit naïve at face value. But it was also the first time I’d been given cause to consider that people elsewhere in the world might in fact buy the myth of America. Who think that we live as though all people are actually created equal. That we the people have formed a more perfect union, established justice, ensured domestic tranquility, etc. and amen. In other words, that we’ve actually managed to live up to the highfalutin stuff that Jefferson et al put forth way back when we told his majesty King George that we’d just as soon piss in his tea as pay him taxes.

It also helped me understand why the rest of the world is so violently disappointed in us when we act like imperialist idiots. When we seem to adopt the arrogance of those we sent packing in our celebrated war for independence. (A storied chapter of our history that’s served as a touchstone for oppressed peoples from France to Vietnam to Liberia, and one that we mark yearly by setting fire to copious amounts of gunpowder and meat.)

We’re supposed to set the example. We’re supposed to show the world how people can live in freedom without sacrificing peace, trampling the rights of others or resorting to military brinkmanship, bombs and missiles when we don’t get our way. We’re supposed to be better than that. Just like in another fairy tale, no one wants the curtain to torn away, revealing the great and powerful Oz to be a fat, balding man fumbling with a wheezing machine whose sole purpose is to perpetuate the illusion everybody wants to believe in.

Before the start of the most recent war in Iraq, Donald Rumsfeld dismissed the opposition of France and Germany to military action as the voice of “Old Europe.” Let us, for the moment, sidestep the fact that the entirety of Europe had established various forms of civilization and nationhood long before we were even a twinkle in the eyes of two Spanish monarchs and an Italian sailor with a poor sense of direction—it is indeed all old. And while Rummy’s no spring chicken himself, his is the voice of a comparatively young nation. A nation that is, in historical terms, entering its adolescence.

Right now, we’re doing all of the things that adolescents do. We act like we know everything and the rest of the world owes us something. We engage in theatrical bouts of self-righteous angst because no one understands us. We steal the keys to the global economy and take it out for joyrides. Of course, unlike most adolescents, we also have a huge thermonuclear arsenal and a dominant, well-equipped military to back up our variations on “You can’t tell me what to do.”

We are the sullen teen to a world of frustrated parent nations. They’ve all contributed to our DNA, and they all see something of themselves in us. Just like parents, they lose hair and sleep worrying over what they know we’re doing, more about what they don’t know, and the most about what we might do next. And just like parents, that fear is balanced by the hope that we’ll learn from our mistakes and grow up to become the shining example of truth and justice that they want, expect and need us to be.

So, in that spirit, here’s to the day when we can all be a little more like Ashley and Maria, going out to the pub and enjoying each other’s company again, past offenses serving only as a stark and unmentioned contrast to a more perfect present.

Grand Theft Christmas

O. Henry. Charles Dickens. God. Each of these great writers secured his place in the literary pantheon by writing a great Christmas story. Of course, it must be said that God’s Christmas story not only set the standard by which all other Christmas stories are judged, He wrote it in such a way as to make all other Christmas stories appear blatantly derivative of His. A brilliant career move, but I digress. While I’m certainly not God, I do have a Christmas story. Like the New Testament classic, it concerns a young unmarried couple on a long journey. Like “The Gift of the Magi,” it has to do with an exchange of presents gone awry. And like “A Christmas Carol,” it is at its heart a cautionary tale. cky

The events in question took place on Christmas morning in 1999. Nicki and I had moved in together a few months before, but weren’t married or even engaged. At this point in our relationship, we celebrated Christmas with each other’s families, but hadn’t really negotiated a formal treaty as to whose family got dibs on Christmas proper.

My parents and brother lived in White Bear Lake, MN, and my sister was staying with them over the holidays. Nicki’s parents, divorced and remarried, both lived in Fargo, ND, along with her older sister Shannon and our nephew, Levi. Because neither of us had many vacation days to spare, the entire family circuit – four locations in two states separated by about 250 miles – was usually completed over the course of a long weekend. For some reason, that year’s schedule called for us to celebrate with my parents early in the morning on Christmas day, then leave for Fargo before noon.

