Category: Chapters

Update 8/3/06: The Related Posts feature I installed a while ago just slapped me in the face.

It seems that I have already posted this chapter. Both times I was in a creative rut and was rummaging through a folder of random words written long ago. I changed the title, but to those of you who didn’t notice: you’re not trying hard enough. Was I caught red handed? Am I really a sham who copies essays rote from other sources? Only a discerning reader will ever know for sure.

— and again from the top —

It was the last day of our hike through the High Uintas in northeastern Utah. We had weathered the lightning storm that echoed through the valley like the cries of some great god, lived through hiking in the hail that pelted us every step for miles on end, and could now tell stories of days of living perpetually in the rain. The morning was clear and bright; we had risen early and climbed above the tree line before we ate breakfast. Cheerios on the tundra of the high ridge of Bald Mountain, the thought still brings a smile to my face.

The High Uintas, if my memory serves me, have the largest alpine environment in the contiguous United States. Although the highest point, Kings Peak, is around 13,500 feet, the amount of elevated terrain above tree line is impressive, even to someone who has lived in the tundra’s of northwestern Alaska. We had left the alpine ridge and the five of us were hiking through the trees on the other side, leading down to the valley where we had parked. Having just found a creek and filled our water bottles, we were all set for a leisurely 8 mile hike back out of the wilderness. We were ready for many things, but not for them.

At first no one was quite sure what they heard. I thought it had sounded like a far away group of ATV’s sitting on idle while their occupants were looking at a map. My friend Justin said it reminded him of chainsaws in the distance. We knew that there might be rangers in the area, servicing trails, but unfortunately the reality was that the sound was far from human.

The noise grew louder, until it was a subtle rolling roar sounding from everywhere but directly behind us. Each step grew more wary, all of our eyes peeled on the forest before us, looking for the unseen horror that waited.

We all heard the cry at once, the distinguishing anguish that pierced through the roar and gave us a chilling shock as it told us, without doubt, what evil we found ourselves faced with.

“Baaah-aaah-aaah! Baah-aaaah!”

It seemed they appeared everywhere at once. When first the woods had been empty but for us, the rim of our visibility seemed to fill instantly with thousands of foul, disgusting, bloated, evil sheep.

We stopped walking to look at them in fear. They moved like a swarm, no unity but the push of those behind them, constantly changing, forever in turmoil. The mass seemed to notice us, as the individuals at the extremities seemed to be staring at us with the same concentration that we studied them. Stunned by the sheer massive clump of sheep surrounding our party, it slowly dawned on each person that this was no stationary mass. It was moving towards us.

Panic set in. Our packs disappeared in our mental images and we became fleet of foot, hustling to the left of the flock in an uphill attempt to try to dodge the relentless crawl of the sheep. It seemed to take forever to finally near the edge of the army, and we had to move closer as we avoided natural obstacles such as brush and rock formations.

As we evaded the swarm, I couldn’t help but notice the attention the sheep closest to us always gave. Those beady black eyes, staring, staring into you like they knew you were afraid, like they knew that they had such power over you that it wouldn’t even be a fight. Shake it off, ignore them, I told myself, continue hiking, and don’t let them know your fear.

We hiked on, the army of sheep baying and flowing through the forest of trees, as our lonely band of five adventurers moved through the wilderness. We walked an endless detour around the trail to get past the army, and finally upon regaining the trail at the very rear of the sheep, only then did we meet the general.

He was a sheep rancher who took his herd up to the High Uintas to feed every summer for several months. A couple of his friends would be coming up in a couple of days with more supplies, and they set up a camp and basically live up above 10,000 feet for the entire time. The herd of sheep eats the tundra and everyone is happy. Everyone is happy. Yeah right.

We saw death in several thousand white fluffy animals.

We hiked down the rest of the day, the memory of the army covering the crest of all that we could see still fresh in our heads. If you do get a chance to meet an army of sheep on the field of battle, know this: your only chance is to run!

I was looking at Wikipedia today and a thought occured to me that was completely outrageous.

In between reading about the History of Israel and investigating the causes behind the New Coke fiasco, I pondered briefly about the possible positive personal benefit I would gain from updating the site. When I correct a minute detail or grammatical mistake, what do I get?

Should I log Wikipedia editing on my resume?

Resumes log positive contributions in an attempt to show future worth. Inherent in their existance is the belief that past actions and accomplishments are a good indicator of future possible achievements. Putting down your involvement in Drama Club might not be a direct indicator of success at a Marketing position, but it does show that you were capable enough to involve yourself in a (presumably) demanding extra-curricular activity.

