Category Thirteen: The Random, Wayward Musings of an Unsigned Writer

New short story!!

2010-03-29T22:23:00.000-05:00

Posted another new short story this week.

Hit the jump to see it!

New Site -- More frequent posting guaranteed!

2010-03-28T20:37:00.009-05:00

I'm diverting my writing focus to a site that will solely be concentrated on... you guessed it: my writing. I'll still post random thoughts about just about everything else here, but new short stories and novel excerpts will be posted on my self-titled website:

http://josephmichaelowens.com/

Check it out and let me know what you think!

The New Sophisticates: A Novel -- Chapter 1

2010-03-19T16:06:00.012-05:00

The New Sophistcates: A Novel

Chapter 1

November 20^th

Friday, Omaha, NE, 6:07 P.M. CST

The television's volume in the condo's living room is set at an unnecessary level. The TV is a 60-inch, ultra-thin and ultra-high-definition Pioneer Elite KURO™ series.

Sawyer Deramore stands across the polished, travertine-tiled foyer, completely transfixed in front of the hall bathroom's vanity—absorbed, brow furrowed—carefully adjusting the triangular nexus of his silk Charvet Jacquard necktie. He's attempting to fashion a perfectly-symmetrical Windsor knot. Even the slightest hint at imperfection sends him back to square one with regard to the whole looping and knotting process. It keeps him focused.

Ashley Van Zandt chatters on her phone while positively luxuriating on the 100 x 39 x 39” sofa—a boutique, Stickley Santa Fe, upholstered in rich Craftsmen leather that perfectly complements the living room's size and highly-selective layout. She pays only the mildest attention to the unnecessarily loud TV, contrariwise to Sawyer, who's been standing in the hall-bathroom obsessing over his Windsor knot for close to ten minutes now, and can clearly hear every. single. word. of the History Channel's documentary on Illegal Drug Use in America. Sawyer, while doubtlessly wishing he couldn't hear the TV at all, says nothing remotely approaching contentious, despite the fact. And, of course, the irony of the documentary itself is by no means whatsoever lost on him.

Sawyer assesses his reflection, scrutinizes it. Considers his breathing and focuses abdominally. Slow, abdominal breathing can abort panic attacks, prevent them. Diaphragmatic breathing. Think about the tie. Don't think about the head. Six breaths per minute. A kinesthetic mantra he has been– and will continue– repeating.

The couple's 1,294 square-foot Riverfront condominium itself is ultra-modern—très contemporain—situated 10 floors up and east-facing toward Iowa's Loess Hills just across the Missouri River. The TV, as well as the über-posh furniture, sets a kind of refined visual precedent within the condo's walls, anchoring guest's attention to strategically-placed items across the floor plan. Here, it should probably be noted that there isn't a single, stick of IKEA© in sight, because—let's be honest—any type of furniture you have to partially (or completely) put together yourself is bullshit. And not that it would ever be socially decorous—but even if you for some reason did have a compulsion to do so, you probably couldn't spit anywhere inside the condo without hitting a distinct piece of recherché Stickley furniture: a Chelsea console table situated along one outer wall; a Metro bookcase along the other; an Eastwood chair, also upholstered in fine Craftsman leather, in the living room's corner, et cetera—the furniture essentially displayed as applied art.

The kitchen is, aesthetically, no less lavish; ornamented to the nines with assorted Apilco Très Grande porcelain dinnerware, a Wüsthof Ikon Blackwood 22-piece knife block-set, Italian Alton flatware and professional-grade, stainless-steel appliances that include a Wolf 48-inch Dual Fuel range (an item that very rarely sees much use based almost solely on account of the couple's predilection toward dining out), a GE Profile Advantium® Over-The-Range microwave, a gorgeous Bosch 24-inch Evolution® 800 Plus Series dishwasher, a $12,000 Subzero Pro 48 side-by-side refrigerator/freezer-combo to keep (what mostly amounts to Grade-A) leftovers chilled at the “perfect” temperature, all complimented by exquisite granite counter-tops and red oak cabinets from Kitchens by Design. It goes without saying that the cabinets' hardware is primarily all brushed-nickel. The bathrooms are custom by Waterworks—consulting and Ambit fixtures from the Chicago showroom.

“OK, babe, get this,” Ashley says, tossing her phone onto the Santa Fe, her small, but very pronounced voice in fierce competition with the TV's volume.

“.....” Cross the wide end over the narrow and bring it up through the loop.

“Babe?”

“.....” Turn the wide end and pass it through the loop.

“Sawyer?”

Slip the wide end through the knot in front and cinch. “Yeah?”

“Sawyer? Are you listening?”

“Yes,” Sawyer says, utterly deadpan, mostly to his reflection.

“OK, so get this,” Ashley starts.

Sawyer sort of half tunes in, half audits his facial features and overall mien. Neither eyelid is drooping. OK. Good. No redness. No tearing.

Yet...

No. Don't think like that.

“—I just talked to Meredith, and she says there are going to be representatives from both Watson and Dingbaum Land Companies at the gala tonight,” she says, barely containing her enthusiasm.

“OK,” Sawyer says.

“Um, babe? Watson and Dingbaum Land Cos. are only the largest two developers of industrial centers in Los Angeles County.”

“OK,” he says, neutral, “but we don't live in Los Angeles County. We live in Douglas County. In Omaha. Nebraska.”

“God, you're thick sometimes! They're not out here recruiting—well, maybe a little recruiting—they're out here looking at land to develop.”

“Wow,” he says, though unsure why he said it since he isn't exactly positive what she's getting at and whether or not wow is an appropriate response.

“It is! And I think I've got a really great packet that Meredith put together. She just left the office a little bit ago. This could be a huge contract to land!”

“Really? That's great babe.” And after he says so, he realizes it've probably been simpler to just pay closer attention in the first place, because now he's probably even more distracted than he'd've been otherwise.

“She'll be home soon so she said we can pick up the materials whenever before heading to the Qwest. We have to run by an ATM anyway, and Wells Fargo is right there by the Brandeis building.”

“How the hell can Meredith afford to live at the Brandeis while going to school and working as an office assistant? Some of those condos are over a half mil'.”

“Her parents, I think.”

“Oh,” he says, pausing. “That makes more sense.”

“And can I just say this out loud,” Ashley says out loud, finally realizing what she's been watching on the TV while simultaneously using a gold edge, bi-metal utility razor blade to parse a smallish pile of white powder into evenly-spaced rows atop the coffee table's black marble surface [a gorgeous (to those who like this sort of thing) Nuevo Roma—the condo's one non-Stickley-branded piece of furniture], employing the care and precision of a gifted surgeon. “Crystal meth is, like—so disgusting! I mean, yuck! Seriously, it's kind of white trashy.”

Sawyer ponders this for a moment.

“Yeah, it is pretty gross,” Sawyer says, once again trying not to think about anything other than abdominal breathing and whether or not his Windsor knot is perfect. Which it's not.

Don't get worked up. It's all good. Keep your cool.

“It is!” Ashley says, quite shrilly, to be perfectly-honest—her tone nearly approaching a squeal– or shriek-like pitch which causes a flitting, involuntary squinching on the left side of Sawyer's face which he finds kind of repulsive.

You keep making that face and it'll get stuck that way.

Sawyer smirks to himself and makes a mental note to avoid squinching up his face.

Loop. Cross. Pass. Cinch. Breath.

“So then what do you consider—ah—powdering your nose?” Sawyer says after a moment or two with just the slightest touch of sarcasm, his voice barely audible over the television. He's still standing in the bathroom and staring into the halogen-lit mirror, making micro adjustments to his tie, ever the reluctant perfectionist, though he's almost got it tied to his satisfaction.

OK. Everything seems normal, he thinks. Tonight might actually go off without a hitch.

“What—you mean coke?” she says, as if perhaps Sawyer might've simply misspoke. “I mean, not only is coke making a huge comeback—like, we're talking the fucking 1980s-type-comeback, they say—but, as far as drugs go, it's fucking classy!”

With that, Ashley undergoes what Sawyer considers her brief metamorphosis into a human-Dyson, cyclonically inhaling a perfect rail of Pablo Escobar, before—almost, like, gracefully— plunging herself into the plush, welcoming embrace of the exquisitely-upholstered Santa Fe, sort of as if she all of a sudden found herself captured in super-slow motion. Finally, after a few seconds once time resumes it normal 60-seconds-to-a-minute-pace she adds, “And I– must I remind you, Mr. Deramore— am one classy bitch!”

Then she begins laughing almost maniacally at her own witticism.

“Who's they?” Sawyer says, similarly inaudible as before, his tone nearly mechanical—only now with zero affect, no inflection whatsoever.

“What? Oh, I don't know—people, magazines—even the History Channel just said it a few minutes ago.”

Coke is still classy, huh? Sawyer mutters, almost absentmindedly and again futzing with his collar and tie, pondering the querulous relationship in which the two garments seem to engage. Being classy is paramount, Ashley always says. Always be classy. Always be sophisticated.

Always this. Always that. Always, always, always...

Whatever.

“Well, I suppose we certainly have moved up in the world,” Sawyer says after considering the ensemble of utter classiness and composure in the mirror. And by moving up in the world, he means the days of he and Ashley crushing up Adderall and No Doz tablets with a mortar and pestle and then snorting it through plastic, striped McDonald’s straws have, fortunately, passed.

“Which is really probably not such a bad thing, when you stop to think about it,” he adds. One shudders to think what some might say about using a plastic fast-food straw for delighting in the King's habit anyway.

Sawyer Deramore is 29-years-old. He stands 6'2, lean and well-muscled from a traditional sports background[1] and tonight he is, as always, impeccably-dressed for Ashley's big real estate gala. He's sporting smartly-pressed articles from the Hugo Boss Black collection, a Joris button-down shirt and Francis-2 pants and jacket, completed, of course, by the aforementioned silk Charvet Jacquard. He's been told many times that visually, he oozes success; though it's an axiom he fundamentally detests, perhaps in large part due to its ultimately icky-sounding nature.

And though quite successful, Sawyer is also much more than merely fortunate for having only just escaped certain financial catastrophe, i.e. escaping personally losing everything when the United States' economy went to shit in 2008 like so many investors had—I'm lucky as shit, he thinks—a fact that's, ineluctably, never far from his cogitation.

As the winter months approached in 2008, Sawyer quickly noticed that it was not just Americans, but people everywhere, who became understandably hesitant to invest their hard-earned wages in any capacity in the wake of such a global economic meltdown; and, perhaps more importantly, they became even more hesitant to invest their hard-given trust and faith in America's financial institutions. Sawyer Deramore, indubitably comprehends the magnitude all of this as well.

So perhaps it's not coincidental that Sawyer's prodigious, insatiable headaches started last year as well. Thus far, he's seen two separate physicians, received two separate prescriptions for narcotics-grade painkillers and heard more than a few potential diagnoses tossed around, afflictions such as: migraines, stress at work, caffeine, neck and/or back pain, improper chiropractic adjustments, illicit drug use that Sawyer would[2] neither confirm nor deny the probability of, a mystery concussion, stress at home, brain tumor(s)—none of which have seemed to be a perfect match for his symptoms. It'd actually been a physician with a vested personal interest in Sawyer's case who ultimately posited the so far best-fitting, yet utterly implausible-seeming diagnostic theory.

This particular physician, his childhood best-friend, Drew Whitaker—though mainly a research specialist in infectious- and terminal diseases—believes it's more likely than not that Sawyer is suffering from a rare, debilitating phenomenon known as “cluster headaches.” Cluster headache, however, is kind of a misnomer, as Drew has previously pointed out to Sawyer, since the affliction is actually some kind of complicated neurological disease that stems from an abnormal release of serotonin in the brain, from which excruciating unilateral headaches result. Research suggests they spawn the most intense pain human beings can possibly experience, even driving some previously rational people to suicide, earning them the nickname, “suicide headaches.”

Sawyer, however, has simply dubbed them, “The Head.” No one aside from Drew Whitaker, including Sawyer's internal medicine specialist (who is, of course, not Drew Whitaker), is certain that cluster headaches are a perfect fit for his (Sawyer's) diagnosis either since actual confirmed cluster headache diagnoses are so rare. In fact, they affect only 0.1 percent of the total population. In donning the whole 'concerned-friend cap' in lieu of his 'clinician's cap,' Drew has remained steadfast, undaunted in the face of the other doctors' irresolute professional opinions—determined to pursue his own hypothesis further.

Back in the condo's bathroom, Sawyer affords his mirrored reflection a capacious, intense degree of focus, staring fixedly into his own eyes, now carefully examining his pupils—evaluating their size, relative symmetry—willing his brain to ward off another excruciating inter-cranial attack. He thinks, almost believes, that if he just concentrates hard enough, sheer resolve and self control will prevent the malevolent, indescribable pain from returning—simple mind over matter.

But then his nose begins to bleed a little and doubt begins assailing his mantra.

He just needs to concentrate a bit harder he thinks to himself, that's all—mind over matter, mind over matter, mind over... There is an interrupting lull between television commercials, submerging the condo in a brief, but welcome, few moments of aphonic silence. Ashley again begins to laugh hysterically for no evident reason until another commercial returns at the exact previously-unnecessary volume and as if on cue, she stops laughing.

Sawyer holds his gaze, focusing on the mirror for a few moments more and his nose finally ceases bleeding—false alarm, he thinks, or rather, hopes.

He allows his mind to wander, but only just a little.

And so life presently finds Sawyer Deramore, an MBA graduate from the Columbia Business School at Columbia University in New York City,[3] still employed[4] as an altogether successful, well-liked, and seemingly well-adjusted, investment banker at the prominent and reputable Omaha-based investing firm, Bartleby, Barney, Barney and Co.,[5] and living with the girl of his dreams, his fiancée-as-of-two-months-ago, Ashley Van Zandt, who he'd met as a graduate student at Columbia Business School. Though perhaps, to be more accurate, postlapsarian life has found Sawyer Deramore a little worse for wear, unfortunately, with respect, of course, to the whole rather frequent sufferings of panic attacks, bloody noses and cluster headaches, of which the latter, obviously, proves the most disconcerting.

