Ruined?

21 12 2009

If anything, tonight James Cameron taught me to see.

Here I am less than an hour removed from watching the director’s latest cinema masterpiece and I am propelled to write.

Now where did we leave off.

Ah yes, the next leg of the trip was Amarillo to Durango through the heart of New Mexico.

Jim was making great time as usual. We sped through Albuquerque, gased up on the city’s outskirts and stopped for lunch at a diner about an hour northwest in a tiny truck stop called Cuba.

I had a cheeseburger and Jim ordered eggs and sausage. The natives were friendly and I began to notice the blending of cultures. We were not in Dallas anymore. Our white skin made us the minority here.

Jim had planned for a small detour on our way to Durango — Chaco Culture National Historic Park — and it was well off the beaten path.

Jim was determined to see the ruins. Leaving pavement behind, the car rattled and the shocks were put to the test as we motored into Chaco country.

Since he had attained “Golden” status, admission to the park was free for Jim. Perks of senior citizenship in the US of A. Generously, he paid for my entry.

“I’ll get a picture of you in front of the ruins,” Jim said. “We can call it ‘Ruined.'”

This was a surprisingly remark, one that hit it’s target, however playfully intended. Did he really think I was ‘ruined,’ I wondered. Better yet, was he right?

In the past, I had always had some element of control on my adventures. Always had the means to make it alone — on the mean streets of New York, London’s Underground or the hedonism of West Hollywood.

When I was riding high career-wise, I could even manage to bring along a friend or lover. It wasn’t too long ago, Warren and I had traveled to Chicago, in part so I could attend the National Lesbian & Gay Journalists Association Covention.

Yes, in 2005, I was a panel speaker at the convention. Four years later, I was ‘ruined’ riding along with Jim.

We took some pictures in the park. It was cold and the wind a tad unforgiving. We listened briefly to the ranger give a guided tour and hopped back in the Murano. Jim was ready to get to Durango and he didn’t want to have to drive through a snowstorm to get there.

The temperature was indeed dropping as we climbed in elevation. My ears began to pop. Amazingly, the I-phone rarely lost service. But, just when I thought I had the gadget figured out, Jim would call my attention to the landscape and, nine times out of 10, it was awe-inspiring.

Durango was a tourist town, nestled in the southwestern Colorado rockies. We were arriving during off-season, most of the families had long returned to the rat race. It was just the way Jim liked it.

And he had a point. As precious as children can be, sometimes it can be more work than vacation.

And we were on vacation….rising from the Ruins.


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Tumbling through Amarillo

17 12 2009

The drive to Amarillo was boring, a scenary consisting of flat lands dotted with oil rigs and cattle ranches.

We got to the motel — another Holiday Inn undergoing remodeling — early and Jim recommended going down to the train yard to watch the choo-choos. He drove us right down next to the track and together we marveled at the sheer volume of freight ramblin’ by.

Earlier, during the drive, I had caught my first glimpse of a tumbleweed. It was a vision fitting of Amarillo, a cow town if ever there was one. I got the impression, things tended to tumble through this place a lot — Trains, travelers and livestock.

For the life of me, I couldn’t see anything sticking around here very long. It had an air similar to that of Monroe, minus trees.

We had dinner at a Mexican restaurant which was packed with families still enjoying the holiday weekend. Jim walked right through the crowded lobby and into an even busier bar.

Despite this mass of humanity, Jim managed to catch a young waitresses’ eye and we had our drinks quicker than I would have predicted. Almost as if it were clockwork, two seats at the bar opened up and we promptly plopped down and ordered food.

Behind me some young WASPs were discussing real estate prices and stock options. It was almost nauseating to listen to, but I had no choice considering our close confinements. Jim didn’t have to worry about overhearing young yuppie talk. His hearing was fading and I had to repeat myself a lot.

Several times we would exchange seats so that I was positioned on his right side. This, Jim said, was his good ear.

