Purpose & Alignment

20 06 2025

I left Japan with confidence and purpose.

Keita had been an excellent host and travel partner. Our shared interest in history, arts and logistics was a good match.

As we said our goodbyes at the airport, for some reason, it felt like I would be back someday. There is still so much of the country to see, including Mount Fuji, which was shrouded in clouds on the day we traveled to Fuji Kawaguchiko for a hike.

Mt. Fuji hiding in the clouds

“Take care of yourself,” he said, before giving me a long hug, its squeeze a sign of the tight bond we had developed through the years.

Our embrace was a rare demonstration of public affection from this quiet and reserved man. There were no performative bows as we departed, just a respectful energy exchange. Equal parts love and admiration.

I slept most of the flight to Hawaii. With a three hour layover in Honolulu, I found a seat at a crowded bar and sipped on a crisp IPA, while scanning through backlogged emails on my phone.

Above the beer taps, cable television networks broadcast the latest developments from the presidential campaign. It was all but over at this point. A disastrous debate performance had felled President Biden. Trump 2.0 was on the way.

Even Keita was sold on the strongman schtick.

“Trump will keep you safe,” he told me one night over soba noodles in a trendy Tokyo restaurant.

Turning away from the news, I found an email from my recruiter about the train conductor program. From a pool of nearly 900 applicants, my number was one of 50 chosen. I felt lucky indeed.

The program would run for 12 weeks, from late November to early February. Several hurdles needed to be cleared to begin training.

A cognitive test, which included basic math, reading and writing was first followed by a panel interview with questions like: ‘Think of a difficult situation you experienced and how did you solve it?’

Then came the physical tests, making sure you could get in and out of the train, throw a switch and raise the pantograph (the part of the train that connects to the overhead wire) on your own. After that it was on to the classroom, where I joined a group of external hires just out of CDL training.

This would be my new family for the next three months and I couldn’t have asked for a more down to earth and kind hearted group. No more insensitive comments from immature assholes trying to one up each other on the toxic masculinity scale.

In my new setting, we applauded each other’s wins, sent encouraging text messages and genuinely wanted to see each other succeed.

That’s what made this group special. I could let my guard down and not have to worry about someone looking for a weakness to exploit.

Because of my previous experience in maintenance as a shop helper, I had a leg up on the early weeks as we learned about reading switches and the geography of the yards. Out on the mainline is where the big challenge would come as we were introduced to signals and system maps — known as the ‘alignment’ in work lingo.

“The alignment always wins,” one of my line trainers told me. “It’s like a casino. The house always wins.”

“But, why are we competing with the alignment in the first place?,” I asked.

Silent for a couple of seconds, the trainer shook his head and sighed.

“You’re not, John. That’s the point.”


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Categories : Confidence, Friendship, Japan

In Hot Water

29 05 2025

What left an impression on me about Japan was its culture of cleanliness and respect, qualities that were ever apparent as we traveled the country.

Admittedly, there was a sense of embarrassment for my homeland. Japan’s trains and stations were clean, riders were considerate of fellow passengers and there was nary a whiff of smoke — much less illegal drugs in the air.

Most of the platforms had vending and recycling machines, which would be impossible to maintain in a vandal plagued Portland.

To my surprise, some train cars were designated for women only. I found this a bit odd, considering the country’s reputation for male chauvinism.

Keita’s mother, on the other hand, was not one to be subjugated. An octogenarian who was still driving — a stick shift car no less — she fetched us from the train station and always made sure we ate a big breakfast each morning.

After a long bus ride from Tokyo we arrived in Kusatsu, where you are greeted instantly by the rotten eggs smell of sulfur from the hot springs.

In the town square sits the Yubatake, a field of water, where people gather particularly at night to socialize. Some believe the minerals from the hot springs have healing properties. If true, I was more than ready for a soak.

“Let’s do the Onsen after we check in,” Keita said to me as we hiked through the narrow and curved streets up to our hotel.

Donning our yukatas (robes), we entered the male side of the Onsen. Inside, phones and cameras are strictly forbidden and it is custom to bathe naked. To set the mood, relaxing zen music played overhead as I stepped into the tile enclosed pool.