As a result, we were going to pack the car with luggage for a three-day trip, presents for my family, presents for Nicki’s dad and his wife, presents for Nicki’s mom and her husband, and presents for Shannon and Levi. Oh, and of course, Nicki’s beloved 16-year old cocker-something, Squirt, who was arthritic and blind in at least one eye. Someday, Nicki may come to love me as much as she loved that dog. But I’m not counting on it.

Our house is about five miles south of downtown Minneapolis, in a nice city neighborhood that at that time bordered some “transitional” neighborhoods. It’s a 1916 bungalow with a short driveway and no garage. Since Nicki moved in, we’ve had a standing agreement that the person who owns the newest car gets dibs on the driveway. At that time, Nicki’s 1994 Nissan Sentra just beat out my 1993 Ford Explorer, which I had recently bought from my parents. So I parked on the street. Between the volume of presents, the luggage, the dog, and the fact that we were going to be driving across a bleak, barely inhabited swath of Minnesota prairie prone to frequent, nasty blizzards, there was no question about whose car we were going to take.

I don’t remember what all of the presents were, but a few things stand out. Nicki’s dad is something of a history buff, so we’d gotten him the Ken Burns documentary series on The Civil War, a 10-volume set on VHS. I was particularly proud of this because I was still something of an unknown commodity to my girlfriend’s family, and history was one interest I had in common with her dad.

Nicki had done a lot of work for Aveda that year, at a time when the environmentally friendly beauty product company was at its apex of popularity. Getting the work by itself was a coup for her as a graphic designer. But being able to buy Aveda products at cost or better? That was the mother lode. As a result, everyone in our circle of friends and family sporting two X chromosomes was getting a cache of Aveda soaps, lotions, creams, sprays, balms, tonics and who knows what else.

Finally, knowing that surest way to anyone’s heart is through the stomach, Nicki had made an entire pan of homemade cinnamon rolls for my family. We’d baked and frosted them late the night before, and it was taking all of whatever self-control I had not to stuff my face with them while I loaded up the car.

The presents were sorted and grouped by family, with some allotments requiring multiple bags. I had a suitcase. Nicki had a suitcase, possibly two. Squirt had a suitcase. Nicki is a vegetarian and I have a host of food allergies, so we were bringing a stash of fruit, snacks and safe-to-eat foods to fill in the gaps in our families’ pantries. All told, I was going to have to make at least eight trips from the house to the car.

Since we were supposed to be in Fargo by early afternoon, the plan was to open presents with my parents, brother and sister early that morning. And by early, I mean 7:00 a.m. My parents lived in White Bear Lake, a St. Paul suburb about 45 minutes from our house. So I went out to warm up and load up the car just after 6:00 a.m. I’m pretty sure it was still dark when I went outside, with temperature somewhere down in the single digits.

Of course, warming up the car involved starting it. Setting aside considerations of warmth, comfort and engine performance, it’s hard to drive a car when all of the windows are frosted over, inside and out. Both Nicki and I regularly warmed up our cars before work during the winter. We have a small city lot, so even my car, parked on the street, sat less than 25 feet from the front door, easily visible through our living room window.

Knowing that I would be going back and forth to the car repeatedly while it was warming up, I didn’t give a second thought to leaving it unlocked and running. While typing these words still induces a full-body wince, I should point out that this was at that time a common practice among Minnesotans, and probably still is – at least among those who are remotely located, charmingly naïve or hopelessly thick.

All of the suitcases, presents and foodstuffs were packed in the car. All that remained were Nicki and Squirt. Getting Squirt into the car was simply a matter a matter of picking her up and carrying her out, and I was beginning to think that I’d have to use the same approach with Nicki.