To my right at the bar was a hungry young fellow with a black eye and a lot of tattoos on his arms. He was friendly, but not overly chatty. I told him Panama City Beach had some of very fine tattoo artists and he wished us luck in Vegas. I didn’t ask about his black eye and Jim never acknowledged his existence.

After dinner, we headed downtown to check out the bar scene. The first stop, a dive called Sassy’s, catered to the lesbian crowd. We had one beer there and walked down the street to another bar where the scene shifted to a more nightclub feel.

With another long drive ahead of us, Jim advised heading back to the hotel after one drink. I agreed. Jim never insisted that I leave any of the bars when he did and he often told tales of how Gabe would venture out on his own late at night, only to turn up at the hotel just before it was time to head out.

“I really wanted to leave his ass a lot of times,” Jim said.

As it has been noted, Gabe knew how to work a pool table. He would meet people there, win drinks and usually a ride home.

I was too old for that act and my finances left little room for error. So when Jim was ready, even as the club in Amarillo was starting to show some signs of life, I followed.

“The trip really starts tomorrow,” Jim said on the ride back to the hotel.

And he was right. My eyes were in store for scenes I had only dreamed of before. Tumbleweeds were just the beginning.

We left before dawn, conjuring up a famous country song…. Amarillo By Morning. Jim punched in the data and our drive to Colorado was underway.

“You haven’t seen nothing yet,” he said.


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Categories : Texas, Travel

Thankful for Dillan

15 12 2009

For Texas, Dallas is that shining city on the hill.

A bold tribute to the Lone Star State’s success in many ways. The city’s sky line is a view to behold and it’s diverse population likes to consider itself a “cut above” that of Houston, Atlanta and most certainly New Orleans.

My brother has called Dallas home for quite some time now. When Jim and I pulled into town, I gave him a call.

We had not been on the best of terms of late and I had come to regret this a great deal.

Younger by a good four years, Keith had matured faster into manhood. He was married and the father of a beautiful baby girl. Courtney, his wife, had recently landed a nice paying job as a public school teacher and the family of three lived in a condominium complex in the Dallas suburbs.

Miss Dillan Kate

My niece

On Thanksgiving Day, Keith and Courtney brought the baby by the hotel where Jim and I were bunking for the night. Jim’s schedule did not allow for much family time on the first stop through Dallas. I would have more time to visit on the way back.

Still, I really wanted to see my niece and Keith graciously accommodated this request. She was walking now and eager to explore.

They named her Dillan Kate, a nod to our Scots-Irish heritage. She was more than a handful these days, rambling around the lobby of the Crowne Plaza, pacifier firmly in place, seeking out stairs to climb and rooms to roam.

I introduced Keith and Courtney to Jim and after a few pleasantries, the old engineer retired upstairs to finish watching the Cowboys game. Jim wasn’t too keen on toddlers.

I, however, couldn’t keep my eyes off Dillan. Her eyes…that face, it jogged my memory something fierce. I had seen that tender look before, decades ago in Central Florida. It was hard to believe my little brother was now a daddy.

I was proud for them.

That night, Jim and I visited the Oak Lawn neighborhood in Downtown Dallas where we had dinner and drinks.

Jim explained that this was the more affluent section of town and we would have no problem striking up conversation at the local watering hole, appropriately enough, called “J.R.’s.”

I really wanted to be with Keith, Courtney and Dillan, but that wasn’t part of the deal. I think they understood, at the very least, I hoped they did.

At J.R.’s, a large Hispanic fellow tried to pick me up. Jim offered little support. Fortunately, I was able to politely deflect his advances and eventually the man left.

“Jim!,” I said intently. “You gotta be a better wing-man!!”

“He wasn’t my type,” he replied.

Later, another man approached us. He was a stout guy, in his early 40s I’d say and very clean cut.

The man bought us three rounds of beer and come to find out he was a military contractor just back from Iraq. Having served his time in the Army, Jim was much more engaged in this conversation.

With a long drive to Amarillo ahead of us, we called it a night early, thanked our newfound contractor friend for the drinks and headed back to the Crowne Plaza.