Life takes unexpected twists and turns and here I was, the lone Western figure at a remote hot springs resort tucked away in the mountains of Japan’s Gunma prefecture.

And the water was wickedly hot!

It’s heat pulsing as I stood knee deep and naked in the Onsen’s large pool. The convection like an attack on my nervous system.

While the temperature stymied me, others were easily submerged in the mineral waters.

“John, are you okay?,” Keita politely asked, noticing my hesitation to take a deeper plunge.

“Yeah, it’s just very hot,” I replied, thinking there was no way I could go any further.

Then I heard what sounded like a frog noise beside me. I turned to see an older man, sitting in the pool, with no expression on his face. Then suddenly, that sound again:

“Ribbet, Ribbet.”

I smiled at him, but knowing very little Japanese, did not speak. Keita engaged the man in friendly banter, translating for me.

“He says you’ll get used to the temperature,” Keita told me. “And he thought you were French.”

The metaphor could not have been more fitting.

After that exchange we waded away from the man and I did eventually work up the courage to go completely under. This being the first step in my transformation. I was washed and exposed and felt no shame.

I slept good that night. The Onsen brought my Misogi challenge more into focus. I was determined to become a train conductor and upon returning home would enroll in a program to begin this process, leaving behind mundane janitorial duties.

Yes, this frog had escaped the boiling water.

Ribbet, Ribbet.

John & Keita at the Yubatake in Kusatsu, Japan


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Categories : Friendship, Growth, Japan, Travel, Water

Hawaiian Reset

12 12 2024

Heeding Stanley’s advice, I began to distance myself from River.

And the therapist wasn’t the only one delivering this message. Kieran — my loyal friend all through the pandemic and beyond — was uncharacteristically blunt. He had been observing a disturbing change in me.

“He’s using you and he’ll take you down with him,” Kieran warned. “A narcissist with addiction issues is a dangerous combination.”

River had a lot of drinking buddies so replacing me in his rotation would be no problem. My sympathies for him remained and as Stanley had predicted, it hurt as I cut off communication.

Luckily for me, I had some vacation time coming that would chase my blues away. Not long after the new year, David and I traveled to Hawaii to see my cousin Rob and his wife Shelley. Empty nesters, with both kids recently graduating from college, they had graciously offered to let us stay with them during our visit.

We left Portland just as a big winter storm approached. David’s brother chained up the tires on his SUV and navigated along frozen back roads to get us to the airport. On the tarmac, crews worked hard to de-ice the plane, enabling our takeoff in what felt like a true escape from winter’s clutches.

We flew directly to Kauai, one of the less populated islands, known for its lush greenery. It had been years since I last saw Rob and Shelley. Rob grew up in Miami, went to UF and worked as a defense contractor on the technical side, even living abroad for a time in the Middle East.

Rob picked us up at the airport in his blue jeep with a orange Florida Gators logo on the side door. He had long hair and was wearing shorts, flip flops and a T-shirt. It was the classic beach bum look.

Aside from the heat, one of the first things I noticed as we left the airport, were the chickens. They were everywhere and their cock-a-doodle-dos could be heard all over the island.

Rob took us to lunch at a waterfront restaurant where at night herds of sea turtles crawled to shore.

“How’s your dad?,” he asked.

“Not good,” I replied.

My brother had recently sold dad’s truck. He was never going to drive again. The Parkinson’s was progressing and dad refusing his medications didn’t help.

After lunch, we drove on Kauai’s one main road to the southern side of the island, where Shelley welcomed us into their cozy cedar home. They had two dogs and a big backyard full of colorful flowers, plants and trees.

Fritz House

It was so peaceful and serene. Just what we needed.

“Make yourself at home,” Shelley said as she showed us to the downstairs guest room.

The walls were covered with pictures of their wedding, children and travels. You could feel love resonating through the frames.

I slept soundly that night in paradise. Something was stirring inside of me. As we would soon find out, it was the power of CAN.


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Categories : Family, Friendship, Hawaii, Travel

Blood Brothers

21 11 2024

“All I saw was blood…blood everywhere. On the ground, all over my clothes. It was gushing out of my nose,” he said.

River’s nose had puffed up to clown size and purple bruises surrounded his left eye. He never saw it coming — walking home, listening to music with his headphones on and suddenly out of nowhere:

Shabam!

