September 1, 2001
I've been going about this writing thing all wrong - I've been going around the past few years talking about how "I'd like to become a writer" but doing very little actual writing at all. A writer is not something you become, writing is an ongoing process, just like breathing; once you start, you really shouldn't stop. To use a worn-out cliche: I've been counting my chickens before they hatch. How many times have I complimented myself on having a 'great' idea for a story and simply left it at that? Take Hotaru and My Father is a Waste of Bandwidth as examples. I still think they're great ideas and I do think about them from time to time, but stories don't write themselves, do they? Simply having the idea isn't going to cut it - and that's where my problem lies. For some reason I keep expecting the Muses to slip a manuscript under my pillow, free of charge (unlike the tightwad Tooth Fairy), no effort required. I tell you, being an easily distracted, lazy sonovabitch is not what I intended myself to become. Yet here I am, thinking thoughts and not doing anything about them. Instead, I'm about to get off my ass, take a shower and head off to the laundromat as a prelude to yet another wasted day. Lovely, ain't it?After five days of hanging out in Los Angeles and checking out the local Japanese scene - I can't even begin to relate how odd it is to be here and be speaking primarily Japanese - and taking brief tours about the city, I think I might have found reason for sticking around. Her name is Mitsuko, she's been living in LA for two years now, she just moved into a bachelor pad downtown (I met her at her housewarming party last night) and she seems to be a lot of fun, but that's about all you kids need to know for now.
To play up the ramblin' man stereotype, only five days in - I don't think that's too bad. Don't get any funny ideas, though. I'm not that much of a rambler.Tomorrow it's off to Tijuana (probably en route to Rosarita, but that is yet to be decided) with Satoru and five other folks for a day of fun south of the border. I'm quite looking forward to it, despite the numerous horror stories I've heard about young fools fooling around in Mexico. Foolish as I and my fellow fools can be, I can't help but feel that we'll be fine - if not, I'm hoping to have some good stories for you folks.
September 4, 2001
Have safely returned from Mexico in one piece - though things were looking somewhat shady for a while. Drove down to Rosarito in Dai-chan's SUV with 6 other folks: Dai-chan himself, Kentaro, Satoru, Yoko, Yukari and Metsuko; these last three comprising a group of girls that Satoru sort of half-knew and invited them along. All very friendly people - easy to talk to and all very excited about going to Mexico for the first time. Getting across the border was no trouble at all, though I did want to stop before leaving the US to find out what sort of problems my not having a passport would be, but the Mexican border guard was having none of that. We were in downtown Tijuana before we knew it, no security check of passport controls to speak of. We opted not to turn back, figuring we'd take our chances later on in the evening/early AM when the US border guard would be less likely to care about a Canadian entering the country with a bunch of Japanese nationals.
Rosarito was an interesting little town; unfortunately it had been overrun by literally hundreds of young American folks looking to have as good a time as possible, no matter what the expense. After finally managing to find parking, we wandered up and down the streets; weaving through gangs of shirtless muscleheads and throngs of bikini-clad airheads (am I being too harsh? You should have seen some of these kids... ), watching the Mexican tourist police take down a huge brute of a man, ignoring the screams, tears and protests of his poorly bleached-blonde girlfriend; and taking advantage of a gap made in the crowds by a man who looked to have been on the wrong end of a bottle incident, his face and shirt covered in blood. Seeing all of this in the space of about an hour, we decided to head into Tijuana, where things would be "more sane" - I don't know who came up with that one.
Tijuana is a massive urban sprawl of a city, spread out over who knows how many square miles, the only section of town we saw that seemed to be built up at all was the stretch of road housing all the bars and nightclubs geared towards one thing only: the collection of tourist dollars.
We wandered up and down the street for a bit, looking with awe and wonder at the massive parlours dedicated to drinking, dancing and debauchery, fighting off the squads of callers in front of each one, eventually settling in a smallish Mexican restaurant to rest and recuperate. A few beers, some mediocre food and $105 later, we were back in the street - though not before a middle-aged gentleman insisted on singing a Spanish rendition of "My Way" and dedicating it to Yoko. More walking up and down the street and we decided to split.I'm not really the sort who goes for tourist 'centers' - watching folks get fucked up and then try to fuck each other is not one of my favourite passtimes (in fact, I downright dislike it - it depresses me) - I suppose that means I'll never be a truly great sinner, as I prefer to keep my sins fresh and original; simply taking part in a massive orgy of consumption just doesn't turn my crank. Back into the car and we were off towards the border, site of what was soon to be the latest caper in what appears to be becoming my international crime spree - instead of just talking our way through, we decided to hide me in the back of the SUV (under the pretense of my being asleep should we get stopped), while everyone else sat up fron, passports at the ready. After 3 years in Japan, I should have seen the setup sooner. We pulled up to the window, stopped and the following conversation ensued:FEMALE BORDER GUARD: Your citizenships, please.