It was a Thanksgiving with no family around a dinner table. No dad carving turkey. No mom making dressing in the kitchen. No relatives bemoaning the ills of the country.

But the Cowboys were still playing football and I had just seen the next generation of McDonalds.

Much to be thankful for.


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Hats off in Monroe

9 12 2009

The bartender at the Holiday Inn in Monroe was a woman with hair so red thoughts of Reba McEntire came dancing into my head.

Jim ordered us a couple of beers as I walked around the empty, darkened lounge. Football jerseys of past stars were framed on the walls. Most of the names I did not recognize, with the exception of an old Packers jersey, once worn by the great Brett Favre — Southern Mississippi’s favorite son.

It was the night before Thanksgiving and the lounge was dead. Reba bemoaned the local economy, serving quick notice that there would be no “2-for-1” specials on her watch.

This was no happy hour.

Reba said drugs were ruining Monroe and gambling was sucking the life out of the city.

Depressing stuff.

Before sinking deeper into Monroe’s sorrows, we left the lounge and headed into town for dinner at a nice riverfront establishment. Built on the banks of the Ouachita River, Warehouse No. 1 Restaurant came highly recommended.

There was valet parking out front, but Jim opted to handle that himself.

Once inside, we were greeted by the instant smell of cedar.

“Let’s eat at the bar,” Jim said.

This would become another signature of the trip. Eating at a restaurant bar was a somewhat foreign concept to me, but as Jim pointed out, “you get the best service when you eat at the bar.”

I ordered a steak filet medium well and they burned it pretty good. My beverage of choice, sweet tea, seemed to irk Jim and the young bartender, a burly fellow from Pittsburgh.

“I gotta pace myself,” I told Jim. The days ahead would provide ample drinking opportunities and I had to wade into those waters carefully. After all, my college years were well behind me.

Jim, however, drank like a fish. After dinner, he insisted we return to the hotel bar for another round. Reba was still there, as peppy as ever.

Jim tried to lift her spirits by promoting Panama City Beach as a prosperous place to relocate. He praised the emerging Pier Park development and told Reba if she wanted to make some serious cash in the service industry, PCB’s Margaritaville was the way to go.

That night, I had to help Jim back to the room. One too many rounds had made his walk a little wobbly.

Back at the room, Jim had a surprise in store for me.

“You’ve never seen me without my hair, have you?,” he said.

Jim proceeded to tell me about how he began to lose his hair at a young age. This was a huge confession on his part and I nodded understandably at every word.

He took off his silver-colored wig and went to bed — with the TV on, as was his custom, and the volume cranked up.

I had known Jim for more than seven years and always knew that he wore a wig, but seeing him without it was a shock to my system.

It made me focus more on his eyes.

His vanity made him appear more real.

Just one day into our trip together, Jim had revealed so much.

I wondered if I was doing the same.


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Categories : Humility, Louisiana, Restaurants

Engineering a Road Trip

8 12 2009

Jim picked me up at half past eight on a Wednesday morning. As I would come to find out — Jim was a stickler for schedule.

“You’re going to learn all about engineering on this trip,” he said before setting his in-car computer with the necessary coordinates.

We were driving to Las Vegas and back from Panama City Beach and, yes, there was a daily itinerary.

The first leg of the trip was to Monroe, Louisiana, a place I had visited once before during my sports writing days. And much like its college football team, Monroe is quite depressing.

I was so ready to go that morning that, in the process of loading up the car, I forgot a very important piece of clothing….a heavy winter coat.

Thankfully, Jim came prepared with several coats and jackets. From leather to suede to material I can’t begin to name. Jim had it all covered. And as well he should, seeing how he had made this trip many, many times in the past.

Always at the same time of the year.

The Nissan Murano

Jim had most of what we would see already planned out. Reservations were made and dinner dates set.

My only request was that I see family in Dallas. It had been two long years since I last saw my brother…on his wedding day, in fact.

Keith was a father now. My how time flies.