The stick smacked him across the face, knocking him to the ground and busting his nose wide open. The culprit was gone before he knew what hit him.

And yet somehow, River mustered the courage to come to work that week and clean trains in horrible pain with a fractured nose. I felt a tremendous amount of sympathy for him, knowing full well that could have been me.

But why would someone do that?

Despite my insistence, River refused to seek medical attention or file a police report. As I was quickly discovering, he seemed to detest health screenings and absolutely did not trust the police.

The attack drew me closer to River. I wanted to be there for him and I told this to Stanley, my next door neighbor psychiatrist. Stanley reminded me that I was supposed to be seeking more joy in my life and yet here I was trying to play a rescuer role.

“You can’t ‘save’ someone who does not want to be saved or feel there is a problem,” Stanley reminded me.

River liked to party and at his age who could blame him. He was quite the playboy, handsome and confident. Going out with him felt like riding shotgun with a celebrity because every bar we entered, someone there knew River.

While I reserved social outings for the weekend, River was going out nearly every night. I tried to sound the alarm about work, but he didn’t seem to care.

The job may stink now, I told him, but there were many paths within the organization that would lead to secure livability.

“You’re wasting your breath,” Stanley told me.

Stanley had been in this situation before and knew the ending.

“Why are you attracted to him?” he asked.

That was the billion dollar question.

Aside from having a savior complex, I saw a lot of my old self in River. Two decades earlier, I left my job as a sportswriter in Alabama to move to Houston, Texas to be with my first lover, Dennis.

I have never written about this time in my life. I did some things that I am not proud of. Things I wish that I had never done.

Dennis introduced me to a completely different lifestyle. A lifestyle of endless nightclub parties, rampant drug use and survival sex work.

Unpacking and acknowledging this time is important and so too is letting it go.

I saw River as a shot at redemption. He was living the same life I did and I wanted desperately to lift him out of it.

“You’re going to get hurt,” Stanley warned.

Sticks & Stones

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The Shrink Next Door

28 09 2024

Safely onboarded into a new career, I turned my focus to home.

Together, David and I had made tremendous strides in five years in Portland. We had a new apartment, blessed with good health and eager to turn the page in post-COVID times.

The Doctor will see you now

The new apartment ignited an interest in cooking — something that I had never fully explored, aside from the occasional spaghetti dinner. Our gas stove soon became a focal part of our lives. I began making casseroles, biscuits and muffins; sautéed steaks, grilled fish and many other delicious meals.

Nearing a half century of existence — an age, frankly, I didn’t think I’d ever see —- I finally felt at peace with my life. Publishing a book was sort of my grand finale. There wasn’t a lot of sales, but perhaps I need to die to be discovered or appreciated. Seems to be the case with a lot of famous writers.

Our apartment building was buzzing with creative types, mostly Millennials and Gen Zers. Once a month, management hosted a themed party on the rooftop in an effort to get residents to connect with their neighbors.

That’s where we met Stanley.

A published author of critically acclaimed sex therapy books, Stanley and I hit it off from the start. I liked his intellect and there wasn’t a lot of walls thrown up — something I had run into a lot at work.

Stanley was David’s age, but dealing with some major health problems. He had a partner from Mexico, who was quite younger and an aspiring singer with rugged good looks.

The four of us went out for drinks a few times at a nearby cocktail bar. I shared with Stanley about my past as a journalist and how I never would have imagined that at this age, I would be doing blue collar work.

“The body eventually breaks down,” Stanley said. Was this foreshadowing?, I thought.

David, of course, pulled out his New York playbook and began rehearsing stories I had heard many times before. They both lived in the city when 9/11 happened. Stanley, tragically, had a front row seat in Tribeca.

Stanley was intrigued by relationships and it didn’t take him to long to inquire about how David and I met and came to be a married gay couple. Realizing, a professional shrink lived next door, I let down my guard and shared how David and I navigated our different desires.

None of what I shared came as a shock to Stanley. He had been in practice for quite some time. It only took a few meetings for him to deliver an assessment that lifted a heavy burden off my shoulders.

With martini in hand, Stanley served up some truth.

“You’ve never had and never will have the love you needed from your father,” he said in that sort of 60 Minutes interview way.

