A Cure is Coming

Do you feel it? I’m sure at first you didn’t really know what it was. You see initially it’s no more than an itch, maybe a tickle - this minor disturbance frequenting your subconscious. Not a problem though, I’m sure that you, like I, can ignore with the best of them. But then it begins to grow. It begins to feel like something sending you to that uncomfortable place slightly off-centre. You start to acknowledge it, and that only makes things worse. It makes no sense; Family, Friends, Work, it’s all great, your healthy and happy and full of energy, but there’s something missing and for some reason it’s leaving you lost and alone and empty. I know, it’s terrible. It’s what Kurtz had in Heart of Darkness, Bateman had in American Psycho, Rose in Titanic (wait, that might have been something different… love maybe… either way, same thing), and whatever was happening to those goofs in Fight Club. The worst part is, you have no idea what’s wrong. That is until the pre-season starts and suddenly everything is okay again…

Is this your pain? Is this what you’ve been trying to turn into a white ball of healing light? Is this the trauma that’s making your smile quiver and your dreams dark? Is this the uneasiness that follows you around all day? Don’t worry, you’re not alone, there are others out there, just like you. And we can help. The first step is the hardest one to take, so as a group, say it with me, ‘My name is _________ and I am a Fanatic…’

Okay so I lied, there’s no cure, and it’s probably not going to be okay. Withdrawals are hell and other than an unhealthy love for Equestrian and maybe a solid case of the Nascar circuit bug, July and August are going to beat you down. All I can say is man up, put your head down, and set the alarm for September. Or maybe play your own sports, but let’s not get too extreme here. And although I mentioned the Horse and the Car thing, this is not a Hi-Jacked! approved remedy for your summer time sorrow. Horses? Really? No, come on, don’t be weird.

I’m ready for some hockey, God I’m ready. Maybe not 2 to 3 games a night (you have to train for that kind of commitment - it takes hard work to be able to handle full-fledged Stanley Cup Coverage), but I could definitely stand some highlights. And here’s the thing, you don’t need to OD on the Ice to get your fix. Sports are back baby, and they’re back in a big way. Don’t get me wrong Tennis has been fun, some of that golf was great, and World Cup was obsession worthy, but let’s face it, it’s been a quiet couple of months since the Vuvuzelas stopped. It’s time to get back into the real deal now.

MNF has been money in the bank, if I wasn’t before, I am now in 100% Football Frenzy mode and it’s only week 2 – gotta love those 4th quarter finishes! The other Footie is warmed up and ready for our attention too, and the PVR is more than happy to record the EPL’s early morning matches – bring on those local Derbies! And the other other Ball-o-Foot, well you can’t count out the chance at some classic crazy CFL climax (nothing beats a good Grey Cup disaster, am I right you Melon Heads – Go Red & White!). On the other side of the rivalry between America’s Favourites is the Diamond, which is about to toss the opening pitch on the start of the real baseball season (after that 160 game pre-season thing they do so well). Finally, to round out the Big Ticket Stadium Fun is the NBA’s 2010-2011 chapter. After this summer’s Bird-Magic Doc still fresh in my mind (and heart) – gotta love when HBO and ESPN make babies - I could get into another round of b-ball (why not have the All-Star Heat against the All-Star Lakers against the All-Star Celts? Why not?).

Classes are in full swing, the leaves are changing colour, there are new awful pilots for shows that won’t know what it’s like to be on the air in October, and blah and blah and blah. It’s fall! Time to get serious! Grab some couch, cycle through your favourite team apparel, and get ready for battle, cause when it comes to the these Stadium Stories, the only thing that’s certain is that next week you will have seen something incredible, you will have seen something new, you will have seen history writing itself. Unless of course you let life get in the way. Don’t miss it, be one with The Fanatic. It’s Sports Season baby!!!

the American Dream: Be Afraid, Be Very Afraid...

Just another day, seen through your favourite pair of Hi-Jacked! goggles.

…across the inbox floats the following stream of thought from an Instapundit Reader:


I think the notion of the American Dream needs to be recalibrated — especially the whole question of whether your kids will be better off than you.

The standard-of-living floor has risen so much over the past 60 years or so that it’s difficult to quantify an increase, or to set realistic expectations. It’s kind of like my grandmother who passed away at 93 — as I got older I told her I was jealous of the advancements she witnessed, from seeing her first car while riding in a horse-drawn cart to indoor plumbing to the moon landings, and that I didn’t think anyone outside of her generation will ever see such a radical change. My father immigrated from the middle east and his arrival to the US may as well have been to another planet.