Ashley, however, is impossibly attractive, a fact not lost on anyone she meets and tonight she is wearing a simply stunning black Dolce & Gabbana Ruched stretch-satin sheath dress. She is 27, a Midwestern girl given an eye-opening taste of the Big Apple and then transplanted back to the Midwest but now with an ingrained and ineffaceable knowledge of a life she, thereafter, unquestionably felt compelled to live—tallish, blondish (for maximum appeal), 5'8 or 9 with long, slender legs and a runner's tightly-defined upper body; each abdominal muscle only just visible when she takes her shirt off, which is, consequently, to say nothing at all yet of her perfect breasts—perfect in overall size, shape, suppleness—she looks almost as if she's been painstakingly engineered for the sole purpose of incomparable and universal beauty; a fact Sawyer relishes, unabashedly, since Ashley has not once spent a single cent on plastic surgery.

“What's taking you so long?” Ashley shouts from the sofa, finally composing herself enough to focus effectively once again on stationary objects.

Sawyer realizes he's been spacing off for who knows how long; he's been completely—almost to the brink of unconsciousness—tuned out. He no longer even hears the TV but does realize that he's still, in fact, clutching a bloody Kleenex in his right hand which he promptly tosses in the toilet, flushing it down.

“Hey, not all of us can like roll out of bed each morning looking like we just stepped off the cover some magazine,” Sawyer calls back, quickly composing himself and wholly glad to no longer be ineffectually competing with the television's volume.

“Oh my god!” she says. “That was such a line!”

“Well, yeah, of course. I mean, I am hoping to get laid later tonight,” Sawyer says, mostly joking, of course knowing better, finally uncoupling himself from the mirror and flipping the bathroom light switch off before sauntering into the living room; all palpable traces of his narrowly-averted anxiety attack he's pushed way down deep to mostly indiscernible levels. “But, in all fairness, there still aren't too many people who can say that having work done would be, like, a downgrade, now can they?”

“Wow. I'm going to gag,” she says. “I mean, I'm flattered, babe. But honestly, sugary-sweet isn't one of your more believable sides.”

However, Sawyer knows he's not just “blowing” the proverbial “smoke” when he expresses such complimentary words to Ashley—at least not entirely. Having dinner at Wolfgang Puck's trendy Beverly Hills steakhouse, CUT,[6] during one of Sawyer's unfortunately not infrequent business trips (and on which Ashley joins him when/if her schedule permits), a wiry and vigorous-seeming man literally approached the couple while they ate—the man, supposedly a plastic surgeon who'd earned a great deal of notoriety—though of whom (not really coming as much of a surprise), Sawyer admittedly had never heard of.

And anyway, he (the plastic surgeon) made a deliberate and calculated point of altering his camber to arrive at their (Ashley and Sawyer's) table, specifically for the purpose of telling Ashley, quite candidly in fact, that he “is typically not in the business of telling people things like this, but—” and, it was here that he wanted to be certain that he was making himself unequivocally clear—that “there was absolutely nothing even he could do for her that would make her any more beautiful” (his earlier disclaimer presumably stemming from a desire to illustrate the money he would invariably lose by not performing tummy tucks, nose jobs and breast enhancement surgeries, thus, hopefully adding some intangible significance to his compliment), and then to Sawyer he more or less insubstantially said, “you are a very lucky man,” to which both of them (Ashley and Sawyer), more than a little embarrassed by this point, said, “thank you” and, unsure of what else to add, the discomposed and blushing couple resumed eating.

“What? I'm being serious,” Sawyer says, throwing both of his hands up in innocence, a gesture intended to dispel any notion of shenanigans Ashley might suspect — shenanigans such as, maybe or maybe not guiltily “buttering her up” in order to hide something she may view as more than simply innocuous (such as a bloody nose and overall feelings of weirdness on an, arguably, very important night for her; a night when they both should feel compelled to put their best foot forward).

“Sure, OK then, whatever. It's not like you have to try very hard either,” Ashley says playfully, her tone purposely affecting a touch of corniness.

And though Sawyer didn't exactly have to try very hard to make his wardrobe appear pristine, the same thing couldn't be said for how things looked with respect to his profession. As if the national-turned-global economic situation hadn't gotten bad enough in 2008 — i.e. the ubiquitous public uproar and brewing maelstrom of civic opprobrium following the comprehensive, or perhaps more accurately, teetering-on-the-verge-of-paralyzing media blitz that ultimately exposed the $65,000,000,000.00 (sixty-five-billion dollar) Bernie Madoff ponzi-scandal, of which bankrupted the portfolios of countless investors; portfolios that had, at one time, held investment shares that essentially ceased to exist once the money'd left investors' hands.

And then very same media outlets exposed the alleged—media outlets always use the term “alleged,” even in the face of concrete evidence[7]—the alleged use of private luxury jets to conduct various shady U.S. banking CEOs cross-country, using fuel most likely purchased with taxpayer-remunerated government bailout money (while, working-class citizens helplessly watched their retirement accounts tank in the face of near all-time high rates of unemployment) — these utterly gut-wrenching events were compounded yet again by a nightmarish and yet all-too-realistic scenario forecasting the inevitable collapse of the Once-Believed-Invincible American automotive industry. In fact, Americans could hardly be blamed for their newly-developed pessimism and ever-more cynical dispositions, especially where the United States' financial and banking systems were concerned.

So thus, in the wake of the whole devastating, widespread financial collapse that seemed to have, somehow, left him relatively unscathed; Sawyer Deramore knows that he was, above all else, lucky—very, very lucky. This, a fortuitous contingency he can only rationalize by the simple happenstance of his location, his job, and some combination of the two. And by his own admission, it's many times better to be lucky than good.

Sawyer's location, Omaha, Nebraska, the city where he was born and raised, is a westward-sprawling metropolitan area, home to just under 900,000 people, five Fortune 500 companies and the second (sometimes, first) richest man in the world. It was also one of only a handful of cities less affected by the national economic crisis of 2008—though of course, no city was totally unaffected. With all of the capital seemingly just floating around the city, Omaha presents a fantastic opportunity for the young and ambitious to get ahead.

But it's been during his time heading up the Investment Securities department at B.B.B. where Sawyer breathed a pretty significant sigh of relief in 2008 when his fantastically well-paying position did not turn up under the sharpened edge of the omnipresent budget-cutting axe, which materialized following an abrupt and decisive internal corporate restructuring—higher ups casually termed this event “reshuffling the deck.”

Corporate brass at Bartleby, Barney, Barney and Co. issued a press release—one Albus J. Bartleby requested himself be written almost entirely by Sawyer, himself—lickety-split—after shit hit the pecuniary fan in 2008, a document simply titled: “Committed. Capable. Competent.” It was an expeditiously-timed effort conceived to mollify a new, yet quite substantial, catalog of fears amassed by their investors—the press release itself stating that they (Bartleby, Barney, Barney and Co.) would not, under any circumstance, ever become yet another Fannie Mae, Freddie Mac, Lehman Brothers or Merrill Lynch — the primest examples of financial-juggernaut-clusterfuckups on a monumental scale, where company leaders emerged as virtuosos in- and of- misappropriation, disorganization and deceit.

“Sawyer?”

But for the most part, as Sawyer Deramore consequently surmised, Midwesterners turned out to be quite resilient and more trusting—much less jaded and cynical, overall.

“...Sawyer?...”

“Sawyer!”

The condo is, all of a sudden, snapped back into focus and Ashley is again sitting in front of him, snapping her fingers, looking somewhat concerned.

“Oh, yeah, what's up”

“You were spacing off there for a second.”

“Sorry about that.” He shakes his head but isn't sure why because he's never seen any empirical evidence that shaking one's head is a cure for mental cobwebs.

“So you want some?” Ashley gestures to an immaculate line of powder on the Nuevo. “It's really fucking good.”

“Not tonight. I'll pass,” he says, somewhat more abruptly than he meant to.

“Wow, really?” Ashley says, almost shocked.

But Sawyer is really only thinking about the unprovoked steam of blood flowing freely from his nasal cavity he'd only just managed to stopper up a few minutes ago. He briefly thinks about videos and pictures he's seen of coke addicts with holes dissolved in their septums—nasal perforation, it's called—due to El Padrino's very potent vasoconstricting properties. Horribly disfigured noses flash across his mind, their tissue no longer able to absorb the drug and thus, other areas begin becoming grossly affected.

He decides to change the subject.

“How do I look?” he says.

“Like you are maybe going to a Dolce & Gabbana shoot?” she says, feigning serious deliberation.”

“Please, babe, it's Hugo Boss,” Sawyer says, smirking.

“Whatever. Or then maybe like a guy who's just hoping to get laid.” Ashley smiles, flashing Sawyer her (as one would, of course, expect) naturally-perfect and brilliantly white teeth—teeth that appear painstakingly tucked in behind alluring and very kissable lips.

“Ha!” Sawyer says, trying unsuccessfully to stifle a flustered laugh.

“What was that?”

“What was what?”

“That, like, nervous laugh thing you just did.”

“That? Oh, nothing—a laugh. I was just laughing at what you said.”

Ashley shuffles her lithe weight and position on the sofa so she can get a better look at Sawyer; her demeanor becoming, overall, a touch more sober.

“Everything OK, babe? You seem, I don't know, a little uneasy tonight.”

“I always get a little uneasy when we go to these —ah — social — things of yours.”

“These social things are galas,” she says, “commercial real estate galas, which I've told you before. I mean, lots of high profile investors, brokers and even some potential clients will be there—and maybe even some developers. Lots of money. Lots of opportunities to get my name out there—well, more out there.” Ashley surveils Sawyer for any hint of apprehension.

“Yeah. It's just that, sometimes they just feel more like—I don't know—trite cocktail parties for vapid millionaires—like silly networking social hours; it's not what you know, but who you know, et cetera, et cetera.”

“OK, key word there being networking.”

“Key word being trite parties. I guess that's actually two key words,” Sawyer quips.

“Sawyer,” Ashley says, her face instantly affecting total seriousness, “you always have a good time once you get there.” She isn't smiling at all anymore.

“I know, I know. You're right. I do,” he lies. “Sometimes I just have to—I don't know—work up my excitement before we get there.” This part is true at least.

Ashley looks at her watch with an epiphanic expression; any signs of amassing irritation quickly dissolve like the first layer of an Ambien CR.

“Well then work it up, baby; and put your party pants on because it's already 6:30; we're gonna be late!”

“OK, OK. But I need a quick drink first, to— you know— take the edge off.”

Ashley is already rushing out the front door of the condo, her Balenciaga handbag in one hand, BlackBerry in the other, flitting off in the direction of the elevator with her coat over shoulder.

“Wait, where the hell are all the clean glasses?” Sawyer says, puzzled. “Ashley?”

But he realizes she's likely half-way to the car already.

* * *

Friday, Weston, MA, 7:34 P.M. EST (6:34 P.M. CST)

Somewhere in The 'Burbs

Matthew Scott Keohne sits alone at his writing desk, mildly contemplating the 500 page manuscript before him. He takes slow, thoughtful sips from his tumbler of Evan Williams Black Label. The manuscript is complete, but it's been sitting in the same spot on Matthew's desk for three solid months while a larger, far more complex task has required all of his attention.

Severe depression and other comorbid mental illnesses run deeply in Matthew's family. Both of his parents drank themselves to death, as did an uncle, three out of four grandparents, a brother and two nephews. Depressives in the Keohne family have always self-medicated with depressants.

Matthew struggles with an incredible sense of cognitive dissonance. He absolutely abhors how clichéd and stereotypical his life has become. Tortured writer, alcoholic, depressed, suicidally contemplative. The whole poor-me,-I'm-paralyzed-by-my-complete--and-utter-success schtick makes him nauseous. Not even the much-ballyhooed partially-reproduced chapter from his novel in Monday's The New Yorker ameliorates his queasiness.

Labels of “his generation's preeminent talent” and “probably the most important writer alive today” and the stresses inherent with said labels are not what weighs on him. It's that he can see no honest to goodness point in– or of– anything. What does it all mean when there simply isn't anything with meaning?

And so Matthew Scott Keohne has been plotting his suicide for three months. Filling notebooks with pages and pages of musings, notes and hypotheses for the most utilitarian way to extinguish his own candle without being remembered as an archetype, a “me too” tortured artist, driven to suicide.

Matthew has written copious notes about what not to do, mostly. No pills, alcohol, alcohol and pills together, no self-inflicted gunshot wounds to the head, no hanging, no exsanguination. And he also struggles with the apparent hypocrisy of putting so much energy into his own death, energy into how he'll be remembered when he believes that he believes that nothing has a purpose or a point—a somewhat reluctant nihilist.

And so this is the reason Matthew returns to his writing desk, day after day, for hours on end: to personally plot out his erasure from the present. Always with a tumbler of Evan Williams Black Label. Always with a pen and sketchbook and his 500 page ready-to-publish manuscript. It's only indecisiveness that has kept him attached to his small dot on the overall space-time continuum. Indecisiveness and an overwhelming fear of becoming a cliché.

So engrossed in his focus on the infinite abyss, Matthew does not even notice the footsteps of two men walking up from behind him. He turns around just in time to see two figures in white coats seize him by the shoulders and the almost imperceptible glint of a needle just before one of the men plunges into his carotid artery.

And this is it, he thinks. Death by mainlining. What's in the needle? Dilaudid? Heroin? Potassium-chloride? Drano? Is this going to hurt? An odd, unexpected sense of relief washes over Matthew as he realizes he'll no longer need to plan for– and agonize over– his permanent vacation from the ardors of mere existence. Someone has been kind enough to take the guesswork out of it for him. The lights begin to fade away and before disappearing completely, Matthew feels an almost nostalgic sensation he's been missing for a very, very long time—he feels happy.

* * *

[1] Which, in the Midwest, means lots of football & wrestling during the growing up process

[2] Though, to the doctors, he used the words “could neither confirm nor deny.....”

[3] Technically, Harlem, you know, to be specific

[4] Since 2006

[5] Henceforth, B.B.B. & Co.

[6] Had Sawyer chosen, they'd likely have gone to the less trendy, but arguably, better
Cal-Asian restaurant, Yamashiro or Mr. Chow.

[7] Ei incumbit probatio qui dicit, non qui negat — the burden of proof rests on who asserts,
not on who denies.