Then he leaned forward, hovered over the table and put it in no uncertain terms.

“What you need to do, John, is go out and have some fun. Unleash your true feelings and, for God’s sake, find something that makes you happy and then…just do it!”


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Moving on up

10 05 2024

Having finally had enough of the abhorrent behavior from the sidewalk campers in the neighborhood, I set out to find us a better home.

We toured several apartment buildings before choosing a cute little studio in the Pearl District. It was high up enough that the problems on the street couldn’t reach us. The zone we would be moving to was a crucial business and tourism district that would not tolerate the antics from our previous neighborhood. Try as they might, pitching their tent and smoking crack on the sidewalk around breweries, bookstores and salons had an expiration date that was rapidly approaching.

David’s brother and my friend, Kieran helped us move. We rented a U-haul and packed up our stuff right in front of the druggies, who of course got in their last minute heckling. It took every ounce of discipline I had ever mustered to keep my composure. I remember losing my temper with the landlord in South Florida when he sold the apartment and gave us a month’s notice to vacate. It wasn’t a pretty scene and I was not going to take bait again.

“Ignore them,” David instructed. Kieran and I did just that as we loaded furniture into the U-haul.

I met Kieran at the grocery store, where we both worked menial jobs. He had flunked out of college and was washing dishes. Skinny with long brown hair that flowed down past his shoulders, Kieran reminded me a lot of myself at that age.

He was smart, but undecided on what kind of career to pursue. He still is.

We talked about going hiking a lot until one day, he said, “Do you want my number?” Looking back, it has been the most aggressive move he’s ever made.

We would go on a lot of hikes together and to the movies, concerts and out to eat. David gave his seal of approval and graciously understood that it was a friends night out. For the longest time, Kieran was the only person in Portland who I felt truly understood me. He has a sensitive soul and compassionate heart.

So Kieran and Russ helped us move into our new place. God bless Russ. David’s younger brother had helped us move in and knew the routine. We loaded up a dolly full of heavy boxes into an ancient elevator, the kind where you close one door and pull a metal gate in front of you before you can go anywhere.

Then we dollied the boxes down sets of narrow marble stairs, igniting loud bangs with each drop, before finally rolling out onto the street. We had been so happy to move in here four years ago and now couldn’t get out fast enough.

Portland had changed drastically in those four years and it wasn’t a good change either.

A fresh start was needed. We were moving from a building over 100 years old to one barely a year old. Quite a difference. Awaiting us was a beautiful view of the west hills, a kitchen complete with a dishwasher, onsite gym, rooftop clubhouse and many more amenities.

“John, you finally got your box in the sky, David quipped.

Now I had to get the job to pay for it and the clock was ticking…

David on the roof


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Good Grief

5 07 2023

The Oregon coast is a spectacular site. Massive jagged rocks protrude from the sea. It’s where the blue waters of the Pacific Ocean meet the rugged mainland lined with green Douglas firs. The smooth sound of the waves washing over the rocks is tranquilizing to the soul, especially for those who come here as a respite from city life.

On this day, it worked wonders for me.

Overcome by emotion, I could not stop crying on our drive out of the valley and over the mountains. It had been a hard journey out of the warehouse and into the airport and now I was back to square one, drained by the experience, with not a clue as to what lies ahead.

On the way, I sent a text to my TSA trainer, Tyler, thanking him for doing what he could for me.

“Enjoyed our time working together, John,” he replied. “I am sorry it did not work out for you. I hope your future entails new promising opportunities.”

It was a kind expression, not typical of security guards. My union representative also noted I was fortunate to have worked in Oregon and “not someplace like New Jersey” where my exit would not had been so graceful.

So here I was, staring into the ocean with tears running down my cheeks. Totally devasted.

David pulled me closer, wrapping his arms around me as if to shield me from the world.

He was still with me, standing by my side despite all we had been through. The cross country move to a new life and the car accident that nearly claimed it. And then there was my very public affair with T that no doubt hurt him more than he showed.

And yet his loyalty was unyeilding. He kissed me on the forehead and squeezed tight still exhibiting a calmness that I had come to respect deeply. That’s what I have always marveled about David — his ability to stay cool and collected under intense pressure and misfortune. Lord knows, we have had our share of struggles.