Given that past and the fact that the “poor” in this country have microwave ovens, cable TV and cell phones, and technological advances seem focused on laptops and phones, what does an increased standard of living look like anymore and how does that translate to thoughtful and achievable “American dream”?

This will be a critical concept as we try to pull ourselves out of this financial mess.

Geez. And all this he says as he stares at the ‘half full’ glass and decides it’s not even there. Boohoo, everything is so good, I can barely handle it, what do we have to look forward to? More of that ‘so good’? Forget it, this sucks, I give up… Look, I can understand the amazement of the advances that certain generations have seen, and it could be true that even though I was around before the internet and can now call someone on the other side of the planet on a wireless video phone that would probably blow Captain Kirk’s mind wide open, it’s possible that I won’t get to witness the same leaps and bounds that the horse drawn carriage generation experienced when space travel became a reality. But we don’t know that for sure. And even if we did, why would you write an article that makes it feel like life’s not worth living because the poor don’t have it bad enough? Microwaves, televisions, cell phones, it’s all too much, I need a second to regroup, I can barely believe it’s real, it’s like fantasy, it’s like a dream… it’s like the American Dream, and it’s like it’s come true.

Hahaha, I love crazy people and their opinions. This guy is probably suffering from the Office Space syndrome:
- “So, wait a minute, you’re saying that every day is the worst day of your life?”
- “Yes”
- “Is today the worst day of your life?”
- “Yes”
- “… ugh, that’s messed up…”

Half Full? Half Empty? Or maybe there’s no glass at all, dundunduhhhhhhh… I think the American Dream is when you have to start worrying that times are too good and that life can’t get any better. That we might not be able to win ‘Most Improved’ anymore and might have to settle for the ‘MVP’ award. When we’ve reached that point, BAM, like right now, well then, there you have it, American Dream accomplished. Congratulations, time for back patting, back-pats all around.

I know it can be a scary thought, but sometimes you have to take a chance, step out of your comfort zone, and take a look at what might be a glass that is half full…

Promoted to Project Mayhem

Recently I was promoted. Okay, technically I was advanced from unemployment, but nonetheless the new position is a serious step up from the old. With this promotion came a change of scenery; I am now comfortably running things from a large corner office. Fine, technically, technically I’m in a room that is at the end of two hallways, and it may or may not have two other people in it with me, but nevertheless half the room is windowed and it’s very much not a cubicle. From this promoted position, in the corner office with the windows, I have a great mountain-view that stretches out across the horizon and- dammit, alright, technically, TECHNICALLY I have an obscured sight-line in the direction of downtown that is mainly dominated by a concrete block of a parkade, BUT, if I smoosh my cheek against the window and close one eye, I can see what I’m pretty sure is a foothill, so booyakasha!

I definitely don’t have to do any face smooshing to see the parkade though; big floating vehicle vending machine, it’s like a dog kennel for cars where Motorized Luxury and Super-Powered Four Wheeled Rocket Ships get leashed up to watch the day slip passed them. Except that no one seems to stock the vending machine. Every day I look out towards the top of an antenna that I’m pretty sure belongs to the Calgary tower, and set in the fore ground is a disappointed and lonely parkade. No cars. Ever.

So, quick recap, I’ve been promoted and now live my 9-to-5 with two new friends cozied into a big corner office full of Tetris-piece desks fighting for a look out across Calgary and Co. To add a little more grey to this black-and-white scene, I also have a phone complete with caller ID that never rings, a patient slash challenged computer, an excessive amount of the coolest stationary which I never had access to during my 18 years of formal education, some drawers with nothing in them, no place to hang a jacket, a few small treasures gifted to me by the desk’s previous casualty, a fun little access card with a goofy picture of someone that looks like me on his first day of work, and a parking stall, three blocks away from the building, in a vacant lot with a conservative amount of zero security. Just living the dream.

Minus the sarcasm, it really is a pretty decent set-up. And if we’re being honest, which of course we are (trust-tree and all) technically, technically nothing has changed from the beginning to the end of the Fire-Hire Roller Coaster Ride that I just stumbled off of – it’s the same brand of EngiNerd wrapped up in a tweaked title… with, one, exception… that view.

From: Webb, Jack
Sent: Tuesday, August 10, 2010 3:00 PM
To: [last name], Hilda A
Subject: Parking at Heritage Square

Hi Hilda,

About 4 weeks ago I changed desk locations here at the Heritage Office and I now look out over the top levels of the Heritage Parkade. I’m a contractor and I know that the parkade is reserved for employees and clients, but I feel like all the empty parking stalls just out my window are taunting me to ask:

Are there open spots available in the Heritage Parkade?
Even though I’m a contractor, parking at the Overflow lot, is there a possibility I could get access and make use of the parkade until an employee requires it?