When it comes to time, I subscribe to the classical notion that establishes the difference between the time you are supposed to arrive in a given location (X) and the time that you must depart for said location to arrive in the vicinity of X (Y). In this case, Y = X minus 45 minutes. By contrast, Nicki is a radical theoretician who believes that X and Y can occur at the same moment in time. In those days, I used to challenge this hypothesis using logic and reason. Now, I just lie about the time we need to leave.

I remember walking from the front door through the living room and the dining room to the staircase and yelling something up at Nicki that I’m sure I thought was politely encouraging, but was probably just bitchy. After that, I went back through the dining room and the living room to sweep for stray presents or luggage. And I clearly remember looking out the front door and being profoundly perplexed by the Ford Explorer-shaped vacuum that had suddenly appeared in front of the house.

My train of thought chugged slowly but steadily through the sleepy town of “I could have sworn the car was just there,” building up speed as it hit “Yes, I’m fairly certain that my car was parked there mere moments ago,” traveling at full throttle through “There is absolutely no reason why my car should not be there,” blowing through the signals at “No [expletive deleted] way” junction and finally pulling into town at “Somebody stole my [colorfully epic stream of expletives deleted] car.”

(At this point, I must pause to point out how lucky it was that I hadn’t yet carried Squirt out to the car – lucky for the perpetrator or perpetrators, whom Nicki would have hunted down swiftly and mercilessly, and whose subsequent identification would have required the use of dental records.)

My first instinct was to grab the phone, dial 911, and report the theft. I got as far as dialing 9 before it occurred to me that I was going to need to tell them the license plate number of the car. Whether it was because I’d been driving the car less than two weeks or because I was in full-blown freak-out mode, I had no idea what the license plate number was. So instead of calling the cops, I called my dad. Thankfully, he’s the kind of person who commits these sorts of things to memory for life and had no trouble recalling it. I shudder to think of how things might have gone if he hadn’t remembered, or if I’d purchased the car from someone I wasn’t related to. The cops showed up in less than five minutes, and were very patient and understanding, in part because, as they told me, I was the fifth or sixth stolen car report they’d fielded that morning. Mind you, it was still before 7:00 a.m.

This blew my mind. Up until then, I believed that criminals were shiftless malcontents who stole because they were too lazy to get up in the morning and go to work. I have since adjusted my perceptions to view them as shiftless malcontents who will get up before the frigid crack of dawn to steal cars full of Christmas presents so they can spend the rest of the day being too lazy to hold down a job.

Strangely enough, other than the initial panic and the fact that various members of my family spent an hour or so driving around South Minneapolis looking for my stolen Ford Explorer, Christmas went on pretty much as planned. Except of course that we didn’t have any presents to give people. We packed up different clothes and took Nicki’s car up to mom and dad’s house, opened our presents, ate a quick meal and got back in the car to drive to Fargo, where we celebrated two more Christmases with Nicki’s dad and his wife, and then with Nicki’s mom and her husband. Then, we slept like the recently deceased.

We did spend a lot of time on the phone with our insurance agent, going over what we lost and figuring out what we were covered for. We had receipts for pretty much everything except our clothes and a bunch of CDs I had in the car, which expedited the claim process. I’m pretty sure we had a check in our mailbox by the time we got back to town.

The Explorer turned up in the Minneapolis Impound Lot the day after we got back from Fargo. Apparently, it’d been driven into a medium-sized tree and abandoned. Some of our clothes, my hockey skates and all of the presents were gone, but the pan of homemade cinnamon rolls was curiously untouched. I say curiously, because when I went to the impound lot to reclaim the car the ashtray was littered with roaches. In whatever time they it, the thief or thieves smoked enough cannabis in the Explorer to give me a contact high for a week. They had to get the munchies at some point. And really, who can say no to cinnamon rolls?

I also found a cassette tape in the tape deck (Wu Tang Clan and the Geto Boys), as well as a keg tap. Figuring the police would want these as evidence, I called the officer who’d taken the theft report. Apparently, years of watching “Law & Order” and “CSI” had given me some less than realistic ideas about investigative procedures: the cop could not have been less interested, and suggested that I was lucky to get a tap out of it.