DAI-CHAN: (pause) Trip.
FBG: No, what are you citizenships?
DAI: (pause) In Mexico, (speaks to Kentaro in Japanese) today.
FBG: OK. Lemme see everybody's passports. Passports. Everyone, you, do you have a passport? OK, lemme see it. (pause)OK. Go ahead.
YOKO, YUKARI & METSUKO (in unison): Yay! Thank you! And with that, I had illegally entered the United States. I had a hard time restraining myself from laughing in the back, as I had pulled the same stunt numerous times in Japan - I never thought I'd get in on it in an English-speaking country. Priceless. *****DISCLAIMER - although I did indeed enter the US at an international border without stating it to, well, anyone, please do not think I am here taking advantage of said situation. I didn't smuggle anything but my ass into the country, and I assure you, I have no intention of selling it. I am not taking advantage of the aforementioned situation in any financial or economic aspect, nor do I condone or reccommend such actions to anyone else. I's just having fun, is all.***** In other news, I still haven't been able to find gas for me portable stove. Subsequent searches for adaptors, nozzles, new hoses and other such alternatives have turned up fruitless. I'm starting to get annoyed, not least because the camping portion of my trek basicallly begins tomorrow and it looks like it's gonna be cold food and no coffee for me. Sigh. I hate it when I really have to rough it - camping with no coffee is just evil. Pure & simple.Later
Well, I've just finished making the guilty phone call to Japan, asking Tetsu what's going on with my cash. I suppose I've been putting it off for a while, having faith that he was always just about to send it barrelling my way. I'd like to pause and interject with the statement that making international phone calls has become far too laborious a process - I get irate every time I'm asked to to punch in over 20 digits just to get in touch with someone. However, I persevered, reaching out and touching him as he was about to get in his car and head out into the familiar streets of Karatsu, running errands before spending another night in the haven we call Inakamon. I'd have loved to just kick back and shoot the breeze with him for a while, but it wasn't my quarter and I need some sort of funding for my coast-to-coast expedition.
Considering how quickly I've managed to burn through my initial $500 (though it has been 2 weeks now, hasn't it? Time flies...), I'm hoping that the middle states will treat me just as kindly, but at a lower rate. But enough of this money talk - I'm starting to sound like a materialist.
I'm sitting here watching "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas", wondering if I've made the most of my time in LA and on the rest of the trip so far. Granted, there is nothing that can compare to the sheer savage intensity of HST's Gonzo journalism, but times have changed. There's no getting away with murder anymore - at least not in that shockingly unbelievable sense. Folks these days seem to have just about seen it all and there really is nothing I can provide to compete with the madness I see going on all around me. I'm just a guy - it's all I've really wanted to be, but with one slight twist: I want to be a guy that everyone knows. I don't know where this desire stems from, nor do I care. I'm just searching for recognition without use of gimmicks... something which seems too be near impossible these days. I've always felt out of touch with this age and generation - maybe I didn't watch enough TV as a kid. I know I've talked about this sort of thing before, so I'm not about to waste time with it again - I'm cracking another beer and killing another quiet night in LA before hitting the open road.And that is that.
September 5, 2001
Well, Viva Las Vegas, as they say. Left LA at about 3 PM (after an interminable wait at Satoru's place - the owner was hanging around, prohibiting my scheduled departure) and rolled into Las Vegas just after 9 PM. I wandered up and down the Strip for a while, taking in the sights and smells of the city that never sleeps - or is that New York? Regardless, Las Vegas has become even more glitzy and hyperbolic than when I came with my folks all those years ago. Casinos which boggled the mind a decade ago have grown even further, each one spanning a city block - ostentatiously adorned with countless lights, scores of statues and other such paraphenalia. Quite a sight - Las Vegas Boulevard is a strip of a sort I've never seen.
I eventually made my way into "New York, New York", hoping that by virtue of my intended destination, Lady Luck would smile upon me, but alas - I now find myself $25 in the hole, $15 over the 'absolute maximum' . I guess folks are right when they say "it takes money to make money" - my hope of making enough dough to fund the drive to New York lost faster than all those quarters. Yet I'm not all that upset about it; the short while I was ahead of the game (don't get your hopes up, as it was less than $10) might almost have been worth the admittedly minuscule amount of cash that I lost. I guess that's what Vegas is here for - it provides hope and the propensity for dreams, albeit at a cost. I can't really be upset about the whole affair. Considering the scores of folks wandering around on a Wednesday evening, it's easy to see how the casinos got to be so monolithic - everybody's a winner, so long as they know when to quit.