Like I said, if I didn’t ask, those stalls would just keep taunting me, haha.

Thanks,

Jack Webb

----------------------------------------------

Hi Jack:

You will just have to endure the taunting I am afraid. [Company the Suits work for], who pay for the parking, have set out guidelines that only direct hire employees of [the company I work for with the battered-wife syndrome] or [the Suits themselves] have access to the parkade. Most of the empty stalls are currently [Suits] dedicated ones which I cannot even use for the 30+ [my company’s weak @ss] people on the wait list.

Hilda

Makes sense, totally makes sense. I’m just a cog in the gear of a company working for a company but working with that company together as more than a team but as a family making the world a better place for the children of the future united as one with the spirit of a success that is fueled by the determination people helping people… WHAT?!?! Hilda, if that is your real name, how does that even come close to making sense?! What in the Eff possible good reason could there be for me to park ten minutes from a building that sits beside an empty parkade? What was it again, some brilliance about needing eight dozen back-up extra reserve redux stalls for a just-in-case kind of maybe scenario that someone once thought could take place where a never before seen ‘client’ materializes out of thin air and can’t use one of the bazillion “For Client Only” guest parking stalls three feet from the freakin main entrance? Was that it? Cause I mean if that’s the case, no worries, what choice do you have Hilda, your hands are tied, rules are rules are rules, right? Maybe, but maybe the eff not. I’m sure there’s a cliché or perhaps a motivational poster somewhere that can explain all this, but is it possible that this situation could be, I don’t know, an overwhelming amount of Stupid?!

I know what you’re thinking, Hilda can’t be her real name. I know, my thoughts exactly! You may also be thinking that Jack is over reacting (as usual – also my thoughts, but what can I say, life’s more interesting with the Drama level tuned to ‘sensitive’). You’re probably tossing around the idea that it’s just a parking stall, just a pair of lines hanging onto a block, just a place for me to abandon my car, just not really that much of a big deal (again, very much what I was thinking about). Were you thinking that even if it is ten minutes from the building, what’s the worry, I’m a walker, I walk, I can handle a morning meander and post work pace, cause quite frankly, I was thinking the exact same thing. But I’ll tell you what else I was thinking. I was thinking that thanks to my promotion, with the windows, and the view, and the constant reminder that there’s enough clear open pavement on top of that parkade to stop a pretty epic road hockey battle in order to land a plane, I’m now very much aware that the reason I can’t ride my lonely motorcycle into the office every morning is because somewhere, out there, over the rainbow of fantasy and make-believe, there’s a fleet of fictional ‘clients’ not parking securely in the comfort of the parkade of motorcycle happiness, forcing me to make use of the criminally-charged vacant lot for no reason other than Hilda’s comical attempt at an explanation of ‘Ridiculousness’.

Maybe I shouldn’t blame the depressed state of my garage-ridden motorcycle solely on Hilda and her Suits though, maybe I should toss a little drama towards the out-of-work Cow-Tippers that wander through my vacant parking lot in search of something Cow-shaped and worthy of a good Tip. You know what I would do if a couple of high school kids had enjoyed a good tipping at the expense of my motorcycle? You know what I would do if I found by bike beaten and scarred at the wrong end of random violence? You know what I would do? Nothing. Maybe have a good cry. Because by five thirty, when hypothetical unsuspecting Jack would be just completing his early evening march towards the official end of his 9-to-5 day, nothing would be left of the Cow-Tipping scene of gore and tragedy other than a fallen two-wheeled comrade and the anger and agony and tears waiting to burst out of poor Jack. No thank you, I’ll stick to the frustrations of the status quo, and cleverly whine about things instead.

So where are we then, promotion, windows, parkade… right, so long story short, when you hear that crazy freak news story on the radio talking about an insane person who bombed an empty parkade in a quiet part of Calgary, you’ll know that Jack finally went Project Mayhem on the Suits…


... I am Jack's smiling Homework Assignment

A Comment on the Comments

The Globe and Mail ran a story entitled ‘8-year-old boy is U.K.’s newest art sensation’. Great title. It’s not terribly clever or laced with witty word play, but it sums up the entire story and lets you walk away from the headline with all the information you need, and a smile. Or at least that’s what I thought when I pried myself away from this perfect prodigy plot.