Insurance covered fixing the front end and replacing the hood and bumper. I spent a few hours washing and vacuuming the car, and probably emptied two bottles of Febreeze on the upholstery. We re-bought Christmas presents for everybody. I re-bought CDs. We stopped warming up our cars unattended. And that was pretty much that.

I’ve heard people talk about the sense of violation that comes with having something stolen, but I never really felt that. Mostly, I was just pissed off and annoyed. And today, I’m not even all that mad at whoever did it. Obviously, it doesn’t take an evil genius or criminal mastermind to hop into a running car and drive away. I made it easy to steal my car, and they did.

In the end, they got to use an early 90s Ford Explorer as a mobile smoking lounge for a few days. As parting gifts, they got a couple used sweaters, a pair of used hockey skates, a shitload of Aveda products and a 10-volume Civil War documentary that, to be fair, you’d have to be stoned to watch anyway. Maybe the Aveda products made somebody’s mother or girlfriend happy, but I have a feeling they ended up in a dumpster, along with a dozen or so alt-country and grunge CDs. Fans of the Geto Boys and Wu Tang Clan probably don’t get into Uncle Tupelo and Pearl Jam. Call it a hunch.

As for me, I got my car back, and I ended up with a story that I’ll get a kick out of telling for as long as people are willing to listen – probably longer, knowing me. I’m happy to call it even.

Going Down?

I didn’t know Carl Pohlad, the billionaire owner of the Minnesota Twins who passed away in 2008. Well, not personally, anyway. But we did spend one very memorable evening together. This is a story I wrote about it a few years ago. I’m not sure if it really honors his memory, but it is a true story. And I’m pretty sure that it doesn’t say anything that’ll get me sued. Probably not, anyway. cky

As a rule, I don’t like heights.

That said, I loved working on the 29th floor of a building in downtown Minneapolis. I had a nice view of the Mississippi river and what little landscape the glaciers didn’t get around to grinding flat. I’d watch in rapt fascination as thunderstorms roll in from the west, dark sheets of rain devouring the landscape, bony fingers of lightning grasping for the ground.

And as a special treat, every so often I’d get to watch one of downtown’s resident Peregrine Falcons tear into a pigeon on the ledge outside my window. It’s really something to see: blood, feathers and viscera flying every which way, like a live piñata set upon by kids on a field trip from the Preschool for the Criminally Insane. Equal parts grim, gross and gripping. While falcons may have atrocious table manners, they’re certainly not fussy eaters: all that was left of the typical fine-feathered snack was a pair of sad little feet.

In addition to the advertising agency I worked for, my building was home to a throng of accounts, a herd of law firms, a gaggle of investment brokers, a bank, and the offices of Minnesota Twins owner Carl Pohlad.

Back then, he was already well into his eighties, but still put in a few days a week at the office — even though it was pretty obvious that his role in the management of the ballclub, his banking business and, well, life were entirely symbolic. He moved around with the aid of a walker adorned with two bright green tennis balls on the front legs. I’m not sure if this was an indication that wealth, fame and power can’t buy taste, a telltale sign that cheapness knows no tax bracket, or an ingenious public relations ploy to get Hennepin County taxpayers to pick up the tab for the new baseball stadium.

Mr. Pohlad always traveled in the company of no fewer than three and often as many as seven or eight “assistants.” While they ranged in age and gender, they were without exception impeccably (if conservatively) dressed, and whiter than a warehouse full of frozen Wonderbread.

One winter evening, two co-workers and I were waiting for an elevator outside the lobby of our office. The first one to arrive on our floor contained Carl and his team of handlers. I believe there were four: three men of varying ages and a woman. There was enough room to suggest that we could all squeeze in, and little enough to suggest that it might be a good idea to wait for the next elevator. All three of us got in.