On the way to Monroe, I tinkered with the I-phone, checking weather, stocks and Facebook. Social networking is a lifeline for so many these days, especially the country’s rising unemployed.

Jim wasn’t sold on Facebook. He scoffed at the idea of “strangers” knowing his daily activities. I found this somewhat amusing considering the fact Jim’s life was so planned out, you really didn’t need Facebook to know where he would be at any given time.

“John was a tappin’ and Gabe was a nappin’,” Jim liked to say.

This being a reference to the previous escort, Gabriel, who accompanied Jim out West last year.

Gabe, according to Jim, slept a good portion of the way. He was your classic hustler. A good looking boy with dark features that knew how to work a pool table.

While Gabe was a napping, John, the nerdy kid from Port St. Joe was a “tappin'” at his new I-phone, an “engenius” gadget that, however so cute, at any time could cause World War III.

John didn’t have Gabe’s stunning beauty, but he did keep up on current events.

At every layover from Florida to Nevada, Jim would have the television tuned to Fox News, a brodcast he felt was very “fair and balanced.”

We watched the news together and I tried hard to agree with Jim, although sometimes we had to “agree to disagree.”  Ultimately, each night we found common ground at that famous, and timeless, watering hole.

The hotel bar.


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Potato Making

22 11 2009

Last night I made mashed potatoes for the Church. Peeling those bad boys made me think about my first day in New York.

I had met two nice gentlemen at the Center. They were both retired, white guys living comfortably in Upper Manhattan. Sadly, I can’t recall their names.

Nevertheless, when one of the gents learned of my Irish descent, he proceeded to tell me about the “great potato famine.”

“That’s what brought the Irish here,” he said.

Potatoes in High Demand

Fast forward some 150 years and Panama City had not run out of potatoes, but I was in New York, strolling the streets with two old fogies and sharing stories.

We went to the Barnes & Noble store in Lincoln Center to hear a panel discussion on famous Broadway composers, presented by famous Broadway composers.

Famous, that is, if you follow Broadway composers. These guys did and when a score was played they hummed and rocked in their chairs.

The music, for the most part, went over my head, but I sat and listened and hoped to hear a familiar tune. I felt very uncultured.

After the panel was over we decided to have dinner at a nearby diner. Another fellow joined us, making our party a foursome.

It was a civil dinner. The gentlemen all seemed intrigued about my arrival in the City, but it was a story they had read, heard and witnessed many, many times before.

“It’s really hard for a writer to find work right now, you know,” one of the men told me.

I acknowledged this and assured him that I was up for the challenge. He seemed skeptical.

The four of us split the bill evenly that night and the three wise men went off to their comfy condos in the sky as I headed to meet Barry in Union Square.

Last night, as I peeled potatoes in the sink, thoughts about that night resurfaced.  I remember getting the phone number for the fellow who told me about the “great potato famine” and how I tried to call him a few weeks after our initial visit, only to receive a gruff response.

Why did he even give me his phone number in the first place?, I thought. New York is such a strange place.

Meanwhile, back in Panama City, the mashed potatoes went over big at Church this morning. Food for thought.


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Categories : Humility, New York, Restaurants

Ready to Ride Again

20 11 2009

Adventure awaits and preparation begins. We leave next week for the American West. There are still a few Ts to cross and Is to dot. Gonna need gloves, jackets, sweathers and such to brave the elements.

The desert, I’m told, gets quite chilly at night.

A cell phone is also on my wish list, thanks to an unfortunate incident with the washing machine.

Today, the Doc gave me the go-ahead. Test results were vastly improved compared to when I returned from New York. There was no doubt, I had pushed myself too hard in the City and it showed — on paper and in person.

Months of rest and rehab along the World’s Most Beautiful Beaches restored my strength and I am ready to ride again.

“Dallas is a great city,” the Doc said. “You’re going to love it.”

The Doc’s office is undergoing some renovations. They are replacing the tile flooring with linoleum.

“It will be easier to clean,” the nurse said as she took my blood pressure.