On the surface, in it's simplest form, it appears to be a story with an atmosphere of purity and hope. The kid has incredible skill and after a brief encounter with his popular and sought after collection, I can’t imagine looking at his accomplishments as anything other than impossibly amazing. Along with his outrageous talent, the boy seems to approach life from a very natural place where he describes his art with the fun and innocence that is only ever hidden inside the mind of a child. And while reading the article I found, with great happiness, that he appears to have very caring parents with concerns that centre around their son's enjoyment of life and the respect of his unique gift. They obviously lack in the parenting skills of the Lohans and Downey Sr.’s of the world, but no one gets to choose their parents. It’s a great story, an excellent start to the weekend, and the perfect way to remind yourself that the world is incredible and unpredictable and awesome; on the surface that is.

I finish this story, this account of someone so young with so much talent, and oddly enough that is not the aspect of the article that I have trouble wrapping my mind around. 'Amazing' I can grasp, 'Unique' I like, it's 'Ridiculous' I struggle with, because it’s all fun and games until you jump into the online Comments. Actually, to be honest, the commentary that finds its way onto these posted internet articles is a whole new vein of entertainment.

Naturally you’ll come across people who govern their world with logic and knowledge and adventurous experience, touching on a side of Interesting you had never considered. You are bound to find some jokester and comedians who will spin some laughs into the scene and give the story a fun little twist and a giggle. And for the most part the post-script of a publication can open up all kinds of new and exciting avenues, colouring the topic of choice in an exhilarating way.

But then there are the other guys, and they are nothing like Ferrell and Wahlberg’s charming big screen duo. These depressed collections of doofus drowning in misery while hating beauty and the world over, all at the same time, who are these fools? I start browsing through the Comments section after filling my body with the warm-and-tinglies that only a story of success and hope can bring to a person, and I come across true mental vomitous. Did that one comment actually make a go of tearing into the kid’s work? I don’t know that I would categorize myself as having ‘the eye for art’, but I’m pretty sure that not only is his stuff at least above average, I believe he’s still only a FREAKIN 8 YEAR OLD! What kind of darkness needs to be hiding inside you before you can say ‘Ummm, I don’t know if the Piece speaks to me, the attitude is thin, and I get no sense of the artist's history’. Just a head-shake. That's all there is to say about it. Imagine an 8 year dashes down the 100 meter sprint in 12 seconds and the feat is dismissed because he's 3 seconds off Bolt's pace. He's 8!!!


Here are some of my favourites, true gems locked in the Comments section of this little article:

- “These remind me of the fodder you buy on the streets of Rome or Paris. Poor craft, lagging intellect and regressive aesthetic. Not so much "art" as reproduction of historically post-relevant work. I much prefer kids "art" that is creative, and coveys their own ideas and senses. That is what "art" is. This is merely reproduction of other ideas.”

- “At first I thought it was some abstract crap, but hey that's pretty amazing, he has a developed sense of atmosphere.”

- “As the saying goes, nail two things together that haven't been nailed together before and some idiot will buy it as art.”

- “Nice late 19th century impressionist knockoff - maybe more to say about brushwork if it wasn't on an LCD screen. From here it looks if the kid was older, he'd be selling in the "stock image" market for hotel suites and middle management boardrooms. So it's great to be eight. The real "stars" here are the agents and middle men who have worked his price up to where it is.”

… really? REALLY?!?! Pompous idiots. I wonder if they have trouble taking themselves seriously. These are the people who need the internet. These are the people who are not allowed to go out in public anymore due to the fact that the majority of the sane population has an overwhelming urge to punch them in the mouth. In the past, one might read a story in the paper, find themselves generating some inner dialogue, and share it around the water cooler or at the dinner table. But now, in the words of a devoted Hi-Jacked! reader "any goof ball with a key board can chime in". It’s like one big 'Tard party, and we all get to sit back and enjoy the lunacy.

Have a go at the article yourself, it truly is great. Enjoy the optimism of Hope and Success and the defeat of impossibility, imagine a life where at 8 you could create like this mini-Monet, consider what your world would be like if you were harnessing these powers, and of course, after finding that happy little place where anything is possible, don't forget to peruse the Comments, because that's where the good stuff is...

http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/arts/8-year-old-boy-is-uks-newest-art-sensation/article1672122/

Riding the Fly-Overs

Visit Gillett Wyoming, check. There goes another one off the bucket list… no one has ever said that, no one actually knows what a ‘Gillett Wyoming’ is. But they should. Not because it’s hiding a fierce to-do list of summer Musts, or because it’s charm rivals my own, but because it’s a destination at the end of an adventure. What more do you need?


One of my own has been stationed in the quiet North East corner of that deserted in-between state of Wyoming. He’s manning a “Somebody’s Gotta Do it” post as one of those heroes who leave the real-world and battle the elements of the unknown. That was their plan for him, our’s was to life-line him back to reality.