Musings from the Mountains

2009-10-16T09:45:00.005-05:00

I’ve never been to Colorado before. Technically, I’ve flown in to Denver International Airport two or three times but that doesn’t really count. Jenni and I are finally taking a sorely-needed vacation. Call it our one-year anniversary—slash—belated honeymoon. We decided to stay in Fort Collins. None of the trip is planned out yet; we’ve only got the vaguest idea of what we’d like to do while we’re there. I’ve always wanted to ride in the mountains, so after packing two suitcases with clothes, we throw our trunk-mounted rack on the back of my 2002 Nissan Maxima and load up our bikes. We also pack a cooler full of sodas on ice and bring a bag full of snacks: granola bars, dried fruit, potato chips, Fig Newtons and a few (always-popular) Oatmeal Creme Pies. The drive will take between seven and eight hours.

I’m a Nebraska native but I've never been further west within state borders than Lincoln—which is to say—not very far at all. I’ve only heard rumors of the vast expanse of wasteland that accounts for the other ninety percent of the state, an expansive nothingness that extends past the horizon on either side of Interstate 80. Today, I am finally going to live it, first hand, an experience I’m honestly dreading having never ridden in a car longer than five hours for any given stretch of time. Even then, five hours nearly felt as if it'd be the death of me. The problem is that I get extremely antsy. For longer trips, I’ve always flown to wherever I’m going.

***

The idea came to me as spur of the moment and “ah ha!-like” as ideas get. After visiting Estes Park (which is perhaps just a little too “touristy” for my liking) on our second day in Colorado and driving up the mountain road through Rocky Mountain National Park, I instantly knew it would be the first mountain I’d ever climb by bike—my epiphany. The scenery is simply breathtaking. The road weaves in and out of trees and rocks, serpentine-like, snaking its way up the side of the mountain. Elk and big horn sheep lazily graze by the roadside while traffic slows, children stare with inquisitive wonderment and onlookers snap innumerable photos. The ascending road is a living postcard. It captures the scenic panorama of my imagination as if it were placed there for my own discovery. It is, in my humble opinion, perfect.

Jenni drives me to the base of the mountain, just past the entrance where we’ve paid for a seven day pass. As I fasten the ratcheting clips on my cycling shoes and retrieve my bike from the trunk-mounted rack, I start doing a little math in my head. Omaha sits just at 1,060 feet above sea level. Even the steepest hills back home are only two to three hundred feet, at most. I’m starting my ride today at roughly 7,000 feet, ascending to 12,090 feet. My guess is that I will be pedaling for two or three hours—20.5 miles, uphill.

The air, even at the base of the mountain, feels noticeably thinner, becoming even more prominent the higher you climb. Signs are posted, warning visitors of the symptoms and dangers of altitude sickness: fatigue, dizziness, headache, nausea; typically occurring above 8,000 feet—be sure to drink plenty of fluids. Colorado is also nearly a mile closer to the sun, so a liberal application of SPF 35 sunscreen is compulsory—Coppertone Sport, nothing too fancy. After all, sunburn tends to put a damper on vacations very quickly.

I tightly fasten my helmet's nylon chin strap and clip into my matte-black, carbon fiber pedals, beginning my ascent toward the clouds. On this particular road, there is no room for a warm up; the grade begins rising immediately. My legs feel heavy and stale in the cool mountain air—my blood taking its time to circulate from my heart to my extremities. Higher altitudes force human beings to produce more red blood cells in order to better diffuse oxygen throughout their bodies. I hope the last two days at 7,000 feet have helped the acclimatization process. The going, however, is slow from the outset.

For the first twenty or thirty minutes of riding, my body stubbornly rejects the process—legs burning from lactic acid buildup, lungs desperately seeking more oxygen, each breath more labored than the last. I begin feeling a little dizzy and light-headed, similar to the first hour of an Ambien haze. I remember the altitude sickness signs and keep drinking, replacing lost electrolytes. I filled my two bottles with Gatorade to speed up the rehydration process. With legs on fire, I think of Lance Armstrong and the pedaling cadence he uses in the mountains of the Tour de France: easier gear, faster pedaling.

A faster cadence with lowered resistance forces the body to rely more on the cardiovascular system rather than the leg muscles, which fatigue much faster. If I’m going to make it to the top—without stopping—I’m going to need to keep my legs as fresh as possible. However, at least right now, neither my legs nor my lungs feel fresh whatsoever.

Yet after the initial twenty to thirty minutes, my blood vessels begin to open and my lungs don’t burn quite so much. My body is adapting to the mountain even as I ride. One pedal stroke then another; the gradient increases to more than ten percent, fifteen percent, yet I’m able to ride more comfortably than I had been before. My only goal is simple: do not stop. I keep pedaling because I don’t know any better. The terrain changes from thick, wooded pine forest, to sheer, rocky precipice and back again. Riding only becomes precarious when motorists—perhaps not coincidentally, those unused to mountain driving—pass on my left, unnervingly close; the sole buffer I have from a sheer fifty-foot drop to my right is a thinly-painted white line. Guard rails materialize ahead only when the road twists sharply to the left or the right.

I keep climbing.

There is nothing here to distract me from the mountain and my singular purpose of climbing it. There is no thesis here. No sickness. No heart attacks. No anxiety or insomnia. No obligations. There is only me, my bike and a mountain road.

The air gets colder as it gets thinner. Clouds begin rolling in and flecks of rain spit erratically against the carbonite lenses of my sunglasses. I soon realize I am not dressed appropriate for the higher altitudes of the mountain. Clad only in Lycra shorts and a short-sleeved racing-fit jersey, goose bumps draw my skin taut across my sinewy tissues. The hair on my arms stands up, follicles squeezed within my pores; erect hairs trap air to create a layer of insulation. In other words, it’s fucking cold.

A sign to the left notifies visitors that they’ve crossed the alpine line. I’m not sure what this means other than it’s now colder than twenty feet ago and the vegetation does not grow as densely. I’m also not sure how long I’ve been pedaling. The cyclo-computer on my bike that registers speed, distance and time stopped working after a battery change. I think it’s been ninety minutes, maybe more.

A car passes me, this time more carefully than those further down the mountain. A woman in the passenger seats yells something incomprehensible at me, adding an enthusiastic thumbs up! She might have said, “Way to go!” or “Finish it!” or “Keep going!” It could have been anything really. She possibly even said, “We think you are a stark, raving lunatic, but we appreciate and applaud your effort, nonetheless!” There is really no way to be sure. The air is too thin and I’m getting too tired to respond. I only summon up enough energy for a simple wave and return my hand to the comfort and security of my padded gel-taped handlebars.

Keep pedaling. Keep spinning.

Further up the road, another sign informs me that I’ve crossed into the tundra zone—a sparse and fragile ecosystem which takes years to revegetate. Visitors are encouraged to tread only on designated paths, not the grass. My only companions for a protracted stretch of this road are white, puffy cumulus clouds; my only reassurance is the pain I can still feel in my legs which are losing some sensation with each pedal stroke. It’s just like walking—one foot in front of the other—left, right, left, right… The rain is still only spitting—any colder and it would be drizzle.

I pedal past a group of sightseers overlooking the valley cast in a blanket of shadow, capricious rays of sunshine streaming to terra firma below. Most of them are bundled up in North Face wind breakers or Columbia fleece vests and, perhaps most crucially, long pants—snapping what I imagine are picturesque photos to show friends and family. Each one of them stares at me like I’ve arrived by spacecraft, their silent incredulity likely stemming from my inadequate choice of cold weather attire. I just nod, smile and keep pedaling. Disinterested in me, they return their attention to the valley below, drinking in the scenery through the lenses of their Canons, Leicas and Nikons.

It could be an illusion precipitated by the lack of direct sunlight in combination with the shade of my tinted lenses, but I’m pretty sure my skin is turning a bluish-purple from the cold. The wind is picking up and I start to wonder if my goal of reaching the summit without stopping will soon be in jeopardy. I start to wonder if I can even make it to the top at all. The spitting rain teeters on the verge of becoming a steady shower. I briefly debate whether it’s worse to be cold and damp or cold and wet.

I’m nearing the summit. Another sign lets me know that I’ve crossed the timber line. I’m now effectively too high up the mountain for trees to grow. The landscape mostly consists of earth, patchy grasses and rocks—boulders, more like. There is a famous climb in the Tour de France called Mount Ventoux, situated in the Provence region of southern France, located some twenty kilometers—12.5 miles—north-east of Carpentras, Vaucluse. While possibly not as high as the climb I currently ascend (if I recall correctly), the aesthetic backdrop is very much similar. Locals refer to the terrain nearing the peak of Ventoux as a huge, rocky “moonscape,” its spartan countenance sharing little in common with the rest of the lush, forested mountain below its timber line.

I've always thought moonscape was a fantastic word. Each pedal stroke propels me further into the atmosphere, a battle with gravity through essentially-barren surroundings, reserved for only the most inhospitable places. There is a purity and beauty in the nakedness of the mountain as there is a purity that comes with experiencing riding on the wheels of a bicycle. The air is thin and my lungs beg for more, not yet satisfied with what the mountain has provided, but something inside me keeps the pedals turning.

Further up the road, a sign indicates that I'm now 12,090 feet from sea level. I promised my cycling coach I'd take a picture of me standing next to my bike at the highest posted elevation on the climb. I'm pretty sure this is it. I coast to a stop and prop my bike up against the sign. Fortunately, a woman snapping photos with her husband offers to take my picture. I'd known on the way up it was getting chilly, but the biting cold didn't really register until I stopped pedaling. She takes two pictures and I tell her that's perfect! I realize it's more important to start pedaling again than agonizing over whether or not the pictures turn out well.

My trek by bike marks my third trip up the mountain in as many days. Thus, I'm nearly positive the Visitor's Center is just a switchback or two further up the road from where I'd just stopped. The clouds are darker now, thicker. The intermittent spritzing is becoming steadier and steadier. The descent into the Visitor's Center parking lot is fast. Pedaling my largest gear, I eclipse forty miles per hour with ease, approaching fifty. The wind whips at my face and tears—forced from their ducts by the velocity of the wind—begin streaming from the corners of my eyes, across my cheeks. I start losing my nerve amidst the wind and high speed and begin to squeeze the brakes, alternating evenly between front and back. At thirty miles per hour, I take my right hand off the handlebars to signal a right-turn and glide into the parking lot, coasting to the curb. I dismount my bike and slip the rear wheel into a bike rack just outside the Visitor's Center door.

A boy and his father walk past me on the way to their car.

“Aren't you cold?” the boy asks me, a perplexed look on his face.

“I wasn't,” I say. “But I am now.”

I retrieve my phone from my rear jersey pocket to check the time. The trip up the mountain took two hours and thirty two minutes with only one stop.

The only question remaining is how to get back down the mountain in the cold and rain while being dressed more appropriately for a ride in Arizona.

I decide no conclusion will be arrived at without coffee, so I venture into the Visitor's Center Gift Shop, clicking across the floor in my carbon fiber-soled shoes. I'm immediately greeted by a sign advertising “authentic Native American jewelry: made in the U.S.A.” It would have never occurred to me that authentic Native American jewelry would be made anywhere else before contemplating this sign's declaration.

On my way to finding a hot beverage, I make a quick detour to the Gift Shop's apparel section. I walk directly over to a hooded sweatshirt I'd been contemplating the day before and purchase it right away. I figure it can help warm me up now and keep me warm(ish?) on the fast, rainy descent.

People inside the Visitor's Center give me the same quizzical and amused glances as the onlookers on the road.

“How long'd it take you?” the coffee barista asks.

“I'm not too sure,” I say. “As near as I can guess, about two-and-a-half hours.”

“Not bad.”

“Thanks.”

“What can I get you?”

“Grande light roast, please.”

“Room for cream or sugar?”

“Nope, I need all the coffee I can get.”

I pay for my coffee and toss my change in the tip jar. As the feeling returns to my legs, I scan the cafe, searching for an empty table. Just as I sit down, a pair of couples approaches me.

“Tell me you got a ride up here and are getting ready to go down,” a woman says.

“No,” I say. “I'm not that smart. Rode up from Estes Park”

“Geez,” she says. I'm always telling my husband,” pointing at the man to her right, “that he's crazy for doing things like this—races, triathlons, mountain pass rides.”

“Sometimes she thinks I'm the only nut who does things like this,” her husband says.

“Yeah, my wife thinks I'm crazy too,” I say. “She was smart enough to go explore the mountain today in the car.”

I joke with the couples for a few more minutes. They wish me good luck on my ride back down. I thank them and finish my coffee. I munch on a chocolate chip granola bar I brought in my jersey pocket as well, taking my time before venturing back out into the elements again. Just as I finish my meager snack, I see a familiar face bobbing in and out of the crowds of shoppers.

“I kept wondering if I was going to see you on the way up,” Jenni says.

“Here I am,” I say, more than a little glad to see her.

“I started to get worried,” she says, smiling and relieved.

“No worries! I'm just that fast.”

“You want a ride back down?”

“Actually, yes. I don't think this hoodie was going to cut it,” I say, holding out the sweatshirt for her to see.

“Did you freeze?”

“Not until I stopped.”

Jenni decides to shop a little while I walk to the car to retrieve a change of clothes from the trunk. I wheel my bike over to the car and take the front wheel off and slide it into the back seat. I take my change of clothes to the public restroom—curiously located outside of the Visitor's Center—and get dressed. It's also nice to put on a comfy pair of sneakers rather than continuing to wear the restrictive, tight-fitting cycling shoes.

Jenni meets me at the car.

“You want to drive?” she says.

“Sure.”

I get in and move the seat back to accommodate my longer legs. I put the key in the ignition and crank the heat, just sitting with my frozen hands underneath me. The rain gently patters against the windshield. The old wiper blades leave streaks each time they sweep across the glass, making visibility barely better than if they were switched off.

It's hard to explain how I'm feeling right now.

It's likely thousands of people on bikes have climbed this exact mountain road. There's nothing particularly special about this particular route as far as cycling through mountains goes. However, like a first kiss, this was my first mountain and for that reason alone, I know it will always be memorable.

“I'm kind of proud of myself.”

That's all I say.

“I'm proud of your too, babe.”

I put the car in drive and pull through the parking space. I was really looking forward to the ride down but I'm glad the time I spent on the bike was on the way up.

There's always tomorrow.

Musings on "The Fear" and Writing...

2009-08-12T14:25:00.001-05:00

Hunter S. Thompson was a hero of mine. Not for his over-glorified drug use or borderline psychotic antics. No, he was a hero to me because he said “fuck you!” to convention and what people thought he should be doing. He was never scared to write what he wanted, how he wanted. Had he listened to the editors at Sports Illustrated and reworked his Mint 400 piece—or scrapped it altogether—we would (unacceptably) be left without Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.