The Doc has a son in college who wants to be a journalist. And like all young writers, he has dreams of New York.

The Doc is going back to school too, studying business online through the University of Massachusetts.

“Education is the key,” Goede told me during our brunch this week. “You don’t need a job, John, you need a career.”

Goede urged me to take the necessary steps to return to college before leaving on my Westward journey.

“Don’t put this off,” he said.

So I called one of the counselors at the community college and left a message on her voice mail about scheduling an appointment.

The Doc advised computers as a career path.

“Data,” he termed it.

Computers have evolved a lot since those days of playing “Oregon Trail” on the Apple back in high school. Now there are things like “apps” and “widgets” and “html” to learn.

Before leaving the newspaper I was just getting a handle on the I-Mac, specifically video-making. Journalists these days must be well-rounded. You write a story, take pictures and shoot video, or else you don’t get hired.

Yesterday I visited the AT&T store to look at the new I-phones. Very impressive equipment. A device that can pretty much do it all — phone calls, text messaging, photography, video, internet, even Facebook — this I-phone appears to be a revolutionary product.

If I am blessed to carry an I-phone on this trip my education will begin in earnest. Tomorrow night, I will meet Mr. Smith for a few cocktails downtown. We’ll go over the itinerary one final time before departure.

I can’t wait to see little Miss Dillan.


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Dear Diary, The Republican Years

15 11 2009

When I was in college I was a Republican.

I reveal this now as some may wonder why I am about to embark on a cross-country road trip with the second coming of Barry Goldwater.

Yes, I know what it is like to be a Republican because, you see, I was a Republican.

As soon as I reached my 18th birthday, I went down to the Supervisor of Elections office and registered as a Republican. In those days, this was considered a stupid thing to do in Gulf County.

“You’ll never be able to vote,” my father fumed.

Gulf County was solidly Democratic at the time. Only a handful of Republicans existed and they were mainly transplants from the North.

All of the local elected officials were Democrats, but this didn’t bother me. The 80s were coming to a close. Reagan’s Revolution was progressing full steam ahead and I was a believer.

At Troy, I joined the College Republicans and worked on Fob James’ winning campaign for Governor of Alabama.

The ideals of limited government, family values and fiscal conservatism appealed to me then, although as a frat boy, I did little to advance them.

I was so vocal in right-wing ideology that fellow poly-sci students once waited outside of our government class just to greet me with a “Heil, mein Führer!” salute.

The first presidential election that I was eligible to vote in, I cast my ballot for George H.W. Bush. He lost, of course, to Bill Clinton, but that didn’t stop me from voting for Bob Dole the next time around.

Dole lost too, but by that time, I was beginning my career as a journalist. Soon, I would began to consider other thoughts, other ways of life and other people.

When I returned to Florida, years later, I would again visit the Supervisor of Elections office and register to vote. This time as a Democrat.

I am grateful that as a U.S. citizen, my government provides me with a food allowance during these difficult times. It took me 37 years to swallow my pride and apply for food stamps.

I don’t like being on food stamps, but I suppose, one must eat.

“It’s hard out there isn’t John?,” the lady asked as she reviewed my application for the government’s EBT program.

She knew the answer, but her tone was more along the lines of, “see I told you so.”

In these tough times, I am reminded that God has a plan for all of us. It’s called the circle of life.

Still, the question is, “When does one come full circle?” …. Am I close?

This trip out West with Mr. Smith will likely provide an answer, or at the very least, a conservative guess.

 


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Leaving New York

13 11 2009

I left New York after the Labor Day weekend. Barry was back teaching in Berkeley, Omar had moved to Iowa and Shaun was still collecting unemployment in Queens.

The summer in the City had taken its physical toll. All of the walking produced a realization that I am not 25 anymore.  Mentally, it was challenging as well. Shelter should never be taken for granted.

I have spent the last couple of months recovering from New York. Going to the Beach, riding my bike and writing. Old Man Winter will be here soon.