Waiting 1300km from Calgary, Gillett was just close enough to tickle the idea of getting there on the pony. I hadn’t yet unleashed the Honda VTX on an endless highway since befriending it this Spring, so when a 5-day weekend gave the 1300km the respect in deserved, we started strategizing.

‘We’ was just enough of a team to be a convoy; Ali paved the way in the black Jeep making room for my VTX work-horse and the Royal Star’s two man team of Rick and Marie. We packed essentials, mapped out the possibilities, and drove off into the unknown lands of the Fly-Overs.

There’s something that carries the adventure a little deeper when you push yourself up off the crutch of jet-set travel, when you return to the road and become a part of the trip. On a bike it feels like you move the road, not the other way around. Without the window to hold back your imagination, freedom becomes the only thing that’s ever existed; you, the bike, and the unfolded stage are all in pursuit of the next line of the story. We were carrying everything we needed and charged south, one step up from the saddle of a cowboy’s old West ways.

The two bikes were sewn up at the hands of a couple of bungee-cord artists – bags draped across seats and saddle bags, equipped like life-rafts piggy-backing rocket ships. Our crew rolled out of the garage with more than enough enthusiasm to break through the city’s limits. We hopped from gas-bar to truck-stop, sampling coffee, beef jerky, and the best of the Diner’s 2010 circuit. Alberta faded away along with Wednesday’s setting sun. Time stalled only briefly as we waited at the border crossing, calming the motorcycles as they bagged us to push on. On the other side our introduction to Montana was a strange little world that existed only as two empty lanes. Beyond our modest head lamps, the secrets of darkness.

Nothing rewards the fight against wind and rain and bugs like bed. Like the distraction of competition found in sport, the open road and revealing landscape let you forget about the toll the task takes on you physically and mentally. It became routine for us to get off the bikes at the end of the day and instantly fall into a happy exhaustion.

The Thursday morning light mustered up an amazing Montana. This was why Gillett was introduced into our lives. Throughout the day the country side offered up everything from the big skies of the open plains, to the hidden valleys where land had escaped its surroundings, to towns that had always been there and never wanted more than their own existence. We weren’t in a rush. Scenic Byways, Alternate Routes, Rest Stops, Look Outs, Points of Interest, it was all part of our schedule. And along with some of the most beautiful performances that we could have hoped for, Montana carried us through into Wyoming with just as much disaster as dazzle. Depressing, desolate places that had seen nothing but tough times before coming across tough times. Ghost towns without the ghosts. And yet, even in the misery of broken down buildings, abandoned homes, and worn out schools, there was something captivating about this unknown. In each place that wandered across our path we caught a piece of the story, a sampling of what had moved through, shaped the community, changed the people into ‘folks’ (something that had found a home in these lonely states and felt comfortable enough never to venture on). In some cases the wild of the wild west had slowly started to take back what was once its own, leaving towns partially swallowed up by the land, half way between cute and crooked. If you didn’t keep moving, you would never move again - that’s how these places worked. We never stayed much longer than a fuel-up and a stretch, because although we weren’t racing the horizon, we could feel the next turn calling our names.

We left a short stretch ahead of ourselves for a Friday morning meet and greet with Gillett. Big Barbeque staked its claim on Thursday night, and worked hard to defeat our traveling appetites. Those American Cowboys know how to put together a meal, and they weren’t concerned with the confines of a single plate. There was almost as much barbeque chow on the table as there was great outdoors on the walls (it was a who’s who in the Wyoming zoo of trophy heads cozying up the cook house). We would pass other grill specialists, and our trip would eventually bring us to another BBQ house where once again I would be out done by the table full of plates that the kitchen challenged us with. Quantity, Quality, Atmosphere; these parts know how barbeque is done. The American Roadhouse has now become a staple of the open road in our circles.

Gillett, Wyoming. Over 800 miles had reunited us with Scotty. We settled into his apartment like escaped convicts resurfacing from the fugitive run. I was surprisingly comfortable with not moving. Even though the ride was the adventure and we had grown to love life on the road, a destination can be quite soothing; no need to play favorites. We told stories of the trip and were introduced into Scott’s new world. He had found his place in the town and had heard stories of the front lines, but only from the comfort of his desk. Scott wasn’t quite fighting the same pipeline battles that Daniel Plainview did in There Will Be Blood, but a pipeline’s a pipeline, things can get intense (I’d like to confirm that There Won’t Be Blood in Gillett, however I am told that evil Wyoming winters rile up the crowd something fierce…).