As soon as the doors closed, one of my coworkers started making jokes about the Twins with Carl. Or rather at Carl, since he didn’t appear to be lucid or even fully conscious. Carl’s retinue laughed politely in the manner of people who are being grudgingly civil because they know you’ll be off the elevator soon and probably aren’t worth the hassle and expense of a contract killing.

The red LED floor counter over the elevator door blinked down toward the ground floor. Just as the elevator seemed ready to slow to a stop, it clanked to an abrupt and noisy halt. Not with a violent jolt, but with one of those awkward mechanical grunts that informs you that all is not well. A period of maybe 20 interminably long seconds passed, during which everyone stared expectantly at the blank floor counter, collectively willing it to go on and deposit us in the lobby. When it became apparent that is wasn’t going to happen, the situation changed dramatically.

If you’ve ever watched the TV footage of John Hinckley’s attempt to assassinate Ronald Reagan, you remember the way the secret service guys just collapsed around him like a big, blue-suited web. And that’s pretty much what happened in the elevator. The four handlers formed a cordon around Carl, forcing my co-workers and me up against the wall of the elevator. In their eyes, we had gone from being Innocent If Annoying Bystanders to Potential Threats. Operation Protect Daddy Warbucks was in effect.

“Are you OK, Carl?”

“Can you breathe, Mr. Pohlad?”

“Are you comfortable, Mr. Pohlad?”

“Get back, he needs air!”

“Call for an ambulance!”

The youngest guy, a nice-looking kid probably fresh out of business school, actually got down on one knee and said, “Here, Carl. Sit on my knee. Relax.” Mind you, the elevator wasn’t in free fall or filling up with smoke. It was just stuck.

(I should point out that at that time, it was impossible to use cell phones in our elevators. I don’t know if they’re lined with lead, kryptonite, plutonium or what. But no phone, no service ever got reception.)

The tallest of the three men was a big strapping guy with a sharp suit and a pronounced East Coast accent. He was exactly the sort of guy who would play the attorney for a mob boss in a made-for-TV movie. He ripped open the door of the emergency phone in the elevator and started literally yelling into the receiver:

“This is Carl Pohlad’s attorney! You need to get an emergency crew here right now! Did you hear me? CARL POHLAD’S ATTORNEY!”

Thankfully, he turned his attentions back to smothering Carl, and I was able to take the phone from him. The woman on the other end of the line was exactly who you’d expect to answer a customer service line at 6:05 in the evening on a weekday. She spoken in halting, heavily accented English and obviously had no clue who Carl Pohlad was, why he needed an attorney, or what everyone was yelling about.

After I established that eight people were stuck in an elevator in the Dain Rauscher building, she asked – no doubt reading from the People Stuck in Non-Functioning Elevator chapter of her phone script – “Is this an emergency?” Because we were basically in a metal closet, everyone could here her. And immediately, Pohlad’s people all began yelling, “Yes! This is an emergency! Send an ambulance here RIGHT NOW!”

The din died down for a moment, and I was able to explain that there was an elderly gentleman who was having trouble breathing. Probably because his handlers were using up all of the air in the elevator yelling like a pack of amphetamine-crazed marmosets.

The operator was able to get building security on the phone. We collectively figured out which elevator we were stuck in, and they set about trying to get it moving again.

Talking with my two co-workers, I discovered the non-joke-cracking one — a quiet guy in his mid-40s, textbook liberal, nice as all get-out — was claustrophobic. I’m not claustrophobic, but I have to imagine that every claustrophobic’s worst nightmare involves being stuck in an elevator. So it follows that being stuck in an elevator with seven other people – among which are a geriatric millionaire whose personal politics you despise and four raving, panic-stricken toadies – would be infinitely worse.

When I turned around, I saw that Carl was sitting on the floor of the elevator, covered up by coats. Apparently he was cold. Or someone thought he was. He looked like a baby swaddled up in mismatched blankets. A very old, wrinkled baby swaddled up in blankets snatched from a Neiman Marcus window display, to be exact.