I have made plans to visit family in Texas. Life springs anew there. My brother is now a father. Dillan Kate McDonald celebrated her first birthday in August. Courtney, the proud mother, sent a photo of Dillan in my birthday card. She is beautiful. Blue eyes, golden hair and a smile that will warm the heart of the coldest journalist.

We will travel to Dallas via automobile. No Greyhound this time. Mr. Smith has taken care of the arrangements. He makes this trip every year. Without his help, I would not be able to see Dillan. New York broke me.

“That’s what they say about New York,” Omar told me. “It either welcomes you with open arms or chews you up and spits you out.”

New York did chew on my spirit pretty good. But now I must get back in the saddle and ride again. The lessons learned in the City will no doubt serve us well out West.

There are a couple of tasks that must be dealt with before the trip. Meetings with doctors and lawyers, of course, and brunch with Goede, my trusted director friend.

We have brunched for several years now and the meetings are always enlightening. Goede got a front row seat to my last flameout and, to his credit, has stuck around to help pick up the pieces.

He can be tough and brutally honest and many times I have regretted not following his advice more sincerely. Goede warned not to quit my job at the newspaper.

“There is a recession coming, John, some say we are already in it,” he advised.

Unfortunately, I did not listen.

Next week, Goede and I will meet before I leave for Texas. Through our e-mail communications, he has informed me that I have a few questions to answer and it is important that we brunch in an atmosphere conducive for listening.

This time I will be prepared.

 

 


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Back to the Drawing Board

11 11 2009

We interrupt ‘Reflections from New York’ for a nice dose of Good Ol’ Boyism.

Yes, I’ve been watching ‘Dallas’ re-runs again. They don’t make television programs like that anymore.

dallas

The Ewings

“Maybe it’s because when gearing up for a trip to Big D, one must get into character,” Barry said.

Of course, Barry does not venture into the American heartland, least we remember.

I, however, am so embracing this cross-country trek — destination Las Vegas. My travel partner is Barry’s polar opposite in perspective, but we’ll get into “Mr. Smith” a little later.

Back in Panama City, they are planning to move the airport. No easy task.

My buddy Jim loves to go to these “Airport Authority” meetings. I’ve tagged a long a few times and they can be pretty damn entertaining.

Contractors, lawyers, old fogies, slutty TV news reporters, these meetings usually have a wide variety of characters.  They’re held on the site of the out-going airport in Panama City proper.

The new airport is being built in the western zone of Bay County, much to the chagrin of quite a number of people. People who voted their concerns about the move in a winning ballot referendum.

But elections don’t count down here in Florida anyway.

So a new airport is being built and the “Authority” is handling operations. The “Authority” in its original form was a group of old white men, but not the native redneck type — those handled the on-site operations — but men of wealth and privilege who found Panama City on a map well before Joe Francis was ever a gleam in his “Girls Gone Wild” mama’s eye.

It’s fun to watch the blue jeaned contractors argue with the “Authority” over sod prices and grass growing. The lead contractor just so happens to be a NASCAR team owner, which makes matters more interesting, especially after a winning race weekend.

Damn, I miss NASCAR. Some of my best times as a journalist.

Nevertheless, at today’s “Authority” meeting, we learned about FBOs — Fixed Based Operators. The president of one of these firms told the “Authority” that this whole move was very poorly planned.

FBOs don’t like to have to dig up oil tanks and deal with the Department of Environmental Protection.

In other business, a name for this new airport was floated to the public. Something about Northwest Florida and Beaches.

Jim and I thought the name sucked and so did the car dealer and former Marine fighter pilot, both “Authority” members from Panama City.

New York has JFK, Houston has George Bush, Paris has Charles de Gaulle and Orange County has John Wayne.

Now, I realize that Panama City doesn’t have a superstar on that level — Yet — but I tend to agree with the Chevy dealer when he says Panama City has “brandable equity.”

Which brings us to the trip to Big D and beyond.

On this Westward trip with Mr. Smith, I am quite sure, we’re going to find out just what kind of “brandable equity” Panama City has earned.


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