We toured by foot and by truck. On the run we got creeped out by the locals (antelope that suddenly appear in the open fields, watching, waiting, up to no good), but managed to convince them we wanted no part of their strange behavior. While seeing the sights via four wheels (I use the word ‘sights’ in a pretty casual way), we learned two things about Gillett; one, it’s entirely possible that no one is actually from Gillett (or visiting Gillett for that matter – you do your job and you get the he!l out of there), and two, you are only allowed to drive a truck. Motorcycles are allowed to cruise on through, but in no way does the term ‘Smart Car’ get you anything close to a nod of respect, it would probably get you a punch in the face. You gotta man up when you’re in Gillett.

In the US, the July 4th weekend is 1 part pride, 1 part waving stars-and-stripes, and 34 parts Fireworks. Every stop we made on our way to Gillett was decorated with a roadside shack covered in ‘explosive deals’, ‘blow out sales’, and ‘FIRE!’. At one point, a clown-car of a hatchback opened up and a pile of kids jumped onto the scene. After a nice round of the kind of too-much-excitement that only flashy bombs can put in the hearts of children, their dad walked away from the Fire Work Stand with a Wiley Coyote sized crate of celebration. He tossed the kids, the crate, and all that July 4th enthusiasm into the back seat of his stay-out-of-Gillett hatchback and took off to make some memories. Every night we’d been south of the boarder there had been a light show, and Gillett was no different. We saw everything from ‘Professionals’ to ‘a dude in a field trying to start a grass fire’. Grass Fire guy wasn’t very good at getting the Fire Works to go up in the air, he was better at having them jump up ten feet, dropped down into a crowd of kids, and fizzle out. The Fire Work scene never got old and we spent Friday night in Gillett becoming expert Fire Work critics.

The road was calling and it called us back west. We were on the move again Saturday morning, but only after Scott’s hospitality filled our bellies with his homemade flapjacks. He knew what the trail had in store for us. We explored more of Wyoming, and like the road to Gillett, our new route revealed more of American’s ‘Best Of’. Rick reminded us that the first rule of Road Rides is, never travel the same route twice. So we had kidnapped Scott and the five of us rolled through State Parks and National Forests into the booming rodeo world of Cody. As it turns out, everyone in Wyoming was in Cody. This was a complete one-eighty from the peace and nothing that makes up the rest of the state’s hot spots, and we ate up the energy.

You don’t have to own a motorcycle for long before it becomes part of the family. Not in the sense that unconditional love is dished out and you ignore siblings and parents in order to max out the quality time with the bike, but more so in the sense that the motorcycle is now part of your photo collection. It’s come to the point where it may actually be more likely to find a picture of the VTX and the Royal Star mugging for a shot in front of some expansive Wyoming display, than it is to find any of the Webbs locked in frame. I have dozens of shots documenting the travels of my bike. Like the Travelocity Gnome, the background becomes a slide show and the VTX stands front and centre, smiling about all the attention.

By Sunday afternoon we were watching Old Faithful continue its Cal Ripken Jr. streak, and the 5 of us to pictures of each other taking pictures of Yellowstone’s geyser king. It was after circling the park’s scenic highway, dodging herds of buffalo, and catching a Yogi and Booboo photo shoot, that our convoy split apart and passed each other the good-byes. Even Long Weekends are still a little too much Weekend and not enough Long. Scott and Al turned back eastward while Rick, Marie, and I reigned in the bikes and pulled them north; it was time to head home.

There’s no way to fake the kind of connection that creates itself when a couple of motorcycles train it through the country side. At first the stories are told at the rest stops, the moment the helmet pops off. The bikes will stop rolling and the Did-you-see’s, Remember-when’s, and When-we-were’s begin to fly back and forth. It becomes circled wagons without the campfire every hundred miles. Then, after enough highway has come and gone the detail of the debriefs isn’t needed, and the group becomes synchronized. Before long the rest stops are filled with only cues, collections of words and incomplete sentences that bring everyone on to the same page. “Back when we first turned on to the 87…”, “Yep. Incredible”, “…and that green truck?”, “Hahaha, I love it!”, “I couldn’t believe it, that last town…”, “I know, same…”. It turns into code, a language open only to the privacy of the bike entourage. But that doesn’t mean that isolation will creep into your ride, the motorcycle is your ‘In’, and from there the stories really get wild. We met people who had travelled near impossible mileage, bounced off each corner of the continent, traveled solo, as a pair, in a group, on stripped down Harleys, in tricked out Gold Wings, and with glossed up Victorys. We ran into stories about great stretches of road, terrible weather, must-see sights, and encounters with the bizarre. We shot-the-sh!t, talked about nothing, and discussed everything. It was an exclusive club that hide in plain sight, and we’d found our way in.