However, he was also a very perceptive writer when it comes to the process. He often wrote about something he called “The Fear” which became nearly its own character in his work on many occasions. Masked as paranoia from substance abuse, “The Fear” seems to be much more than that. It is a crippling condition, for a writer especially. What happens to us when we can’t write? How many of us worry that, no matter how hard we work, we won’t “make it?” This effect is compounded especially by those who believe in us. Failure means we let them down as well.

Writing is hard but writing for writers can be agonizing. Going over sentences countless times to make sure the flow, tense, word choice and readability are all perfect is taxing. It’s a hefty emotional investment. Writing is not the same as making a grocery list. It’s empowering and vulnerable. Ninety percent of what comes out of our brains is scrapped and useless. We only keep a few gems in the piles and piles of rubble we churn out. But these few gems are what make it all worth it.

For me in particular, the most difficult hurdle to overcome in my own writing is getting started. I am the King of Negative Self Talk. What’s the point? It won’t be any good anyway. Shouldn’t I be doing something else? What’s for dinner? Fuck it. Sometimes getting started is painful. Once the pen starts moving—the keys start clicking—I’ll often consider my contemporaries, mentors and predecessors. And it causes me anxiety. Knowing how good work is that other people have done sometimes fills me with a sense of hopelessness before I even finish a single paragraph. Harold Bloom called this phenomenon “The Anxiety of Influence.” We either overcome the shadow of our forbears or become second-rate imitators. But no pressure, right?

I’m calling it “The Fear.” I like that designation. Though perhaps Kierkegaard’s title is more appropriate: Fear and Trembling. Sometimes the anxiety can physically manifest itself. What do you want to be when you grow up? A writer. But what do you want to do for a real job? I want to vomit. Perhaps this is why I’ve tried every path conceivable to prepare for a “real job” to support my guilt-ridden fantasy of writing professionally—full time. What will you do for benefits? What if you fail? What if you never sell a single piece? Sometimes the voice asking these questions is loudest from my own mouth.

I could be a psychologist. No, there’d be no time to write. Where’s the creativity? I could be a journalist. No, the format is too strict. Too many rules. I could be an English teacher. No. Professor? Maybe, but when would you write? Try your hand at grad school? Mmm, okay, that sounds like a good compromise. How about some research? Fuck, I hate that. So Journalism was a bust, how about English? I don’t care much for Rhetoric, besides, when will I write? Try Literature then. Wow, I like to read, but Jesus Christ! Ok, well that’s two programs down, what now? I figured you knew. Fuck if I know! Well that puts us back to Creative Writing. What, like a PhD? Likely can’t get in. MFA? …

And so it begins...

2009-07-14T10:03:00.002-05:00

"Gentlemen, we can rebuild him. We have the technology. We have the capability to build the world's first bionic man. Joe Owens will be that man. Better than he was before. Better, stronger, faster."

The race season is over (and I actually couldn't be happier).
It was an abysmal comeback year but I learned a lot. A whole helluva lot. I identified my weaknesses as a rider and as a racer. (Aside from avoiding sickness). It's time to get back to brass tacks.

My coach and I are looking at sprinkling in strength/resistance training and a dash of plyometrics with an increase in base endurance training and an assortment of other training goodies to my workout plan. On paper, this should bode well for me. Plyometrics are essentially exercises focused on increasing explosive power. For the lower body, it includes a lot of jumping. I think that is a good thing since I could dunk a basketball when I was in the 10th grade and only 5'11. (Did I mention that I'm white?)

I'm planning to use the Ames Roller Race in February to gauge my explosiveness and shorter term sustainable power. It's simply 2 miles, all out, as hard as you can go. I'm not only planning on breaking the 6 minute mark; I'm aiming to obliterate it. The closer to 5:30, the better. We'll have to wait and see.

I saw flashes and brief glimpses of form this year. Such as a 1,320 watt sprint and several Functional Threshold Power (the maximum amount of power you can sustain for an hour), or"FTP" tests putting me squarely in the middle of the Cat 4 range. Which is good, since it is no coincidence that is the category in which I race.

My limiters this year greatly impacted my racing. Instead of giving it up altogether, I've recommitted myself to my goals. With the right coaching and copious amounts of determination, I will be better than I was before. Better, stronger, faster.

Sound of Music

2009-07-01T09:33:00.003-05:00

Some people who read this blog know that I've produced basement electronic music for the past ten years. I've dabbled off and on with various computer recording software, hardware instruments, drum machines, groove boxes and synthesizers. Ultimately, funding for other hobbies compels me to sell a little equipment here and there until finally, all I've got left is a small keyboard midi controller, a Technics SL1200 turntable and my MacBook Pro running Apple Logic Studio 8.

And I couldn't be happier.

Reviews for the Logic software can be found online, so I'll spare the details. What I will say is that my Mac is now all the recording studio I need and more. There are so many different software instruments (drum machines, synthesizers, etc.), recording tools, loop libraries plus effects and signal processors, that I'll likely never even have a chance to use them all. I'm incredibly impressed!

I can also create nearly any genre of music I want. My buddy Slim likes slower, more rugged hip hop beats while I personally enjoy more trance-oriented soundscapes. Both are equally doable within Logic and neither sound like an afterthought added to the program.

I've also found it a lot easier to get my music online.

Recently, I've set up pages on last.fm and jukeboxalive.com.
Also, sites like TuneCore.com allow you to publish your music to online distribution sites like iTunes and AmazonMP3.com. I'm pretty sure it couldn't be any easier to get yourself out there.

Between racing my bike, starting my MFA and making music again, my calendar is pretty full. But that's the way I like it: better busy than bored. Maybe I can even make some money some day off my creativity... Stay tuned.

Random Cultural Observation for July 1st: Why is it that it seems the people who spend the most on anti-aging creams, plastic surgery and trendy diets are the ones who also spend hours upon hours a week lying in tanning beds, smoking and generally abusing their bodies in the name of "looking good?" Look, if you lived a life that makes you look rode hard and put away wet, just accept the fact that you lived the shit out of life and you've got the scars to prove it. The waxy, mannequin face is not a look that suits anyone, least of all, oven-roasted 49-year-old women with a bob, cigarette in one hand and cell phone in the other, walking into a department store to spend $300 on 2 oz. of wrinkle cream.

I'm just saying.

Thoughts as they come to me

2009-06-15T15:59:00.002-05:00

I decided last week that I was tired of being pack fodder and hired a cycling coach.
It was paramount that I work with someone who's as nuts about bikes, cycling, training and all that's related so I enlisted the services of a friend, George Vargas, founder of Epic Training Systems.

George's credentials as an ultra distance cyclist certainly precede him, but for anyone too lazy to click the link, here's the lowdown: he's finished the Furnace Creek 508 (as in 508 miles) three times solo, once on a fixed gear; completed the Race Across America in 2007, finished in the top 10 of the Trans Iowa 320 (when only 15 of the 52 starters even finished the grueling event) and done a number of brevets, centuries and double centuries. This guy knows how to pedal a bike and I'm confident he can show me a thing or two.

Next, it looks like my racing calendar is filling up. There are multiple weekends coming up chalk full of criteriums in which I'm considering participating. George and I will likely cherry pick the events that allow me the best opportunity to arrive at the starting line with the freshest possible legs. There's the Omaha Cycling weekend, two weekends of the Tour of Kansas City and the Tour of Lawrence. Sounds like a blast!

This past week was a good week on the bike for me. I set two personal bests which I haven't touched in 2 years. First, I spent 11.5 hrs. on the bike and that includes 2 days off out of 7. Second, I eclipsed the 200 mile mark in a single week for the first time in my life. Huzzah!!

Musings at the Races: the Newbie Cat 4 bike racer sees progress

2009-06-13T19:55:00.008-05:00

64 minutes and 54 seconds.
23.37 miles.
21.85 mph.

Had this post been written last summer and titled: "Musings of a Newbie Cat 5 bike racer," I'd be talking about my 4th place finish out of 15 in the Nebraska State Time Trial Championships today.
Alas, I've upgraded and must settle toward the bottom of my own category. Not last. But far from first.

But perhaps we should start from the beginning (of today).

Waking up the day of a race, one's first thought should never be, "Oh shit!"
The clock read 8:45 a.m. and the first riders took off at 9:30.

I quickly gathered what was left to be loaded into the car, devoured a granola bar and downed a half cup of coffee. By ten after 9:00, I was on the road, speeding toward Yutan, Nebraska.

Pulling into the parking area at 9:34, riders had already begun their race against the clock. I spot my teammate, Brandon, near the field house where registration was located.

"You better hurry, it might be too late," he says.

The lady at the table appeared to be just closing everything up as I jogged toward her table. She was very friendly and my tardiness in registering actually proved to be advantageous. I was slotted in dead last; the most coveted spot in time trialing.

You have a distinct psychological advantage going last. First off, you know what the pace is like from early finishers. It gives you a target to aim for. Secondly, there is no one starting after you who might catch you on the road and pass you. Demoralization is a kiss of death in bike racing. Because I was going last, I also had almost 40 minutes to warm up.

Coming in to this morning, I had a goal in mind of riding the 22 mile course in 65 minutes or less. As I'd find out later, not only did I achieve that goal, but the course turned out to be 1.37 miles longer than anticipated. Two birds; one stone.

While I was out on course, the very first thing I noticed was the wind was at my back, which meant I'd be heading directly into it during the 2nd half of the course. Nervous legs and adrenaline gave me a strong launch off the starting line and I knew early I needed to reel the effort in a little. Time trials are all about pacing.

I know that my threshold power is 261 watts, which is (or should be) the maximum amount of watts I can sustain for one solid hour. For just over the first 3 or 4 minutes, I was cruising along at just over 300 watts. This pace would surely fry my legs before the end of the race.

Working at just under threshold, you can maintain a good breathing rhythm without going into oxygen debt. My gearing combination proved to be somewhat finicky. I found myself going back and forth between two and wishing for one in the middle. I made it to the halfway checkpoint in 28 minutes and 41 seconds at 24.5 mph, a fairly blistering place for this newbie's legs.

However, I'd had the wind at my back for the first half and I knew the second half would be much tougher.

Immediately, my speed was scrubbed to just over 20 mph. The effort began to take its toll on my legs. Typically where I'd experience a burning in my lugs from going anaerobic, I was now feeling the lactic acid building up in my quadriceps and hamstrings. After making the 180 degree turn to head back, I spent more than a minute between 275 and 465 watts digging into the pedals to get back up to speed, a little too much above my threshold for my legs.

The burn was on.

For the next 10 minutes, I tried to ride inside my "sweet spot" zone which is 217 to 254 watts to try and ease the burn a little. I averaged 233. Every so often, I'd try to get back power back up to my threshold, but the combination of wind and my fast start was beginning to show in my effort. It began to prove more difficult simply riding in my sweet spot.

The other issue I'd forgotten about was the rollers toward the beginning of the course which were the only things standing between me and the finish. I tried different combinations of jumping out of the saddle to pedal and sitting in and grinding it out.

Before long I was rounding the last bend and trying to minimize whatever loss I might have accrued by this point as my speeds repeatedly dipped below 20 miles per hour. With the finishing cones in sight, I gave the pedals one last kick, eclipsing 300 watts and rolled across the line.

One hour, four minutes and fifty-four seconds. I'd beat my goal time by six seconds.

Only later when reviewing my power meter file did I realize I'd ridden an extra mile plus, making going inside my goal time even sweeter!

Having only been out of the Cat 5s for 3 races, I was eager to see where I'd place when their times were posted. It turns out I'd have been 4th. Not too bad considering the top 3 places were faster than the majority of the Cat 4 riders whose results would be posted next.

I had to search a little further down the page for my name on the 4s list. Third from the bottom to be exact. I'd beaten one person and tied with another, a teammate so I didn't feel too bad.

This Cat 4 newbie isn't there yet, but after today's effort, I don't think it will be long before he is... or, I am... whatever.

=)

Musings of a newbie Cat 4 bike racer: pt. 3 -- Balancing Act

2009-05-27T10:52:00.004-05:00

Sitting at my desk, iPod ear bud in one ear, nothing in the other so that I can hear the phone if it rings. Attempting to set up set up a CPR/First Aid class for next week for new employees and those in need of re-certification. Taking notes for a CPI training meeting at 5:30 pm and wondering how I'm going to make it to the Team Kaos group ride at 6:00. In the back of my mind lingers the presence of the ubiquitous MA thesis as the sand sifts through the hourglass representing the small amount of time remaining on my first semester graduate credits before they expire. Still need to finish the forms the MFA program I'm starting in July.

Life is a balancing act, a lesson I'm learning much too late in life to implement effectively.

The problem is that there are only 24 hours in a day and I'm forced to spend 7 of those asleep. Anything less and I may as well scrap any ambitions of racing my bike at any level remotely resembling competitive. I've also somehow managed to make time to watch the Giro d'Italia (Tour of Italy), much to the chagrin of the bosses. Or rather, it would be if they knew I was using work time.

This post is turning out to be somewhat of a visual reminder for me. I tend to forget things not written down. Back to the point.

It's likely clear that the two biggest priorities in my life (aside from my wife) are riding my bike and education. Regarding the former, it should be interesting to see if I can pull off a miracle to ride on time tonight. Based on last Saturday's ride, my confidence is growing.

We spent more than 3 hours on the road, a group of 30 or more riders. We rode through rain, wind and oppressing humidity and it was still a fantastic ride! Something I've noticed about myself, is that I seem to get stronger as the ride goes on. Riders on the front of the pack would test each other by sprinting for road signs. I watch this go on all day and reacted enough to stay in the mix.

Nearly 2.5 hours into the ride, I took a flyer off the front of the pack, just before a fairly steep (albeit short) climb. I hit the base of the hill with enough momentum to keep the pedals spinning comfortably at 100 (+ or -) rpms. I decided to leave the chain in a large gear and attempt to keep my cadence up to power through the climb. A quick glance over my shoulder revelealed the group reacted too late. As I approached the crest, I heard a teammate from 20 meters or so back yelling, "Go, go, go!" which gave me the one last kick I needed to come over the top of the hill... first.