We had lunch at a restaurant in Depoe Bay, where the sunlight pierced through the large windows of the dining room, shining bright on our table. It was late January and sunlight was scarce so we soaked it up and ordered more wine.

David tried to cheer me up by playing photographer with cheesy comments.

“Ok, give me that sad look again,” he said, snapping pictures from across our table. I began to grin, snapping out of my pity party with each click of the camera until eventually, I was smiling in the sunlight and releasing some of the pain from the last year.

A fresh start awaited, whatever that looked like was still a mystery. On our ride back to Portland, I got a call from a California number that I did not recognize. Were the circumstances different, I likely would not have taken it, but something told me to answer and thank God I did.

It was Daniel, my friend from the Florida political circuit. His story had changed quite significantly since we last saw each other. His passion had not.

“John, let me show you the border,” he said.


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Categories : Oregon, Relationships

Happy Birthday, John

18 10 2019

I write this on the eve of my 47th birthday.

Glad to be here.

It’s raining in the autumn in Oregon. We’re in the state’s interior for a few days. High desert country in the fertile Cascade Mountain range.

It’s a needed respite from city life.

Central Oregon features interesting buttes, forests, calderas and caves. There’s also powerful flowing rivers and breaktaking mountain top lakes all in a day’s journey. David found a condominium for rent on Airbnb in the Sunriver community. Sunriver — in a way — reminded me of Baypoint and the St. Joe Company developments in Northwest Florida.

The accomodations, however, would not be the highlight of this trip. No, this trip was more about to determine if David and I could travel together after such a harrowing crash in the Rogue river valley. Could we make the three-and-half hours drive from Portland and back safely and without incident or argument? This was the test.

I took the wheel leaving Portland. Going over Mt. Hood brought back memories for David as he shared stories of Timberline Lodge, Government Camp and Skibowl. We stopped at a roadside diner on the Warm Springs Reservation where respect was given and we were served an excellent breakfast. The Confederated Tribes’ fried bread was delicous.

After breakfast we crossed the Deschutes River and passed through Madras where we were surprised to find a major airport. The Central Oregon area is definitely growing in population and business. We ate dinner in Bend at a tavern along the Deschutes’ flowing waters. Temperatures were dropping. It was getting colder.

Crater Lake

The next morning we made our way to Crater Lake. The park was open but most of the offices and concessionaire operations had closed for the season. It was still an exciting visit as temperatures dropped below freezing and wind gusts picked up considerably. Just getting out of the car to snap a few pictures along the lake’s rim was a daunting task.

And fun. We were indeed lucky to traverse the east rim drive this time of year. The road provides access to those hiking Mount Scott (8,929 ft.), the park’s highest peek. Crater Lake is a beautiful example of nature’s fury. Almost eight thousand years ago Mount Mazama erupted. The volcanic mountain became the volcanic lake before us.

Coming to Crater Lake was an emotional roller coaster, the least of which being David’s driving. This was a park I had hoped to work for but the lodging concessaire went with another candidate. That stung. We got over it and moved to Portland where we find ourselves in year two. The challenges have been great and, for that, I remain grateful and cautiously optimistic.

I am learning and growing and, God willing, developing mature critical thinking skills.

On our last night in Central Oregon we went to the Pine Tavern in Bend for happy hour. We had hiked the upper Deschutes River trail eariler and visited the ski lodge at Mount Bachelor. It was quite cold that day with snow on the ground. The joy of traveling kicked in that night in the tavern.

There we were — finishing another great outdoors excursion in a cheersy bar surrounded by happy people.

Nice way to celebrate another year in the life.

 


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Staring Into The Abyss

25 11 2016

This has not been an easy blog entry. There is a internal struggle with protecting reputations and yet remaining true to the reality of where life takes us.

From surrender I reflect on weakness careened into heartbreak. Affairs are not in order.

This is the story of Geraldo.

We met in Orlando in the summer a long time ago. We had shared friends but were moving in different directions on life’s ladder. I was instantly captured by his charm, smile and a self-assured stride. We were attending a conference together and at the hotel’s pool is where our paths crossed. He practically stripped down right in front of me. I remember those hairy legs like it was yesterday.

“You are adorable,” I said.