The three of us shared the journey home like it was a secret we had stumbled upon; some great discovery that gave depth to our understanding of what was happening and why we were doing it. An experience like the motorcycle trip cultivates history within the group almost instantly. And this history only gets stronger on the other side because once the bikes are tucked away and the pursuit of the next horizon fades, the memories start to fuel that tickle in your mind. The road never dies, it simple swings to the side and waits for you to leave your day-to-day rest stop. The key is to plan to plan and start your next countdown to adventure before your last outing has taken you back to base camp again.

In Bed with Television

Yesterday’s inbox gave me a subject line filled with ‘Sleep Deprivation Study’. Très appropriate since I both ‘don’t sleep’ and ‘have an email address for people to send me links to a world outside the cubicle’. The email took me to FuturePundit which deals in “Future technological trends and their likely effects on human society, politics, and evolution”, it’s always a good time. Specifically, this article wandered around the idea of Sleep Deficit and the inability to recover with only one massive weekend dose. More generally, it Jeopardy’d the answer “I am Jack’s unhinged thoughts” with “What is, all that stuff written just below that pundit link?” The article is definitely worth a hey-how-are-ya, especially if you are interested in the mysteries of the human body’s rechargeable battery, or if you ever Sleep.

http://www.futurepundit.com/archives/007378.html


In my world it’s the latest fad, it’s the new magic elixir, it’s the cure for anything and everything; it’s all I see. And I believe it. I don’t get enough sleep and the only thing worse than the lack of sleep I get is the lack of action I take to get more sleep. Lately I’ve done better and I’ve never been as bad as ‘less than 4 hours a night’, but it’s hard, it’s throw-a-moody kind of hard.



Basically what I’ve come up with is that I need to sacrifice things I like in order to create more QT with the pillow. It could be the TV time that they’re talking about, it could be reading before bed, it could be anything from a round of chit-chattery to the post work work-out, maybe it could be cutting back on anything that keeps me out of the house passed 10pm. I don’t know yet. What I do know is that it can’t be is something I dislike. And this is where the problem lies; to find sleep I need to postpone a lot of Like in life in order to squeeze in all the Dislike I’m supposed to take care of. I don’t like it. The only way to ensure that I can fit in all that Like that I do like and that I’m so used to is to skip out on the early to bed, dislike the Dislike more, and continue to talk about how I don’t get enough sleep. BUT, if a little extra Like in the evening means that the Dislike is even worse because I can’t stay awake or that I’m only operating at 60% during all that Like I like so much, the trade off isn’t worth it. And that’s where I’m at right now. I’m tired of being so tired that I’m just ‘getting by’, it’s exhausting. All it takes is one good dose of Enough-Sleep and things become very clear – sleep is gooooooooooooood. Watch out Late-Night-Guy, your days are numbered.

As for this fool who’s cancelled his cable and unplugged his TV and ‘no longer misses it’, well La-Dee-Freakin-Da, how Zen/Buddhist/Stupid-of-you. When will people stop blaming TV for everything? People don’t kill people, TVs kill People, right? Unbelievable. If you like TV, watch it, if you don’t, then just don’t watch, but don’t hate on those who do. The haters need to stop selling fear and need to stop trying to convince the world that not watching TV has given them some sort of superpower. Be convinced of this, your superpower is the power of being a big idiot. The whole TV is the worst thing since Ever is ridiculous, it’s like candy or oxygen or hugs; ‘moderation’ is the cliché of choice. “I don’t get enough sleep, so I’m going to go all Office-Space on my TV”. How about “I don’t exercise enough, I’m going to slash my car tires”? Or maybe “I have a headache, I’m going to cut my head off”? Sound good? Issue resolved? No? Oh, sorry, I thought we were just smashing together random events that make no sense and solving all the problems of the world in the most indirect way possible.

And I pause to breathe and take a ten-count.

If you are doing a whole bunch of other non-TV related things with your after-work time, and then decide that you want some TV, and then wake up the next morning and are tired, and then conclude that TV has performed robbery on your sole and broken your trust, AND you send it to the corner for a talking to and a time out, well fine, your choice, just don’t talk to me about it, unless it’s during a commercial break.

To summarize: I like sleep, I like TV, I want to have my cake and eat it too. I also like cake.

You’ve been Hi-Jacked!

Inception Accomplished

So I think I’ve figured out what happened last night, Christopher Nolan put me under, plugged me into one of those clever little machines, popped into my head with Leo and the crew, and planted the tiniest of ideas deep within my mind. He did this, and it worked. Inception accomplished.