This might not seem like a big deal, but from those who've ridden with me, they can tell you I am not a natural at going uphill on a bicycle. I slog through it. The effort took a lot out of me. It was the last match in my matchbook I had to burn. The next hill was about twice and long but half as steep. As it was, I only made it half way up with the leading group before I cracked. Rider after rider passed me on the ascent. However, I was strangely OK with it. I could officially say I won a sign sprint and after that, anything is really possible.

That's why I've been so looking forward to tonight's ride, which is faster and more intense than Saturday's. And also why I'm irritated about a 5:30 meeting 30 minutes before the group departs. With any luck, I can still catch them at the half way point. I'll drive a little ways into the route and ride until they pick me up. In theory that's how it will work, anyway.

The phone is ringing and my BlackBerry tells me I've got emails to check. No rest for the wicked or weary. Back to the grind and all that.

OK for now.

Musings of a newbie Cat 4 bike racer: pt. 2

2009-05-21T07:57:00.003-05:00

Most cycling fans know that this is the "year of the comeback." Making their returns to the pro and continental pelotons are Lance Armstrong, Floyd Landis and Ivan Basso. Expectations have been high and results have been mixed.

On a much smaller scale, this is also the year of my comeback, so to speak. Many of you know about my battle with pancreatitis last year, effectively sidelining me for 5 months (May through October). Getting back on the bike in November was like pressing the reset button on my fitness. The only thing to do was throw one leg over the top tube and turn the pedals over once again.

The going was rough initially. Twenty miles felt like fifty and my legs had no snap. For two months I spent just riding by feel and building miles. For Christmas, I got a DVD set for increasing my power on the bike. In February, I got even more serious and bought a power meter to gauge my fitness from workout to workout. The gains were quick. By March, I'd regained a good deal of the fitness I'd lost from being sick.

All the while I'd also been getting training advice from a friend (through cycling of course), Ultra Marathon cyclist and coach, George Vargas. His no nonsense approach was just what the Dr. ordered. The thing I like most about George is that he doesn't sugar-coat anything. He won't applaud you for doing a shitty job. (Shameless plug for George's blog.)

As the proverbial wheels of the season kept rolling, I also earned my Cat 4 upgrade after middle-packing it for three years in the Cat 5s. As my previous post mentions, I was ready to kick off the racing season in Lincoln, NE at a criterium race when my buddy Kyle suffered a disastrous crash the day prior. I decided my comeback to racing would have to wait.

I made up my mind to return to the peloton at the Melon City Criterium in Muscatine, IA (my wife's hometown). The course is a lot of fun, limited technical turns, a wide course and a steep hill every lap to spread out the field. I began focusing my training on courses that somewhat simulated the Muscatine race. The only thing I lacked at that point was a team.

I'd thought about racing in the green, black and silver of my favorite local bike shop, Bike Masters, but while I was there the other night trying on jerseys, I spotted Mark Stursma, a member of the area's foremost racing squad, Team Kaos, receiving a professional bike fit from fit-guru, Dave Reinarz. Apologizing profusely for interrupting his fit, I asked Mark who I could get in contact with to join the team (if it wasn't too late already). He affably said he'd take my information and pass it on to the right people.

Later that night, I received an email from Kaos Vice President, Doug Semisch. He informed me that the team was community service-based and that the dues are donated 100% to charity at the end of the year. He also said, "All members are required to participate in some of [our] community service events and to assist in putting on the Dave Babcook Memorial race [we] hold each July. Community service events include bike safety rodeos for kids, Life-A-Thon ride, Tour de Cure ride sponsored by our title sponsor, Alegent Health, the corporate cycling challenge, and other cycling based chairty events."

It honestly sounded great to me so I told Doug that I was in. He put me in touch with Brandon Fenster who is in charge of team kits. After a grand total of 18 emails, I had agreed to meet up for the Wednesday night group ride from Bike Masters, at which time I could pay for dues and a team kit (jersey and shorts).

As luck would have it, Wednesday's weather proved to be the fly in the ointment. A wind advisory was issued for the metro area with gusts exceeding 50 miles per hour. Not to be daunted, I showed up early to meet with Brandon, took possession of my kit and suited up for the ride, ridiculous wind and all.

Going into the ride, I assumed my fitness would be the limiting factor but it turned out to be a combination of my brain and the wind. Even in group rides, tactics are employed. If a rider is like me and not the best climber, he or she should get to the front of the group at the beginning of the ascent and if they need to, trickle toward the back of the pack. I did this for the first few rollers but found myself caught out on a particularly steep climb near 186th and State Streets.

As I pedaled toward the back of the pack, I briefly lost focus and began cycling through the display of my PowerTap. As soon as I looked up, a gust of wind hit me square in the chest and I became unattached from the group. When you don't have the protection of the group's draft, it takes a Herculean effort to get back on. Being as we were in the middle of the climb, they pulled away.

For a few miles, I rode solo, fighting the wind with no protection from the pack. I decided to right in my Steady State zone, just under Lactate Threshold (the point where lactid acid floods your muscles and forces you to slow down). I never lost sight of the group and just kept pedaling. Around the 15 mile mark, the pack turned around and headed back. I reattached and rode with them the rest of the way. However, I ran out of fluids with 8 miles to ride, so needless to point out, I was deep inside the pain cave.

As we rolled into the Bike Masters parking lot, I was feeling pretty good about myself, for the most part. I'd have liked to stayed with the group the whole time, but never losing sight and reattaching was a confidence boost. All in all, I'd give myself a B minus.

I talked to a guy on the team (whom I believe was named Rich) and we discovered we'd both be racing in Muscatine. He was going to be doing both the Masters 50+ and the Cat 4 races. The best part is that, even though you can't always employ a lot of tactics in a Cat 4 crit, there is a mental bonus of having a teammate there to race with. I'm definitely looking forward to it.

Sorry for the long-winded post! If you are still reading, thanks! If I updated this thing more often, I'd likely have shorter posts, haha!

Musings of a newbie Cat 4 bike racer

2009-04-27T16:18:00.000-05:00

To say that the racing season started off strangely would be an incredible understatement. After three inconsequential years, I finally clawed my way free from the bowels of Cat Five-dom (the ever-infamous ‘Crash 5’). I finally broke down and bought a PowerTap in an attempt to creep ever closer to my peak fitness from two years ago. I even got my good friend and riding partner, Kyle, to register for his racing license this year.

Well, the weather had been abysmal. Races have been cancelled and I have ‘no-showed’ more than a few times for lack of desire to race in the inclement elements. Nearly ten days ago was to be my triumphant return to bike racing as a newly-minted Cat 4 at Lincoln, Nebraska’s “Le Tour de Husker,” a two day even marked by two criterium races and a team time trial.

The race day schedule had Saturday’s events kicking off with collegiate races in the morning, followed in the afternoon by the USA Cycling Federation’s categorized races: Cat 5, then 4 and finally 1/2/3 combined. Having cherry-picked my races this far, I decided to pass on Saturday as the races were going to be held during a steady rain. Kyle, at the last minute, decides to brave the conditions and make his racing debut in the Cat 5 race Saturday.

Meanwhile, I lounged around my house in compression tights and opted to take a nap. Before dozing off, I sent Kyle a text message: “How’d it go?” Two hours later I woke up and checked for his reply. “In the hospital. Broken clavicle.” It turns out, two laps into the Cat 5 race, organizers rang a bell for a prime (pronounced ‘preem’), a prize given out periodically through the race for which riders sprint. Kyle was leading the pack and the sprint when another racer clipped his rear wheel and send him hurting to the pavement.

The broken clavicle was not the complete extent of his injuries. X-rays revealed a broken scapula and two broken ribs as well. This effectively ends the season for him. Until this moment, the thought of severely crashing had not entered my mind, even for a second. Riders crash all the time. A guy once told me it’s called bike racing, not riding around waiting for shit to happen, and for good reason. Shaved legs make road rash just a scosche more manageable/bearable.

As I lined up for the race on Sunday, I simply thought to myself, “What the fuck am I doing out here?” I’d never asked myself that before. Which you shouldn’t; at least not at the start of a race. Self doubt is the kiss of death. As the riders departed for the race, I pedaled around the back of the peloton for a couple laps and pulled out. Simple. Harmless. Devastating.

My first race in Category 4 went a lot like my first race in Category 5: DNF (did not finish). One thing I can say I’ve learned since being a fresh meat Cat 5 is that it’s not always worth hanging in there. If your mind and heart aren’t in it; you become a danger to yourself an others. The right (and hardest) thing to do is stop pedaling and turn your race number in to the officials. There will always be other races. Crashing can become a self-fulfilling prophecy if dwelled upon for too long. I didn’t need to mount and end my comeback to bike racing on the same day. Discouragement heals a lot quicker than broken bones.

There are no words to express the awesome...

2009-04-24T14:22:00.000-05:00

Much like lobster knife fight...

Words fail me when trying to describe this video. Whether you like bikes or just rad stuff in general (yes, rad), Danny MacAskill would just like you to know one thing: he owns you.

Pics to go with the story below...

2009-04-22T11:09:00.000-05:00

An Afternoon with Ralph Steadman

2009-04-22T10:09:00.000-05:00

I once had a creative writing professor tell me that there is no such thing as writer’s block. You only feel that way when you have nothing to say.
That very idea terrifies me beyond any words in Webster’s dictionary.

I’ve either had nothing to say for the past six months or I have a case of terminal writer’s block. No, really, it’s killing me. Or it could be that I’ve been putting too much pressure on myself, thus not liking the things I do want to say and, unwittingly, creating the writer’s block.

Ok, deep breath... Real or imagined, my creative mojo has dried up!

I’ve been told that the best recipe for a writer without ideas is traveling. I don’t know if this is true or not, but it sounds good and I need to go somewhere. Anywhere. Just get me the hell out of Dodge! The spring semester is coming to a close and I’ve decided the summer is my ticket out of writer’s purgatory.

A few weeks ago, I found a brochure tacked to the wall on the fourth floor of the English department:

London, Literature and Theater it says.

Sponsored by Such-and-such University it says.

Headed by Director What’s-her-name it says.

Perfect.

I figure I already speak the language and I’ll have three weekends to explore the countryside. This sounds like just what I need.

Immediately, I check my bank accounts to make sure funds are in order and transfer some money from my somewhat depleted savings to my checking account. Next, I browse airlines for a decent fare to the UK.

As it turns out, United Airlines is offering a “Jolly Old England” promotion and before confirming the trip’s cost with Director What’s-her-name, I immediately book a flight: $699. One way or another, come May, I’m leaving on a goddamn jet plane.

Perhaps my enthusiasm for leaving the country requires a bit of explanation.

Graduate school is a colossal testament to the power of the human will. The kind of pressure endured by most graduate students would be enough to drive most people to substance abuse. In fact, many grad students I know are addicts of some kind or another:

Caffeine, sleeping pills, prescription anti-depressants, amphetamines, alcohol; controlled substances are simply used to cope, get by, concentrate and excel. My first semester as a master’s English Literature student saw innumerable weeks of 20-hour workdays and four-hours of sleep a night.

This hellish work schedule isn’t as much a choice as it is compulsory. There simply is no other way a human being can read more than 10,000 pages in four months and live to tell about it.
Here are some tips I’ve learned: No-Doz and Red Bull cocktails should be consumed throughout the day to maintain exceptional levels of concentration (albeit with a side order of jitters).

Ny-Quil and Tylenol PM should be taken together to rid the industrious graduate student of the unsavory shakes and force his or her body into a restless coma-like state for a couple hours until the alarm goes off and he or she repeats the cycle all over again.

However, it must be stressed that this is not an ideal way for an individual to live if he or she has a nine-to-five job, and should by no means be attempted by the inexperienced. Graduate students are professionals in excess legal (and many times, illegal) pharmaceutical consumption.
Some students opt for the latter— I, the former.

For the overly ambitious, buying Adderall and Ritalin off the Internet is not unheard of. I once read in a magazine that depressives have Prozac, worrywarts have Valium, gym rats have steroids, and overachievers have Adderall. Used to treat ADHD patients, the drug is an explosive Molotov cocktail of amphetamines that increases alertness, concentration, and mental-processing speed while decreasing fatigue.

So tell me what the downside is again?

In fact, there’s a history lesson here. I promise I’ll be brief. In 1959, Jack Kerouac got hopped up on Benzedrine (a now prescription-only predecessor to Adderall) and wrote On the Road during a three-week writing bender. I assume to prove a point, Kerouac wrote the whole damn thing in a continuous 120-foot-long, single-spaced paragraph that just flowed right down a single scroll of paper.

However, for what it’s worth, possessing Adderall or Benzedrine without a prescription is a felony in many states.

And the downside rears its ugly head.

Like Kerouac, I hope three weeks will be enough time for rekindling my creative fire. Unlike Kerouac, however, I hope to do it through less extreme (and far more legal) measures.

***

For the past two months, work on my graduate thesis has come to a proverbial, and somewhat clichéd, grinding halt.

I’ve been stuck in research limbo, searching for a topic after deciding that a traditional statistics-based thesis was not for me.

Like most wide-eyed graduate students, I originally wanted to change the world with my research. This idea was probably pushing it, so I decided I’d at least settle for something different— something semi-important.

After writing conference papers for the past two years, I really don’t want to open a book, pick some established theory, create a framework and use a tried and true method to test something no one gives two shits about (technically speaking, of course).

I guess what I really want to do is talk to people.

At the end of the day, I want to gather enough information to create something meaningful to myself as well as interesting for others to read. This is getting deep, isn’t it? Bear with me.
But the first and only idea I have just plays on an endless loop in my mind like a scratched record: Hunter S. Thompson, Hunter S. Thompson, Hunter S... I guess I’ll settle for interesting.
The pressure I’ve been putting on myself to make something ingenious has been terrifying. I feel claustrophobic at all times, constantly finding myself going back to Ralph Waldo Emerson when he says, “No matter where you go, there you are.”
Truthfully, I’m beginning to hate Emerson.

I’m stuck in my own head and can’t get out from under this (mostly self-imposed) weight I feel. The only logical solution, then, is to at least get away from the everyday ebb and flow and refresh my enthusiasm.

Checking my email four days before I leave, I see an email from William McKeen, a Hunter S. Thompson biographer from the University of Florida. It read:

Joe,
I just got back. Call me in the next 10 minutes if you can. It will help me avoid a meeting.

WILLIAM McKEEN, Professor and Chair
University of Florida Department of Journalism

Now here’s some history about a guy who knows a guy.