It’s easy in college to fall prey to the resume whoring sickness. Activities for the sake of the line item. Clubs for the sake of the implied time commitment. All building for the nebulous ‘job interview’ or ‘application review’. The final test of your mettle, the moment when all your accomplishments are tallied and compared against other similarly qualified individuals.

Maybe I’ll teach myself Perl. Maybe that will impress someone one day. Or maybe I’ll write a custom programming language called the Recreational Programming Language (copyright Radical LLC). But none of those will impress law schools or law firms, I need something that will show I’d be a valuable lawyer. I know, I’ll write an article on statutory subject material and discuss in detail my invention of a computer that can read its programs off of a piece of paper.

Or maybe I’ll do something and not tell anyone. I’ll do something and gain absolutely no possible future benefit. I’ll teach myself Perl because I’m curious, not because I’ll impress anyone. I’ll go to the museum because Venetian drawings are historically interesting to me, not because I want to be known as someone who goes to museums.

I base a good portion of my life around the creation and telling of stories. This website is a good example of that. Do I tell stories about my life experiences, or do I experience life to tell stories?

What would you do if you couldn’t tell anyone? Would it be different than what you did today?

I am presently engaged in one of the most pleasurable activities known to a young professional: apartment hunting.

In a city as large as Washington DC there are a lot of options. Almost too many, in fact, and to find an apartment in any reasonable amount of time you have to start adding constraints to your search. Length of the commute, proximity to the metro, parking, nearby social activities, general safeness of the area, etc. A laundry list of requirements, minimizations and maximizations, so long that by the end of it you’ve eliminated every single apartment in the East Coast.

I don’t know who to give credit for the following, but as usual I’m inclined to give myself more credit than is probably fair. The following lists two broad philosophies regarding where you should live.

Live where you Work

Living close to your place of work gives you a shorter commute time, meaning less time in the car and more time at home with family, friends and the television. The downside is that social activities (think bars, clubs, museums, knitting circles) are farther away and require some travel.

Live where you Play

Living close to where you play (think drinking, dancing, knitting) means a longer commute, but hey, everybody has to go to work. You’re not going to NOT go to work, so after you’re done complaining you’ll realize that the bar is just down the block.

When I arrived in Washington I had just finished a summer internship with a 40 minute commute each way. Adding a full hour and a half to each work day added up, and I got tired of spending so much time in transit. My DC roommates and I opted for an apartment with less than a 10 minute walk to work. Though at first it seemed ideal, over the next six months I experienced a complete change of heart.

In Cleveland I lived in Coventry, which to the uninitiated is filled with bars. Bars have people, and people are fun to be around.

In Washington I live by 495, which to the uninitiated is filled with cars. And surrounded by office buildings. While they may also be filled with people, neither are much fun to be around.

The lesson I learned was simple: Live where you Play. You spend a little more time in transit, but when you remove the barriers to adventure and social activity you make it much more a part of your everyday life. If playtime requires a long metro ride, taxi or finding parking spaces, you just don’t end up going as often as you’d like.

Living further away from work means you’ll have less free time, but I find you don’t tend to mind when you’re happy.

Sliding the mask down over my face, I walked up the steps slowly and with deliberate caution. Inside the house the air was dusty, with random rays of light coming in from the hot Eastern European sun. I turned the corner into the living room to find six people waiting for me.

Instinctively squeezing the handle on the trigger, I eyed the meanest and asked, “Who wants to go first?”

We were building a house in rural Romania as part of a Habitat for Humanity project. My dad, my brother Ed and I were looking to fill up some time in Europe with something meaningful. I find it’s always more interesting when you travel with an ulterior motive, something that keeps you from being strictly a tourist. Whether it be rock climbing, espionage or just building a house, it adds incredibly to the experience.

It takes three people to hang the freshly cut drywall on the ceiling. Two to hold the sheet against the ceiling, and one to power drill it in. I was in charge of one of the two drills. The mask was to keep dust out of my lungs. That and make me dizzy from the heat.

“Sam, you pick up a sheet with Steve, then I’ll drill it in to show everyone”, said Valeur, one of the local construction workers. He took the drill from me, and Steve and I lifted the sheet. We climbed onto a raised platform so we could reach the ceiling. Valeur hopped up and quickly screwed in the required screws, making sure to show everyone the correct depth to drive them.