The Mafia Mouthpiece, my non-claustrophobic coworker and I took turns prying the doors open a few inches to let some air in. Between the top notes of industrial solvent and old motor oil and the lingering dust aftertaste, I’m not sure this was really a good idea.

We could see the doors of the floor below us, but couldn’t reach the opening mechanism. We could hear voices on the other side of the door, but couldn’t really communicate with them. Finally, the security guards in the lobby were able to pry their door open. We were about six feet short of the ground floor, without enough room to squeeze out through the top of the door. The security guys thought they could get the elevator down in “just a few minutes.”

The mafia lawyer guy told this to Carl. And for the first time during the whole ordeal, I saw his beady little eyes light up. In a creaking voice just louder than a whisper, I clearly heard him say, “I bet there’ll be a bunch of TV crews down there.” He’d been magically transformed from a frail, wheezing coffin dodger into a spry, beaming little old coot — a cross between Ebenezer Scrooge and the Leprechaun King.

And then, roughly two hours after it ground to a halt and for no evident reason, the elevator hummed to life, slid down a few feet and opened up in the lobby as if nothing had happened.

The lobby held three security guys, a building maintenance guy, about a dozen firefighters in full regalia, and a couple paramedics. But no TV crews.

All I wanted in the world at that moment was to breathe recently minted air and not be too close to anybody. So, without saying a word, I stepped around the firefighters, and headed straight for the front door. My two co-workers did the same. The last I saw, Carl was still in the lobby, surrounded by handlers, firemen, paramedics and security guards, still waiting for his close-up.

Please Don’t Feed The Animals, Part 2

In most places you visit in Alaska, there will be a sign or brochure that instructs visitors on how to interact with — or more to the point, avoid unpleasant interactions with — some of the state’s larger residents. The distinction between black bears and grizzlies is especially interesting. In both cases, you’re advised to avoid surprising them. If you encounter them, you’re advised to stand your ground, make loud noises and try to look big. If they charge, you’re advised not to turn and run, as they are both faster than you. But the advice takes a fork in cases of an actual attack. If you’re attacked by a black bear, you are advised to fight back aggressively, as this usually causes the bear to lose interest. But if you’re attacked by a grizzly, you are advised to cover your head with your hands and play dead, because it’s quite likely that you are. cky

It’s wildlife week here in Alaska. Actually, every week is wildlife week in Alaska. The running joke between my brother and me is that the Alaska Zoo we keep seeing signs for is nothing more than a fenced enclosure that people stand in to watch various large fauna wander by.

In fact, as I’m writing this, it’s quite likely that I’ll be mauled by a bear, trampled by a moose, gored by a caribou or simply carried off by a pair of particularly enterprising bald eagles. Assuming I’m not shot by one of the locals: everybody in this state is packing heat. And frankly, given the statistical odds of crossing paths with something large and malevolent, I’m thinking that’s a good idea.

This episode of Wild Kingdom kicked off last night in Homer. Springing up in a most unlikely fashion from the eastern end of the Kenai Peninsula, Homer displays the most cheerful multiple personality disorder I’ve ever observed in a town. Part hardscrabble fishing village, part laidback hippie haven. A riddle inside an enigma, rolled in Zig-Zag papers and fired up with a blowtorch.

Our first stop was Homer Spit, an aptly named strip of glacial moraine that peters out into the ocean as if upchucked by Neptune himself on the way back home from a titanic bender. The Spit is dotted with a motley array of coffee shops, restaurants, bars, RV parks, docks, and an impressive collection of scuttled fishing boats in various states of disrepair and decay. Altogether, it comes off as a vacation resort founded by the refugees from Mad Max.

After we’d driven the length of the Spit, whose end represents the western terminus of the U.S. highway system, we doubled back to our hotel and checked in. Ambling down to the beach, we could see the end of the Spit and figured we’d walk out to the restaurant on the far end. It certainly didn’t look too far away. It was, in fact, a good seven miles. A journey made almost entirely worthwhile when we spotted a nesting pair of bald eagles less than a mile up the beach from our hotel. What made this even more remarkable is that they appeared to be nesting in someone’s front yard. This sort of thing just does not happen in the lower 48.