The first guy I know is from the journalism department at my own university named David Bulla who knows William McKeen from Florida. Bulla gave me McKeen’s email address and mentioned my name. The ball was in my court now.

I dropped McKeen a line a few weeks earlier with the hope that I could do something on Hunter that no one else had done before. He said he’d been sick for the past week, so he wasn’t able to take calls— fair enough.

I was on my way out the door when I got his message. Immediately, I got out my laptop to take some notes and phoned him.

I was typing so fast that, if it were in my own handwriting, it’d be mostly unintelligible gibberish. I could barely even decipher the code I had typed, but at least it all somehow made a little sense.
McKeen gave me the contact information of two key individuals: Tom Corcoran, a friend and collaborator of Hunter’s in the late 1970s and Ralph Steadman, Hunter’s close friend and illustrator for 35 years.

From the way things were looking, I might have a little work to do on vacation— a perfectly acceptable sacrifice in my opinion.

I immediately sent emails off to the contacts I’d acquired from McKeen and began packing for London. The larger suitcase I filled with clothes, shoes and toiletry items. The smaller case I packed with books, a laptop computer, power adapters and an early 1990s tape recorder.
I decided to pack light on clothes because Director What’s-her-name told the group at an orientation meeting the previous week that we’d have washer and dryer units in the flats. For an extra $1,000 US, I could even get my own apartment. That’d be perfect working conditions (when I wasn’t relaxing, of course) so I jumped at the opportunity.

There was only three more days until departure.

***

Flash forward.

Even with my seat belt buckled and tray table in its upright position, I’m still getting a bad feeling just sitting on the runway at Chicago’s Ohare International Airport.
Not because I’m nervous about flying— I’m not— but for the fact that we have been sitting in the same spot at our gate for an hour, waiting on two passengers.

Flying to London takes enough time as it is without the absolute mind-numbing delay of waiting for people who could do the rest of us a huge favor and simply catch a later flight.

To no one in particular, I mutter that it better be the goddamn prime minister and the queen mother… Only heads of state and royalty should be allowed to delay a potentially mutinous group of international travelers for more than an hour. Cramped seats, irascible travelers, stale air, fetid breath and terrible food can only create a recipe for disaster.

During the nearly eight-hour flight, I have plenty of time to mull over two terribly exciting emails I received only the day before from Ralph Steadman, the renegade Doodaaa-Gonzo artist-extraordinaire himself.

From: Ralph Steadman
To: Joe M. Owens
Subject: Re: "The Curse of Lono" thesis
Date: Thu, 10 May 2007 19:42:37 +0100

Dear Joe

Thanks for your kind comments. Re a meeting- we are here at the studio and house and the numbers are 05555 876543/house, and 05555 123456/studio. Why don't you give me a call when you are in town?

Regards

RALPH

To the untrained eye, there isn’t much to see here, but already the gears are spinning inside my head like mad.

After kicking a few ideas around with McKeen the day before, I decided to revisit a book by Thompson and Steadman called The Curse of Lono that went virtually unnoticed, receiving little acclaim when it was released in 1983. I quickly became determined to figure out why this cult classic was a critical failure. In a reply message to Steadman, I responded:

From: Joe M. Owens
To: Ralph Steadman
Subject: Re: "The Curse of Lono" thesis
Date: Thu, 10 May 2007 08:39:43 -0500 (CDT)

Dear Ralph,

Your timing couldn't be better. Thank you so very much for getting back to me. I'll be boarding my flight for London tomorrow [arriving VERY early Saturday morning]. Maybe we can set something up for Sunday? I'll definitely give you a call. I cannot tell you how appreciative I am.

Best,

Joe

I assumed that, best-case scenario, I’d be able to talk to him on the phone from a cheap local number. However, I was shocked when I received a golden egg:

From: Ralph Steadman
To: Joe M. Owens
Subject: Re: "The Curse of Lono" thesis
Date: Thu, 10 May 2007 18:01:35 +100

Dear Joe,

If you fancy a trip into Kent on a train (1 hour) to Maidstone East you could come to lunch on Sunday?? Any good??

RALPH

This was the break I was certainly hoping for, but not remotely expecting. Far more than I could have imagined, I would actually sit down, face-to-face, with the man himself.

I re-read the emails over and over while an exceptionally overweight man one row ahead crushes my knees with the back of his seat. He has it reclined as far back (and then some) as it can possibly go. Blocking out the pain, I begin thinking of the questions I should ask Steadman when I arrive in Kent.

***

Flash forward.

Having been inside the plane for eight hours (after the captain promised it’d be slightly less than seven) my nerves begin rapidly to fray. A line from the Curse of Lono skips along inside my head like a game of hopscotch: One, two… Why do they lie to us? Three, four… Why do they lie…

Captain No-one-in-particular comes back on the speaker and announces that due to “heavy air traffic,” we are circling London and “it will only be another five to ten minutes.”

Five and then ten minutes come and go, as does fifteen, twenty, twenty-five and thirty. Five more minutes… Five more minutes… Why do they lie to us? Goddamnit!

Forty-five minutes of airplane dodge ball and we are finally descending. I’ve completely pitted out my shirt with perspiration, brought on by fearfully watching a surplus of planes circling London, all coming unnervingly close to us, and one another.

I see flashes of news headlines that include the words: “Giant balls of flaming death!” racing through my mind like the ticker tape on CNN.

The plane finally “lands”— which is a very generous term for the actual event itself. I’ve never been so happy to deplane and wait at a baggage claim in my life.

After taking my sweet time locating and gathering my luggage, I ask for directions to the train that will take me to my flat in central London. The bad feeling I had on the runway in Chicago has insidiously crept back into the pit of my stomach.

The train is down for maintenance but there is a free bus, ferrying travelers to the first operational train stop. I begin to feel like someone is playing a joke on me, only it’s not funny at all.

I hop on the bus and pray.

I’m not particularly religious, but I do it anyway. After driving for fifteen minutes, I realize we haven’t even left the Heathrow grounds yet. It’s like an evil labyrinth and I wonder if there isn’t a Minotaur lurking somewhere on a street corner in need of slaying.

At this rate, next Sunday may prove a more timely date for my interview with Steadman. Safely arriving at the train station affirms that I’ve completed only half of the journey.

Navigating flights of stairs, up and down, with more than a hundred pounds of luggage proves every bit the Herculean task one assumes it would be. The Piccadilly train goes as far as Oxford Circus, where I switch to a Central Line train on the way to my final stop, Chancery Lane. My jetlagged brain tries to keep up with the information but is sorely over-matched.

Chancery Lane appears, not surprisingly, only after one final trial of stairs and escalators.

Three hours after arriving in London, I ring the bell to my flat. Director What’s-her-name comes down the stairs and lets me in, giving me a set of keys to my flat.

With all of the energy I can muster, I dig out my laptop and send two emails: one to my fiancé, saying I made it safely and I love her. And one to Ralph:

From: Joe M. Owens
To: Ralph Steadman
Subject: Re: Lono and Lunch?
Date: Sat, 12 May 2007 04:15:43 -0500 (CDT)

Dear Ralph,

I have arrived at my flat in Jolly Old London. The good news: We have a phone here, however there are 2 problems. One - I was told I need a phone card to use it for outgoing calls and, Two - I'm not sure what the number is for receiving incoming calls. Thus, I will be venturing out after a nap [my body is telling me it is 4:00 a.m. and I've yet to sleep] and buying a phone card. Is your offer still good for lunch tomorrow? I can definitely make it. A little Tylenol PM tonight and I'll be right as rain for tomorrow. I hope all is well.

Regards,

Joe

Sleep depravation does strange and frightening things to people. Doctors will tell you that an individual should never combine controlled prescription substances such as powerful sleeping aids with a psychological state of mind created by an over-caffeinated race through 48 straight restless hours of travel-- that is unless, he or she is a professional OR a graduate student-- potentially both. And if doctors don’t say that, then they probably should.

This alarming combination creates a new stage of sleep that even geniuses with advanced degrees have not yet discovered. Only Rod Serling has come close to defining it with The Twilight Zone series.

I awaken from my narcoleptic hangover six or maybe eleven hours later. I’m not really sure. I immediately fall back asleep and don’t get out of bed again until 10:00 p.m. When I finally manage to get back to my email, there is another message from Ralph:

From: Ralph Steadman
To: Joe M. Owens
Subject: Re: Lono and Lunch?
Date: Thu, 1 May 2007 10:42:35 +100

Dear Joe

That's OK. You can get a train from Victoria to MAIDSTONE EAST. It takes about an hour then if you wouldn't mind, get a Cab outside the station and ask for Old Loose Court- mention LANCET LANE if the cabby looks puzzled- it’s a couple of miles out of the town on the A229 route to Hastings. Down to the bottom of Lancet Lane- turn right into Old Drive- then 50 yards along to gate on the left which is our gate to House in its own grounds- Old Loose Court! We have a guest for the weekend- a writer called Sally Vincent who said she would be delighted to meet a real live American! I said I had never met you and you may be a slob- but then you sound
OK to me so let's all take pot luck....

If you arrive around 12.30- 1pm that would be fine- with your Tylenol eyes- we will be waiting to greet you.

OK

RALPH

The next day, I make my way to the Victoria train station. Mysteriously, and much to my astonishment, I encountered no problems at all. The train was on time and an hour later, I’d be stepping off the platform in Kent at Maidstone East.

Earlier this morning, I had decided to take all train and bus trips as opportunities to write. I’m hoping the countryside and isolation will help me take a literary sledgehammer to my writer’s cinder block. As it stands, I’m staring at a blank page in my Moleskine notebook.

***

Stepping from the train to the platform, I breathe in the fresh Welsh air and jokingly say to myself I’m home— in a manner of speaking anyway. Like Ralph Steadman, I happen to be Welsh.

I follow the remaining passengers off the platform and around a corner to the parking lot. People here are getting into cabs or waiting for loved ones to pick them up. I stand by a couple bickering about something in French near a payphone.

After standing in the cold Welsh drizzle for nearly ten minutes without any sign of another cab, I apprehensively ask the squabbling couple if taxis stop by this location often, or would I need to call for one? Turns out that it’s the latter and admittedly, I feel a little stupid for standing around looking like a lost tourist.

Fortunately, phone numbers are plastered over every inch of free wall space inside the station’s ticket office. I pick a number at random and pay using the only British coin I have in my pocket, a pound, to make a 20 pence phone call. Two dollars for a forty-cent phone call; you gotta love the exchange rate.
Ten minutes later, I’m picked up by a chatty cabbie and we are on our way to Old Loose Court.

After fifteen minutes or so, the cab turns left through a gate at the end of Lancet Lane. A signed adorned with an unmistakable font reads: Old Loose Court. This is undoubtedly the place.
I pay the cabbie fifteen pounds, which, for a split second, seems steep to me, but I’m too excited to pay it much attention. I ring the doorbell only to hear the muffled melody of “America, the Beautiful” playing from inside the estate. I chuckle to myself at the irony of the tune when the door opens and I’m greeted by Mr. Steadman.

He walks me through his foyer, around a corner and into the dining area, just off the kitchen. His signature artwork is framed throughout the house, as well as stacks of books, magazine articles and papers. I’m incredibly tempted to touch this and flip through that, but refrain. I remind myself that I’m a respectable graduate student here on serious research-oriented business.
Introductions are made all around. To my right sits his wife, Anna, and weekend guest, author, Sally Vincent, both busily preparing lunch. A table stands to my left where Ralph motions me toward a chair.

I’m also offered a cigarette but decline. I mention I gave up any and all tobacco for bicycling two years ago; “A healthier, but no less addicting vice,” I quip. The whole situation seems surreal and before I know it Ralph Steadman is pouring me a glass of wine and sitting down to chat.

“Don’t you think it’s a bit thin?” Steadman asks.

“Pardon?”

“Doing a thesis on The Curse of Lono,” he repeats, taking a long and thoughtful drink of his wine. “It just seems a bit thin for a Master’s thesis to me.”

I explain that questions like his are exactly the reason I am doing my thesis project on Lono.
When it was released in 1983, it was all but dismissed by critics and consumers. Only years later has it gained an underground cult following and I want to know why.

I want to know many things— everything, really. Why did Hunter hate sharing the byline with Ralph? A nugget of information I gleaned from McKeen. Why didn’t he want to write it in the first place? What did Ralph think about the project 24 years later?

Ralph sits down at his kitchen table and rolls a cigarette. In fact, I’m not really sure if Ralph ever smokes any cigarette he doesn’t roll himself.
My mind drifts a little and I ask him about his doorbell.

He tells me that, years ago, he actually considered applying for US citizenship. When Ralph told Hunter of his intentions, Hunter had other ideas. In a terrific impersonation of Hunter (And really, what else would I expect? He was Thompson’s closest friend for 35 years) he stands up and mutters:

“Ralph, er… I’m going to, uh… do everything in my power to make sure that doesn’t ever happen.”

I laugh and ask Ralph, who’s still standing and gesticulating like Hunter, why Thompson didn’t want him to become a red, white and blue citizen. Ralph smiles and, again in the voice of Hunter says, “You’re Welsh Ralph— you can never be an American.”

Since those days, Ralph’s intentions have changed somewhat. Blame it on the current political climate, I assume.

As the day progresses, Ralph and I begin talking, not only about Lono, but everything before and after as well.

Ralph’s wife calls us to lunch but Ralph doesn’t appear to hear her and I am too entrenched in the conversation to stop him.

Ralph asks what I’m studying and I tell him I’m getting a Master’s degree in English-- Literature, in fact. A deep philosophical discussion concerning fate and free will is born from my mentioning a paper I’d recently written on Paradise Lost. Talk of John Milton then prompts Ralph to show me a copy of his book, The Big I Am, which he says is his own version of religion, God and why the hell he’s so damn vindictive.

Anna calls us to lunch for the fourth time and Ralph tells her again, “We’ll be right in.” With an empty stomach, I can feel the wine going quickly to my head, especially when I stand up to make my way into the giant dining room, following my nose toward the smell of something delicious.
The table is laid out with a wonderful assortment of English food: steamed asparagus, a warm potato and bean mash, Welsh sausages and of course, more wine.

We continue to talk throughout lunch. Ralph asks if I like the wine and I affirm that I do. He tells me that it’s his own. He shows me the bottle and sure enough, his signature artwork is on the label. After gawking at the bottle for probably a little too long, he fills up my glass, which, since I have been here, I haven’t quite managed to empty.