Valeur and several other Romanians work for the branch office of Habitat in the area. There is a decent amount of construction done by Habitat in Beuis, and it normally supports around five full time construction workers. Valeur, himself in his late twenties, has been working with them for somewhere around five years.

We got to know Valeur better than any of the other workers because of two things. Firstly, he was one of the drivers who took us to and from the job site at speeds the like of which have not been seen outside of a dedicated race track. Secondly, the man loved to talk.

“Have you guys seen the Fast and Furious? I love the cars in that movie. I try to drive fast like them.” He generally succeeded admirably.

Beuis was an amazing immursion experiance. The construction workers were fun, the hosts we stayed with were gracious and welcoming, and all the locals we got to know went to great pains to make sure we had a good time. Authentic food, local music, palinka, everything.

The last day on the job site consisted of tying up loose ends, putting the rest of the shingles on the roof, etc. I was helping Valeur and Steve, a business consultant from North Carolina, put the finishing touches on something on the roof. Most people were in the process of saying goodbye.

Steve was saying something about summers in the Carolinas, and had finished with something like, “Valeur, you should come out to North Carolina, there are lots of construction jobs there. I think you could do really well in Raleigh.”

Valeur made a face I’ll always remember. Sort of sad and reserved, but also with a hint that what he was about to say was something he has had to say before.

“You American’s don’t understand what it’s like to be Romanian. We can’t just go to America, we can’t. I will work my entire life in this town. You, you can hear stories about places and go there, see them, and know that the stories are true.”

“We are lucky if we just get stories.”

Afterwards I felt guilty about enjoying myself as much as I had. He was right, we didn’t understand. We think everyone is like us, everyone can just do what they want, save up money and travel. The Romanians had taken us into their homes and shown us compassion, and grateful though we may be, when we leave they will stay. When the next Habitat group comes through the cycle repeats.

Over the entire world, no one is really that different from you or me. The only substantial difference I’ve ever found is the amount of help we need to figure that fact out.

Another Friday night, another random bar in DC. When I say it’s random I’m lying; it’s never really random, as the majority of the time it’s one of the DC Indie clubs. But I try, and sometimes I do go to a random bar. This is one of those nights.

The street is busy, and I’m waiting on a concrete pillar for the rest of our party to catch up. College students here for the summer, young professionals and aging bar hoppers all stream around me to get to their future source of inebriation. Lemmings to the slaughter of dignity. Or something like that.

I spot my group, but before they make it to me a slick looking playah wearing sunglasses at night draws my attention.

“My man, how’s it going brotha?” he greets me with a smile.

Stepping right up, he extends his hand and after a vigorous shake says, “You know what sucks man? Bitches. Fucking weak ass bitches that don’t know.”

I’m not sure if he’s drunk or just high on life, but I play along.

“I feel you man, I feel you.” Yes. I think I’m cool.

As my group catches up he proceeds to tell me a classic tale of heartbreak; she looked into him, then she wasn’t, then she was, then she was necking with some other dude, and he’s like, man, fuck her, and I’m like, yeah man, if she don’t know what she wants, then just keep walking.

He introduces himself to the rest of the boys, but they all sort of eye him curiously, waiting for the scam that is invariably pitched in DC when a group of white yuppies are accosted by a single black man.

“Dude, come here for a second,” he says, and pulls me to the side out of their earshot. “You see all those guys? Not one of them took me seriously. I mean, I don’t take me seriously either, but they just looked at me and went like ‘Dude, fuck off, we don’t need adventure’. You know what man? You’re alright, you looked me straight in the eye and said ‘Yeah man, I feel you’. And I dig that, cause even though I don’t know you and you don’t know me, I know we respect each other cause we listen.”

He takes off his sunglasses and looks me in the eye. “What’s the two pieces of advice you give a brother before he heads out for a night of adventure?”

I think about it for second or two, but my wits were feeling the dulling effect of several Screaming Nazis.

“I’m talking ’bout the cardinal two, so let me tell you so you can tell the next fool that walks by. The two pieces of advice you always give a brother before he heads out for a night of adventure are as follows: ‘Always Listen’, and ‘Wear a Rubber’.” He smiled and put his sunglasses back on, patted me on the shoulder and wandered off into the crowds.

Did it happen like that? It doesn’t really matter. That’s how I remember it, and for all intensive purposes that is how you will remember it too. It’s hard to know what random people or experiences are worth remembering in the grand scheme of things, so sometimes it’s best to just start paying attention to everything.

Living is loving the parts.