I can’t stop thinking about that film. It was outstanding. Set aside for a second the fact that visually it was a tour de force that did things to the big screen that I’ve never tried to imagine. Set aside the sound that tapped into my soul and muddled me up from the inside out with its bold twisted performance. Forget for a minute that DiCaprio has again created a scenario where the only way the Oscars won’t be a disappointment this year is if he wins the trophy. Don’t worry about the great accomplishments of that ensemble cast, the cool quick editing, the engaging camera work, and Christopher Nolan’s ability to execute. Set aside all these things that would normally be over and above the pre-recs to get a film into a year’s top ten, and what’s left? What’s left is what I’ve been thinking about, what’s stolen my conscious thought, what’s left me a little off centre and a little uneasy. What’s left is the haunting nature of that story.

I don’t know much about dreams, and I think I now know even less. And that’s where Nolan’s creation really captures its brilliance. In diving deep into the idea of the subconscious and running around inside the unknown of the dormant mind, Inception has blown open a part of my psyche that hadn’t even been warmed up. I had no idea that there was an entire subject all twisted up into a labyrinth of questions that I had never even ignored. I wandered into the theatre wanting a new chapter in the story of my Man Crush on Leo, wanting a big old bag of popcorn, wanting a little action and a little intrigue, wanting something fun to share with the enthusiastic, I wandered in with expectations, and hopes of greatness, and a longing for something new. I wandered in, but beyond that, I was not prepared. It truly is like Nolan snuck into my head and delicately planted something powerful that has since cracked my imagination wide open. And there is no hope for repair.

!!!Spoilers ahead - Good ones!!!

I was a lost cause the moment the dream-inside-a-dream concept was offered up. I went from watching a movie to pursuing a story. That was the first moment my mind started trying to wreck the anticipation and screamed ahead to what the end might be holding. I wasn’t imagining Cobb’s totem winding our excitement up with its mesmerizing spin, but I did begin to believe that Cobb’s reality was in fact a final hidden layer of his mind.

From there the suspense never let go of me. I was totally drawn in for every twist and turn. The pace of the film was surprisingly fast for its running time; at no point was I released from its hold long enough to wonder about anything other than the world of dream navigation. Part of this was the cast. One miss step would have broken the fine line that maintained attachement between this crazy fantasy world and the reality I knew, and yet it never came. Each of the actors demanded your focus and then with it toured you around through the corridors of emotion and suspense.

I also loved the dynamic that came from the crew of characters that took on the pursuit of Inception. The trust and lack thereof, the gentle bickering, the willingness to sacrifice for one another, the competition that lived between them, the friendship and the conflict, the bonds that come from being in battle, it all convinced me that this was my team, the team I was rooting for, the team I wished I could help.

And that’s what made me sweat, that intensity that came from high stakes and higher risks, and a connection to each of the team members. It would have been easy enough to entertain me with the concept of walking around in someone’s thoughts, but Nolan kept unveiling more impossibly inventive tricks; stealing a thought, then creating a thought, the darkness of addiction, the idea of time’s relativity, the power and weakness of the mind, a place called limbo, and all the other little issues that can turn a great plan into a full time disaster. By the time all the pieces were in place it was an endeavor just to keep up with the reveal. But it was beyond worth it.

The moment the screen went black my mind started replaying scene after scene of the movie. Not only to ensure that I had placed everything where it was supposed to go upon first viewing, but also to just marvel at the brilliance of what the film had accomplished. And like all great cinematic feats, the movie’s final frame wasn’t the end, it was the sparked that triggered contrast of opinion and discussion.

Nolan left just enough mystery with the spinning totem to keep the intrigue alive after the credits had rolled. I still chose to believe that Cobb was trapped inside his own fantasy, living out the complexities of his mind within a dream. Even though he had defeated a negativity that had plagued his being and found a bright corner to reward himself with the happily ever after, I think a second viewing of the film would be layered with hints of a darker denouement. I think he is still living in a dream covered in memories, I think his totem was created within the dream, I think his wife made it out, I think his subconscious has no idea, and I think he is so good at navigating through dormant thoughts that he is lost in his own mind. Some may believe that my side of the ending is opposing the eternal optimist who can almost hear Cobb’s totem tumble, but I think even in siding with the Dream-On finalé, Cobb’s final victories are enough to prove that he will find his way home.

Right or wrong, certain or hesitant, awake or asleep, Cobb’s reunion with his children and his ability to let go of his loss and guilt and fear was a perfect closing moment to an amazing film that is currently showing, endlessly in my mind. It’s not every day that a movie this good finds its way passed all the obstacles and is actually realized. Then again, maybe it never happened, because maybe I’m still dreaming…