After lunch, Ralph asks me to get the books I brought for him to sign.

He gets out his signature fountain pen and fills it with ink. He then begins sketching on the inside title pages and signs each one.

The wine makes this process seem even more exciting and I quietly hope I’m not outwardly embarrassing myself.

Ralph goes on to ask me whether or not I have seen any number of books he has either written, illustrated or both. I tell him truthfully that, many of them, I have not. He and his wife begin whipping books from the shelves and he shows them to me. I must look like a (drunken) kid in a candy store because he starts signing and sketching inside these as well.

I’m left with a giant stack of books in the middle of the dining room table: DoooDaaa, The Devil’s Dictionary (in Greek no less as he’s out of English copies), Untrodden Grapes, I, Leonardo, Paranoids, plus my own three books.

Now finished with lunch and the slightly-tipsy mini-fan session, Ralph asks if I’d like to see his studio. This is an opportunity many people would give limbs for. I tell Ralph I mean this quite literally, as a cashier at a Borders bookstore in the middle of Iowa told me he’d give his left arm to meet the Gonzo artist.

We walk around the back of his house, past his heated in-ground pool, to a garage-like structure with an electronic security keypad. As I wait for the security door to rise, I peer in through giant picture windows.

There are bottles of paint, every size and color imaginable sitting on an enormous drawing table. In the middle of the room is a new piece Ralph is working on, depicting the 1968 riots in Chicago.
I emphatically tell him I could get a lot more writing done if I had a studio like this.

He takes me across the main floor, through a doorway wrapping around toward the back, leading into a room I can only describe as “the gallery”. Here, there are countless pieces of Gonzo artwork, most of which have never been seen by fans of Steadman and Thompson— at least not in person.

Ralph pulls out a bin full of items I can’t quite make out from across the gallery. As I step a little closer, I see that it is collection of Hunter’s various effects: sunglasses, hat, cigarette holder, and many other items.

Ralph puts them on and asks if I’d like a picture.

Ecstatically, I snap a couple of photos of Ralph wearing Hunter’s things and can’t help but feel that I’m slightly cooler than everyone else in the world right now. (Two of these photos would later go on to be published in McKeen’s definitive Hunter Thompson biography, Outlaw Journalist.)

Ralph opens drawer after drawer, revealing spectacular piece after spectacular piece of Gonzo artwork, some of which I have seen, many of which are brand new to me. Finally, he takes out a piece I am intimately familiar with— the original artwork for The Curse of Lono book cover and I immediately ask if he’d pose with it.

Done and done.

After spending a great deal of time with the artwork, Ralph takes me around the rest of the studio.

He shows me the camera room where he creates slides to send to magazines for print. He also takes me into a side chamber, which houses more books he has written, illustrated or both.
The studio building is deceptive in its seemingly diminutive size.

When you think you’ve seen the whole thing, it snakes around another corner into yet another chamber. We end up back in the main section of the studio and begin talking about music.
He puts in a CD of his son’s recording and we stand around listening. I tell Ralph that his son is really talented, to which he unabashedly agrees. We are standing around listening and talking when Anna comes in and let’s us know that it’s beginning to get late and asks if I’d like her to call for a cab.

Much to my surprise, five-and-a-half hours have ticked away.

Ralph, Anna, Sally Vincent and I are all sitting around a table in the back yard by the heated pool. We begin chatting about this and that but it’s hard for me to recall about what exactly. I think my brain has finally reached the point of Gonzo overload.

Ten minutes later, a cab pulls into the drive of Old Loose Court and I say my goodbyes.
It’s really hard to put into words how I’m feeling right now. I’m terribly excited for the opportunity, yet already feeling the weight of my thesis bearing down on me. How can I write anything sub-par and show it to Ralph Steadman? Everything is happening so fast. My own expectations for the project have now skyrocketed out of sight.

***

On the train ride home, the cabin is deathly silent. For an hour, the only voice I hear is from a young boy repeatedly asking his mother, “Have you got another half a banana?”
I become intensely contemplative, reviewing all of the day’s events over and over.
The wine has worn off, yet my head is still spinning. In five-and-a-half hours, we didn’t end up talking much about The Curse of Lono itself per se, but I felt like I’d gained an invaluable wealth of knowledge into the Gonzo subculture.

It almost felt as though I had gone through a phase of initiation to a secret society or something to that effect. I was no longer a mere reader, a simple fan and wayward outsider. I had gained at least a general admission pass to be on the inside.

When I returned to my flat, I composed an email to Ralph and Anna, thanking them for their hospitality. I didn’t send it right away, however. I wanted to wait until I got back to the States after I had time to let the experience fully sink in. The rest of the trip went by and I saw many incredible things, but there was little doubt that the excitement had peaked on day two. Once I got back home, I finally sent the email.
Two days later, I got a response:

From: Ralph Steadman
To: Joe M. Owens
Subject: Re: Thank You
Date: Tue, 5 June 2007 11:24:53 +100

Dear JOE M.

Good job you are back in the States. It was high time! We don't need
your kind in this country. We have important work to do. I hope you
got what you wanted but I sure as hell wasn't going to do it twice.
Remind me to circle around Kansas City on my next trip...

Now get on it and sweat the bastard out. It's the best way.
GOOD LUCK!!

RALPH

Maybe I'm the Dummy

2006-09-30T23:10:00.000-05:00

Is it just me, or are we getting dumber? Upon recently conversing with my roommate, it seems I am not alone in feeling this way.

My roommate and I both do a little assistant teaching at Iowa State. Some of the things we are seeing are not only frightening, but staggering.

I was always under the distinct impression that there was someone, somewhere made a list of things you needed to be good at before you could go past the twelfth grade, namely the three “R’s”- Readin’, wRitin’, and aRithmetic.

These skills seem to have gone the way of the dodo-- bye, bye! Misuse of words such as there, their, they’re, its, it’s, affect, effect, which, witch, and countless others run rampant throughout college kids’ work. These aren’t all freshman either, these are juniors and seniors.

Many factors could be to blame for this sad state of affairs. It’s possible that public education has slipped under the ‘No Child Left Behind’ policy where the proverbial bar has been set so impossibly low that you don’t even need a concrete grasp on the English language to earn a high school diploma.

Or it could be lack of efforts on parents to push lazy kids to achieve more than the bare minimum. We could blame Sony and Microsoft for making videogames infinitely more enticing to youngsters [this includes college kids apparently] than reading Great Expectations or Hamlet.

Maybe kids are watching too much Dateline NBC and blame ADHD and a lack of a Ritalin or Adderall prescription. Maybe they are too sedated on anti-depressants or hopped up on caffeine to think straight.

Or maybe it’s a combination of all or none of these things. The fact is, kids are getting behind and the bar is being increasingly lowered. Grammar skills are being tossed by the wayside in favor of text messaging short hand and an over reliance on spell and grammar check in Microsoft Word.

I think we need to get back to the basics. You need to walk before you can crawl and I think that college kids should be able to write a coherent and complete sentence before receiving their diploma and venturing out into the big, bad world where that same bar that was lowered for educational standards is set so impossibly high in corporate America.

Do Wha'cha Like

2006-05-28T12:16:00.000-05:00

“Listen when something speaks to you.”

I was told this recently at a journalism conference in St. Louis. However, the impact didn’t truly sink in until I thought about it thirty or forty more times.

Ever since I can remember, I’ve wanted to be a writer. One caveat to this notion is that, in order to be a writer, one must actually write stuff. There is not as much work for non-writing writers as one would think.

How simple could it be, really? If you want to do something, you should do it. This rule applies only to realistic goals. Aiming to be the world’s greatest serial killer or suicide bomber does not fall within this rule’s parameters.

My whole life, my decisions have more or less been spur of the moment. This phenomenon can be traced back to high school and remains consistent to this day.

When I was seventeen, I was dead-set on being an architect. Why? Because the pay was great and I loved to draw floor plans for MTV Cribs-worthy houses on my high school’s Auto CAD software.

One problem I failed to factor in was that I had a tendency to cut corners and finagle things to fit if the measurements didn’t exactly work out. Sure it looked all right, but I’m positive any given homeowner would be pretty upset when half of their million-dollar condo collapsed because of off-measurements and missing floor joists.

Needless to say, when the first day of my technical school was to begin, I slept in and decided architecture wasn’t for me. [Note: this was not the best way to handle this situation] T

Thus, began a year of hard [or maybe not so hard] work as the building sanitation and maintenance engineer for Owens and Associates-- read: glorified and overpaid janitor.

The pay was, in fact, very good, and the hours were flexible, but the job title didn’t provide the prestige I felt owed to me after enduring four years of substandard public education, plus one year of filthy toilets and urinals.

My vast and diversified life experiences thus far at age 18 lead me to deciding the only option was going back to school at an actual four-year university. This plan provided me with more time to figure out just what the heck I wanted to do when I grew up.

When you start college, the first thing they want you to do is to sit down with and adviser and plan out your four year track/debacle. I say this because many times, students get suckered in to programs which require them to enroll in far more credit hours than they need in the process of switching majors, maintaining a full-time schedule and taking relevant classes for their major.

With design officially out of the question I needed to pick something somewhat familiar and moderately interesting. Finally writing fell back into the picture, and journalism major was decided upon [only after taking two years of psychology classes and then switching in].

The point of this very random story is tied back to the beginning. “Listen when something speaks to you.” When you love to do something and happen to be the least bit talented at it, you should follow that something wherever it takes you. You’ll end up there in the end regardless.

When I grow up

2006-04-23T18:36:00.000-05:00

Nine months and counting and the end is almost here. As this semester winds to a close, it provides a great time for reflection.

For many, this time of year signals graduation parties, weddings, barbecues and baseball games. For me, it will be a chance to catch my breath from a rollercoaster of a year at Iowa State before doing it all again in August.

The sequel to this year should prove to be much better as I am older and wiser now by an entire 365 days. I’ll have my dog living with me for the first time in nine months and I’ll have a roommate to share the rent with. Life will be good.

This time of year also proves some what dichotomous. On one hand, everyone’s spirits are lifted as Spring rolls in and rejuvenates everyone and everything. With it also comes a crushing sense of apathy and laziness; the will to do nothing but lounge poolside, hit the greens, and enjoy the company of friends with a tasty beverage of your choice. Productivity is at an all-year low.

There is something to be said for recharging the batteries, though. This is more than likely a foreign concept to those in the 12-month work force, but I have come to realize that having summers off could quite possibly be the coolest thing about being a full-time student.

Work hard for nine months and take the next three off. Who wouldn’t like that?

This is why I feel that there should be a student-for-life program instituted. My dream is that one day, those who truly appreciate academia will be rewarded with interest-free stipends from the government to become a life-time student.

This would, of course, come with all of the nifty full health and dental benefits one would receive from a “real” career.

In this world you would only take classes that interest you. This could signal the end of Statistics and Calculus classes as we know it because, as we all know, nobody actually uses those in real life. Okay, maybe Statistics but given their druthers, no one would take it.

The more I think about this possibility the more exciting it becomes. But then I begin to think that this idea is already implemented. The professional life-time student is actually just a graduate professor with tenure.

Since professor salaries are public knowledge, I also was able to find out that some of my very own professors make nearly $100,000 a year [with summers off]. It looks like I finally know what I want to do when I grow up.

The serpent, the wings and the staff

2006-03-23T21:54:00.000-06:00

As March comes to a close and my 'Steve' post is expectedly late (thanks to midterms), I find myself waxing and waning about writing on something I feel compelled to talk about. And something I think people should know.

There is a menacing trend occurring within the fraternity of the caduceus (the winged staff with two serpents twined around it, symbolizing the medical profession); the future doctors of America, otherwise simply known as, medical students.

I have multiple friends attending multiple medical teaching universities and one trend continues universally that I find somewhat disconcerting… alright, a lot disconcerting.

The age-old mantra of ‘tough love’ at first appears to be suited for this scenario, but quickly you realize that notion is perverted into something much, much worse. The slang around the hospitals is called “getting pimped,” I call it completely asinine.

Medical students study their eyes into a blood-shot fervor and work their fingers to the bone. Their reward for their pain and suffering is a public proverbial slap in the face when their mentors chide and berate them for not knowing all of the idiosyncrasies and minutia of the human animal.

One infamous account is of a doctor handing his students a McDonald’s application after the student gives an incorrect response and having them repeat, “Would you like fries with that?” Other times it’s something as simple as the doctors taking in a good laugh with the residents in front of the other students, other doctors and even patients. As would be expected, this leaves medical students shaken and unconfident.

Training students for intensely-pressured situations may be an excuse but it is not a justification for being an asshole. Logic follows that one performs better when they go into a situation with at least a shred of confidence. Stripping that confidence away; taking someone’s dignity in the process, only proves that you are an intellectual elitist who finds self-validation in the degradation of others. Go team!

The point I’d like to make to these doctors is that, quite frankly, you are not God; you just play one every day when you put your white coat on. Remember where you went to school and remember that there is always someone better and smarter than you. For all of the knowledge you possess about medicine, there are thousands PhD’s out there with more knowledge on subjects like foreign policy, economics, business administration and history.

My point is simply, there are smart people everywhere and the idea is to spread all knowledge without the price of a person’s dignity. So what if it happened to you? You may not remember that you mother taught you two wrongs do not make a right. Medical students may respect the doctors they learn under, but they fear them more.

If you ask me, there are easier ways to make money than having a superior berate you for four straight years. But that’s just my two cents.

Intelligent Design versus Lord of the Rings

2006-02-21T11:51:00.000-06:00

The ‘debate’ (and I use the term loosely) of whether intelligent design (I.D.) is a viable alternative to Darwinian evolution rages on in the media. This proposition frightens me, but also gives me hope. This idea of I.D. opens up the door to many wonderful possibilities. No more will academic curricula need to be grounded in reality. The fact that we can create any hypothesis and will it to be is a fantastical notion! Let’s explore.

If intelligent design should be taught as science, I say we entertain the idea of teaching J.R.R. Tolkien’s, The Lord of the Rings, as history. By following the intelligent design model of logic, you cannot disprove that the events in The Lord of the Rings actually happened any more than you cannot disprove the theory that Noah built an ark and scoured the globe, placing two of each specie of animal on his astronomically-large boat.