“Thanks,” he replied and with a wink he was into the pool.

Now, I must admit, I did pursue Geraldo. I found his swagger fascinating. It was thuggish.

Tragedy

Mask of Tragedy, State of Melopomene, Louvre Museum, Paris.

He was a bad boy without a doubt. The conference we were attending was billed as a “mature man’s group” and Geraldo and I were clearly the young Turks of the batch.

He came with a photographer. Yes, he was that hot, but he also traveled with quite a bit of baggage both physical and emotional. Those scars made him even more appealing to me.

It’s hard to say who corrupted who that weekend. We indulged in more than a few vices and trashed the hotel room in carnal sin. After consummating the affair, Geraldo, rather matter of factly, proclaimed, “don’t expect that again.”

But I wanted it again and followed him to South Florida. It should be noted that everybody close to me and him warned me to stay away. Even his photographer friend admitted Geraldo was a total wreck. These disclosures, however, only intensified my pursuit.

Along the way, it was Geraldo who introduced me to “The Program.”

“I like doing drugs and I’m not going to stop,” he said, on my first visit to his inner sanctuary.

No reply was needed. He could see the reaction in my face.

“Am I disappointing you?,” he asked.

We had amazing sex again that night. We would be intimate three times in total before life’s circumstances pulled us apart.

Our last journey together was in Miami Beach, where I was sent on assignment by a French magazine to write of the historic art deco hotels. I took Geraldo along thinking it would be fun. He proceeded to get so hopped on drugs the embarrassment was too much to handle. I cut the visit short and have not spent quality time with Geraldo since.

I did, however, enter into therapy to discuss this infatuation and what triggered it.

Geraldo, you see, had it all at one point (caring partner, home, career and financial security) and I did not understand how he could have fallen so far.

Perhaps it was a hero complex kicking in thinking I could make a difference. Perhaps it was a spiritual and physical connection too strong to break.

Or perhaps I was staring into the abyss.

“He who fights with monsters should be careful lest he theraby become a monster. And if thou gaze into an abyss, the abyss will also gaze into thee.” … Freidrich Nietzsche.

 


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Married To Words

5 06 2016

In Key West on a Saturday night in late May. Steamy conditions. I write this post as a married man, embarking on a new and uncharted chapter in my life.

David and I are in this for the long haul. After eight years together, I feel there is nothing that could drive us apart and I do not see a situation that would produce demands for divorce. I wonder if Ernest Hemingway ever felt this way?

Hemingway is Key West legend and I have long been a big fan. I read “A Moveable Feast” during my bitter summer of 2009 and became smitten with his punchy, descriptive style. At a time when I needed simple and direct answers, Hemingway was just the remedy. A war correspondent, cat herder, best selling author and the mulitiple marrying type. That was Hemingway. As the docent giving a tour of his home in Key West correctly noted, Hemingway was proficent in the art of romance — albeit often times conflict based.

David and I married after a long conflict in American society. Last summer’s Supreme Court ruling allowed for our union. In South Florida, we had no trouble finding willing parties and public servants to help. I requested a small, private ceremony and David requested the site — a church in Fort Lauderdale that he has been attending. He started going to the church when I was working in Glacier. That was the summer he demonstrated an unyielding commitment to our relationship. That was when I understood loyalty.

Back in Key West, honeymooning like an old married couple, we stayed at a lovely hotel full of lush tropical gardens and first rate accomodations. Much better than that dreary econo-lodge a longside the interstate highway we stayed in our first Christmas together in Birmingham, Alabama. It snowed that year as I recall.

There would be no such coldness in the Keys. We were fortunate enough to secure seats on the ferry to Dry Tortugas. I had no idea it would be difficult, but with the help of a few local channels we got onboard and sailed away into the Gulf of Mexico. The coral reefs of the Dry Tortugas are, simply put, spectacular. Fort Jefferson is quite a site to take in as well. As the old story goes, if we were stranded on a deserted island, what book would you bring? Perhaps this is a question for the park’s gift shop manager.

Meanwhile, summer has begun. Florida for another year so it seems. The general election will soon be starting.

Will it be “The Sun Also Rises” story or “The Old Man and the Sea” ??

Fort Jefferson NP

Fort Jefferson NP


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