By the time we actually got out to the Spit, we were tired, hungry and in serious danger of going unfed. The overall dearth of population in Alaska, even during high season (such as it is), means that most restaurants close up between 8:00 and 9:00. It was 7:45 when we hit the spit, and we still had a good two miles between the restaurant and us. Luckily, the restaurant was one of those establishments that kept later hours. I tucked in to a heaping platter of deep fried halibut and fries, washed down by a pair of martinis. I’m not usually much of a seafood fan, but halibut is a Homer staple. And really, pretty much anything dipped in batter and fried golden brown is delicious after a seven-mile walk.

After dinner, we walked back down the spit to the Salty Dog. No trip to Homer is complete without hoisting a glass at this legendary establishment. If you don’t find it on your own, someone will point, send and/or drag you there. From the outside, it looked a bit like a miniature lighthouse unceremoniously dropped on the Spit by a passing hurricane. Inside, there were a few odd tables and a perpetually busy bar. The floor was covered in woodchips, because, as one local explained, “When we get to fighting, it’s good to have a soft spot to hit the ground.” And virtually every square inch of the wall and ceiling was covered with dollar bills. Another fisherman, who had just finished enthusiastically endorsing Hillary Clinton for president in 2008, told us, “Whenever we lose somebody from a boat, all of this goes to fund the rescue effort.” Taking a long pull from his beer, he added, “Sometimes we come back, sometimes we don’t.”

After soaking up our share of local lore and liquor, my brother and I shared a cab with a man and woman fresh off of a salmon trawler. “Hope you don’t mind the smell,” they said as they piled into the cab. “That’s the smell of money,” the driver added. And although the inside of my wallet has never reeked of fish guts, I was more than ready to take him at his word, as long as he didn’t make us walk back to our hotel.

We had every intention of exploring Homer on rented mountain bikes this morning. But the steady drizzle falling when we got up convinced us to hit the road toward Seward instead, figuring we’d find something to do along the way.

Something appeared just outside of Seward, in the form of Exit Glacier. It’s one of numerous glaciers trailing off of the massive Harding ice field. Given that we’d spent all day in the car surrounded by snow-capped peaks and breath-taking vistas, a hike seemed in order. The trail was steep and rocky, but enjoyable, and switchbacks gave us plenty of good looks at the glacier on the way up.

About halfway to the top, we were charged by a rogue marmot. The feisty tundra rat shot past us and disappeared into the brush before we had time to freak out. Not twenty minutes later, we encountered a more rotund and complacent member of the species, basking in the intermittent sun at the edge of the trail. We expected the porcine furball to skedaddle as we approached. But much to our surprise, he rose up on his chubby haunches, stuck his forepaws on what might have been his hips and all but dared us to pass. Amused by the cheeky rodent’s display of bravado, myopia or hysterical misjudgment, we took a few pictures, and then shuffled deliberately toward him until he gave ground.

After another hour of slogging through mud that gave way to slush that finally gave up and just became snow, we made it to the top of the glacier and gazed out over the Harding Ice Field. Not surprisingly, it was cloudy at the top, with just the thinnest seam of sunlight separating the white of the snow from the white of the clouds. It was a bit like gazing off the edge of the Earth.

Lacking the skis, snowshoes or complete dearth of common sense that would’ve been required to continue across the ice field, we turned around and headed back down the glacier. Along the way, we encountered a number of hikers who talked about seeing a black bear moving across the adjacent mountain slope, clearly visible but not close. We thanked them for the heads-up and promised to keep our eyes peeled.