Fact: The Bible and The Lord of the Rings were both written by men; albeit Tolkien is a far more compelling wordsmith than John, Matthew and Mark (in my opinion). They both take care in crafting a world with deities, heroes and a struggle of good versus evil. After all, we cannot disprove the fact that there ever were wizards, trolls and Hobbits, can we? Jesus performed magic, so let’s not be so close-minded to the idea.

Literary scholars claim that Tolkien fashioned many of his own languages. This is an excellent theory, but what if he was only passing down knowledge that was, in fact, passed on to him? Tolkien himself could have been a wizard. You can’t disprove it. If I was a wizard, I don’t think you’d catch me doing wizardly things around mere mortals. Why do you think we can’t find Harry Potter’s wizarding school, Hogwarts? (Because they don’t want us to – for the same reason we can’t find the remains of Jesus or Noah’s boat, which would have had to have been larger than Michigan’s stadium in Ann Arbor. I don’t know who they are [possibly wizards], but they are definitely terrific at keeping secrets. The U.S. government could learn a thing or two from possible wizards.) There is a good chance that Jesus was a wizard as well. Of course this is all speculation, but that is what makes intelligent design so much fun – you don’t actually need any real facts to make it a real science. All it takes is for a certain amount of people to believe in it. Justification only requires an audience’s acceptance. Enough people accepted that there were weapons of mass destruction. In a democracy, you only need a majority. In the case of electing a U.S. president, you don’t even need that. You have got to love American logic!

This new historical perspective should be named “Tolkienology,” after its founder. Intelligent design is such a good model for creating sciences that it only makes sense. Christianity, Tolkienology; you get the idea. I say, if biologists are still looking for “the missing link” then Tolkienologists can still be looking for Hobbits. My hypothesis? Hobbits ARE “the missing link.” You can’t disprove it. Find the hobbits, find the missing link; score one for the Darwinians and Tolkienologists.

Super Commercial Bowl Extravaganza Recap

2006-02-07T11:50:00.000-06:00

The Most hyped-up and talked about event every year is the Super Bowl; more specifically, the commercials during the Super Bowl. I think more people actually tune in to see the ads than the game; especially in cases such as this where the two teams playing are about as exciting as watching the mold grow on that loaf of bread you should have thrown away two weeks ago.

This year was somewhat problematic for me. Not only was the game not entertaining, but by and large, the commercials weren't that good either. The highlights for me were the Magic Revolving fridge ad, the FedEx caveman spot, and the Nextel anti-theft commercial (The one where the guys were in the locker room comparing features and the guy on the left throws a fastball with his phone into the other guy's face from 3 feet away: priceless). According to USA Today, i was not alone in thinking this.

I decided another 2 things while watching the Super Commercial Bowl Extravaganza: 1) Football is God's gift to man in HD; 2) The Rolling Stones are Satan's gift to man in HD. You never truly appreciate the fact that the Stones are old enough to be your great grandparents until you see Mick Jagger in all his high definition glory.

The fortunate thing about regular-poor-man's TV is that the reality of age is blurred into submission. The Rolling Stones are best left to rocking out in your CD player and not on your brand new 97" high definition plasma-LCD-DLP-slice-of-heaven.

The other premonition this realization gave me was that, "If I can see the veins and wrinkles in the Mick's forehead, I’ll unfortunately be able to see all of the cellulite on Kirsty Alley's legs in all of their cottage-cheesy-glory." I then wept myself to sleep on the couch for the remainder of half time with visions of a high definition hell that is indescribable by Webster and all of the words in the English language dictionary.

Rules To Live By

2006-01-30T23:27:00.000-06:00

These damn Chuck Norris quotes have been floating around the internet for a while now. Thanks to me, you can read a good number of them right here. Cheers!

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

Chuck Norris' tears cure cancer. Too bad he has never cried.

Chuck Norris does not sleep. He waits.

Chuck Norris sold his soul to the devil for his rugged good looks and unparalleled martial arts ability. Shortly after the transaction was finalized, Chuck roundhouse kicked the devil in the face and took his soul back. The devil, who appreciates irony, couldn't stay mad and admitted he should have seen it coming. They now play poker every second Wednesday of the month.

Chuck Norris built a time machine and went back in time to stop the JFK assassination. As Oswald shot, Chuck met all three bullets with his beard, deflecting them. JFK's head exploded out of sheer amazement.

A blind man once stepped on Chuck Norris' shoe. Chuck replied, "Don't you know who I am? I'm Chuck Norris!" The mere mention of his name cured this man blindness. Sadly the first, last, and only thing this man ever saw, was a fatal roundhouse delivered by Chuck Norris.

Chuck Norris is currently suing NBC, claiming Law and Order are trademarked names for his left and right legs.

The chief export of Chuck Norris is pain.

Chuck Norris's girlfriend once asked him how much wood a woodchuck could chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood. He then shouted, "HOW DARE YOU RHYME IN THE PRESENCE OF CHUCK NORRIS!" and ripped out her throat. Holding his girlfriend's bloody throat in his hand he bellowed, "Don't fuck with Chuck!" Two years and five months later he realized the irony of this statement and laughed so hard that anyone within a hundred mile radius of the blast went deaf.

The grass is always greener on the other side, unless Chuck Norris has been there. In that case the grass is most likely soaked in blood and tears.

If you can see Chuck Norris, he can see you. If you can't see Chuck Norris you may be only seconds away from death.

Chuck Norris was the fourth Wiseman. He brought baby Jesus the gift of "beard". Jesus wore it proudly to his dying day. The other Wisemen, jealous of Jesus' obvious gift favoritism, used their combined influence to have Chuck omitted from the Bible. Shortly after all three died of roundhouse kick related deaths.

Chuck Norris doesn't read books. He stares them down until he gets the information he wants.

To prove it isn't that big of a deal to beat cancer. Chuck Norris smoked 15 cartons of cigarettes a day for 2 years and aquired 7 different kinds of cancer only to rid them from his body by flexing for 30 minutes. Beat that, Lance Armstrong.

Chuck Norris is 1/8th Cherokee. This has nothing to do with ancestry, the man ate a fucking Indian.

Chuck Norris once ate three 72 oz. steaks in one hour. He spent the first 45 minutes having sex with his waitress.

Rather than being birthed like a normal child, Chuck Norris instead decided to punch his way out of his mother's womb. Shortly thereafter he grew a beard.

When Chuck Norris was in middle school, his English teacher assigned an essay: "What is Courage?" Chuck Norris received an "A+" for writing only the words "Chuck Norris" and promptly turning in the paper.

Chuck Norris found out about Conan O'Brien's lever that shows clips from "Walker: Texas Ranger" and is working on a way to make it show clips of Norris having sex with Conan's wife.

Filming on location for Walker: Texas Ranger, Chuck Norris brought a stillborn baby lamb back to life by giving it a prolonged beard rub. Shortly after the farm animal sprang back to life and a crowd had gathered, Chuck Norris roundhouse kicked the animal, breaking its neck, to remind the crew once more that Chuck giveth, and the good Chuck, he taketh away.

The quickest way to a man's heart is with Chuck Norris's fist.

After much debate, President Truman decided to drop the atomic bomb on Hiroshima rather than the alternative of sending Chuck Norris. His reasoning? It was more "humane".

Chuck Norris uses all seven letters in Scrabble... Every turn.

It was once believed that Chuck Norris actually lost a fight to a pirate, but that is a lie, created by Chuck Norris himself to lure more pirates to him. Pirates never were very smart.

Someone once tried to tell Chuck Norris that roundhouse kicks aren't the best way to kick someone. This has been recorded by historians as the worst mistake anyone has ever made.

When Chuck Norris's wife burned the turkey one Thanksgiving, Chuck said, "Don't worry about it honey," and went into his backyard. He came back five minutes later with a live turkey, ate it whole, and when he threw it up a few seconds later it was fully cooked and came with cranberry sauce. When his wife asked him how he had done it, he gave her a roundhouse kick to the face and said, "Never question Chuck Norris."

Chuck Norris won the Ironman Triathlon with a piano strapped to his back. Along the way he had sex with 59 women and with one man who was quote "bitching about his wife drowning from an orgasm." When he was given the medal, Chuck explained that he was just moving his piano and didn't realize that there was actually a race.

When Chuck Norris sends in his taxes, he sends blank forms and includes only a picture of himself, crouched and ready to attack. Chuck Norris has not had to pay taxes ever.
Chuck Norris owns the greatest Poker Face of all-time. It helped him win the 1983 World Series of Poker despite him holding just a Joker, a Get out of Jail Free Monopoloy card, a 2 of clubs, 7 of spades and a green #4 card from the game UNO.

Chuck Norris appeared in the "Street Fighter II" video game, but was removed by Beta Testers because every button caused him to do a roundhouse kick. When asked bout this "glitch," Norris replied, "That's no glitch."

Before each filming of Walker: Texas Ranger, Chuck Norris is injected with five times the lethal dose of elephant tranquilzer. This is, of course, to limit his strength and mobility, in an attempt to lower the fatality rate of the actors he fights.

Chuck Norris doesn't have to leap tall buildings in a single bound. Tall buildings duck under Chuck Norris.

Onions do not make Chuck Norris cry. Chuck Norris makes onions shit themselves.

There is no theory of evolution, just a list of creatures Chuck Norris allows to live.

The popular videogame "Doom" is based loosely around the time Satan borrowed two bucks from Chuck Norris and forgot to pay him back.

Chuck Norris once walked down the street with a massive erection. There were no survivors.

Circles exist because Chuck Norris beat the crap out of some squares.

When Chuck Norris goes to donate blood, he declines the syringe, and instead requests a hand gun and a bucket.

When Chuck Norris drinks pee, his asparagus smells funny.

When Chuck Norris was born, the nurse said, "Holy crap! That's Chuck Norris !" Then she had had sex with him. At that point, she was the third girl he had slept with.

Chuck Norris can count backwards from infinity.

Crop circles are Chuck’s way of telling the world that sometimes corn needs to lie the fuck down.

Whenever Chuck Norris plays Chutes and Ladders, he treats the chutes as ladders, because he's not some pussy who can't climb up a plastic slide.

Chuck Norris is the only man to ever defeat a brick wall in a game of tennis.

Chuck Norris can divide by zero.

Chuck Norris has two speeds: walk and kill.

Chuck Norris has always been able to find Waldo, except for one time. He found himself stumped on the last page of Where's Waldo Now?, not being able to find the Waldo without a shoe. He threw the book down and screamed, "This is BULLSHIT!" They're all wearing shoes." He then proceeded to eat the book and exclaim, "IF I CAN'T FIND WALDO, THEN NO ONE CAN!" The book he ate belonged to a child that he had borrowed it from. The child began to cry and Chuck ate him for good measure. The incident has since been referred to as Christmas.

In fine print at on the last page of the Guinness Book of World Records it notes that all world records are held by Chuck Norris, and those listed in the book are simply the closest anyone has ever come to matching him.

Chuck Norris is the reason why Waldo is hiding.

Chuck Norris played Russian Roulette with a fully loaded gun and won.

Chuck Norris can set ants on fire with a magnifying glass. At night.

You are what you eat. That is why Chuck Norris’s diet consists entirely of bricks, steel, and the tears of small children.

Chuck Norris is not lactose intolerant; he just refuses to put up with lactose's shit.

When Chuck Norris does a pushup, he isn't lifting himself up, he's pushing the Earth down.

On his birthday, Chuck Norris randomly selects one lucky child to be thrown into the sun.

Procrastination is the spice of life!

2006-01-30T00:12:00.000-06:00

I was told by a good friend that consistency is the key to any good Steve (my code word for blog from the 1st post). Unfortunately, the consistency of my work so far is in need of some proverbial fiber in it's diet; it is severely lacking.

Right now, it's 12:03 a.m. and I am still up doing homework (of sorts) that most likely should have been done earlier this weekend. However, due to what many consider my finest skill, procrastination, I have put it off until the very last second and now suffer the doldrums of insomnia as I plug through the task editing of a 30 page paper that was not written by me.

In fact, according to what I can remember from my day planner, which was strategically placed under the driver's seat of my car, there is something like 5 things I was supposed to attend to this weekend; none of which was done. So much for good intentions.

You are probably asking yourself, "If I had a million dollars, would I do two chicks at the same time?" If you aren't thinking that then you might be wondering whether or not you should pour that expired milk over your delicious bowl of frosted Lucky Charms. On the whim that you are asking: Why the hell are you updating your Steve if you are so far behind? The answer is simple: baby steps.

When you have a huge list of crap to do and you aren't sure where to start - I say, screw around on the internet. What better place is there to waste time, continuing the trend of not getting things done? Plus, there is something to be said for consistency (remember?). I haven't gotten much done yet this weekend, why start now? - Other than the fact that it's technically Monday. But my clock is temporarily set to California time. By this logic, the work week doesn't begin for another two hours!

First post! Hooray for me!

2006-01-14T09:34:00.000-06:00

This is my first time posting on a Blog. It’s also hopefully the last time I time I ever type the word Blog. I hate the word. I hate the word even more than I hate Chuck Norris and I HATE me some Chuck Norris to be sure. From now on I’m going to call it Steve.

I’m not even really sure why people do these other than to amuse themselves and their friends by composing witty prose in relation to their lives, but hey, fuck it; I’m a journalism graduate student so it seems necessary that I do it too.

Actually, I think these things are great. I check out Brent and Jared’s whenever I can. Those two never cease to amuse me—however, that’s not saying much as I am amused by the sight of the UPS guy pulling into the apartment complex in hopes that he’s bringing me something I forgot I ordered. It’s like freakin’ Christmas when the UPS guy comes into the building; I think the kiddies here even like him more than Santa. Santa is a scary, scary man.

So I’ve successfully completed one full semester of graduate work at Iowa State and begun another. As should be abundantly obvious, my motivation is sorely lacking… at best… I should be doing any number of productive things at the moment; like cleaning my shit up that I have so lovingly scattered across the floor of my living room, or studying Statistics since I have as much knowledge about math as a chimpanzee who throws darts at a dart board and randomly gets the right answer when he hits the 20 spot.

This is the part where I would normally say, “But I digress,” however, that is what a Steve is all about; one long, giant, festering digression. Ain’t it cool? Well, I’m going to keep this post short. If something cool happens, I’ll definitely post it here. Au revoir! (I had to Google how to spell that, by the way.)