I was expecting to catch a glimpse of a black shape loping across the hillside in the distance, so you can imagine my surprise when I rounded a corner and damn near tripped over said black bear. Thankfully, he or she was preoccupied with munching on vegetation and didn’t notice seem to notice me. Which is good, because a bear that perceives you as a threat to its food might soon come to see you as an acceptable substitute for it.

The typical guidebook to Alaska will advise you, when hiking, to carry on a conversation or periodically say “Hey bear” or some such thing, loud enough to be heard but not shouted. The theory being that bears will hear you coming and avoid you. At the moment, I was just about close enough to reach out and tickle the bear behind the ears, so I simply said “Hey, bear,” as though we were passing in the hall on the way to the water cooler.

Said guidebook would also have you believe that a bear, thus confronted, will trot off into the underbrush and allow you to pass in safety. This bear was obviously not an avid reader of guidebooks. On the contrary, it was enjoying the trailside buffet far too much to be hastened along by a scrawny, squawking biped. Having found me lacking in both interest and culinary value, it was back at the bushes. We tried talking more, talking louder and even kicking a few stray pebbles in the bear’s general direction, to no avail.

The wisdom of guidebooks exhausted, we were left to indulge in spontaneous, uninformed bear psychology. How did this bear feel about us? Was it basing its judgments on previous encounters with members of our species? If so, how were we stacking up vis-à-vis other homo sapiens? Did he find our shouts and racket-making amusing or annoying? Would continuing said behavior prompt it to maul us simply so we’d shut the hell up? Such were the notions that passed through our theoretically superior craniums as we pondered our next move and the bear went about its bearish business.

Another pair of hikers, college kids out for a weekend camping trip, soon joined us. While I’m not sure we ever got around to properly exchanging names, he was an Alaska native who’d recently moved back from Seattle and she was from China. Because she wasn’t comfortable with the language and he tended to answer questions for her, I don’t think we learned much more.

We described the situation to him, and after a glance around the corner, he concluded, “That bear’s not too big. He’ll probably move if we all come down the trail together.” We enthusiastically agreed to let him lead this experiment. After taking two or three steps closer, he stopped, turned around and said, “You know, he’s big enough.”

Every few minutes, the bear would take a few steps down the trail, and I’d take about half as many closer to see what he was up to. During one such foray, I hard a sharp crack from just behind me, which turned out to be the Alaska guy smacking two rocks together. The idea apparently being that if we made enough really loud and unpleasant noise, the bear would flee the area. While I’ve played in several bands that proved the efficacy of this basic approach on humans, it struck me as mightily silly. But upon further consideration, I concluded that if the bear did in fact take a culinary interest in us, ready access to a hefty pair of rocks might be beneficial. So I picked up two stones, and the four of us inched along the trail, shouting and banging rocks like a band of caveman rappers.

After a few excruciatingly humiliating minutes of this, the bear was bored or annoyed into moving far enough off the trail that we could safely pass. Just in time, too, as our lack of movement was making us easy prey for the virulent strain of kamikaze mosquitoes native to every square inch of Alaska.

In future retellings of this story, the size of the bear involved and my proximity to it will no doubt increase and decrease, respectively. I will omit the part about banging rocks together. As it turns out, I will have, with no regard for my own life and limb, flung myself at the ferocious beast. A huge monster of a bear who was, even as we came upon him, towering over the prone figure of a defenseless hiker, roaring, his mighty claws mere seconds from dealing him (or her, or them) a fatal blow. In fact, I’m pretty sure that I actually reached in to his gaping maw to pull out the arm, leg or head of the unconscious victim(s).

Of course, this all happened before I dispatched the marauding grizzly with a flurry of karate chops and led the entire troop of terrified girl scouts and the three cowering park rangers to safety. At some point, I’ll probably add a postscript about refusing medical care at the scene, sterilizing my wounds with vodka and stitching them up myself with nothing but nylon thread unraveled from my backpack and a sharp twig.

But for now, I offer you the preceding account, sullied as it is by the truth. And if you happen to be with me the next time I tell it, know that your silence is worth several rounds of drinks.