So here I am, camping out at the Desert Springs Hospital parking lot, hoping that I'll at least get a decent night's sleep before continuing on my way across the continent. Who knows? Maybe Lady Luck has other things in store for me.
Still, it must be said that my predominant thoughts are running mostly along the lines of "what exactly am I doing?" - 2 weeks on the road and I don't feel that America has lived up to its legend yet. In fact, for the most part I feel it has treated me with a certain level of indifference - I've had fun, but I really haven't picked up a sense of anything yet, least of all myself. About the only thing I have discovered is my tendency to fret about finances, a character flaw that I'm fairly sure has surfaced before. Well, $180 to go, I guess. Let's wait and see what happens.
September 7, 2001 Maybe HeavenSurvivors
of near-death experiences
often report
seeing a bright light
at the end of a tunnel. Imagine a moth
flitting across a darkened highway
suddenly a semi truck
crests a hill
100 m.p.h. the moth
attracted by the light well, you get
the
picture.
September 8, 2001
Welcome to Denver, Colorado. Although I'm only passing through on my way to Lincoln (and, God willing, a bed and bath...) the predominant feeling I'm getting is just one of cold. I guess that's what I get for driving through the Rockies - camped in Del Norte last night and damn near froze my ass off! Hard to believe that only yesterday I was driving through the desert , as today I drove through a snow flurry some 30 miles out of Denver! I think that must be one of the great joys of trucking across the country: the seemingly endless array of climates and landscapes. Yesterday's drive from Flagstaff up to the Grand Canyon (which was an unintentional detour, but whatever), through Monument Valley and across the deserts of Arizona and Utah was mindblowing. Having seen the Grand Canyon before, I was able to contain myself and refrain from getting too excited, but once I slid into Monument Valley, it was all I could do to keep from stopping and snapping pictures every half-mile or so.
It's hard to accurately describe the volatile changes that the scenery makes when traversing that stretch of land - from the fiery-red palisades of Monument Valley erupting from the grey-green expanse of flatland to the eerie crimson cliffs peppered with bright green shrubs in the (aptly named) Valley of the Gods to the bi-chromatic blue and yellow of the plains of Utah, ending up ascending into the familiar greys and greens of the Rockies - all of this in a single day. Almost incomprehensible, and impossible to translate. This short, half-assed description hurriedly scribbled in a restaurant in uptown Denver can't even begin to capture the awe and wonder I felt (nor the intense desire to spark a torpedo, sit back and enjoy - but that's another story), nor does it even begin to capture the sudden changes from one landscape to the next. Good thing I gave into the shutterbug temptation from time to time, huh?I had originally intended to camp in Durango for the evening and upon first arrival it seemed I had made a good choice. Durango has the same rustic, rugged charm that Flagstaff has, but that's about where the similarities end. Flagstaff is a small, friendly town where one can walk into any establishment (and I walked into a few...) and be greeted like a regular customer. Durango, on the other hand, seems to be full of decidedly less-friendly characters. Although I might just have arrived on a bad evening - though walking down the main street and seeing a bunch of kids beating on a car with a broom handle, rounding a corner and seeing some thugs beating on each other with their fists, turning back towards where I had parked the van and being shouted at by no less than 3 cars of people - I decided against sticking around and rolled on out of there. Del Norte was a whole lot quieter.And today? Driving, pure and simple. A little rain, a little snow and the last of my cash spent on dinner. I was thinking (somewhere between Waldensburg and Pueblo) that if I remember correctly, quite a large portion of my trip tales seem to focus upon money - or, rather, the lack of it. Granted, it is a major concern of mine on this trip, but I feel I've been focusing on it too much. I'm broke, so what? Can I expect anything less after being on the road for 17 days now? Besides, a much more troubling thought is the size of next month's VISA bill. Yow.In other news, still no idea what to do with my life, though settling in somewhere and working for a living is starting to sound pretty good. Travelling from place to place, taking in the country and visiting friends is good, but also rather lonesome. Particularly stretches like the last 3 days - I haven't really spoken to anyone the whole time. I met a young woman named Misty while filling up on Rt. 666 and another named Gina in a brewhouse in Flagstaff, but that's about it.
Before all of you get the impression that I'm just cruising around picking up chicks, let me just point out that they both approached me, not the other way 'round. Maybe it's because I haven't bathed since leaving Los Angeles; my pheromones have ripened and are working overtime. Either that or the forlorn, lonely traveller's look upon my face moved them to pity.
Oh, well. Time to get moving again. I still have the better part of a state to cross before bedtime.
September 9, 2001 I think the toughest part
About being a bum
Is the endless
Creeping
Passage of timeEven the rustling of the leaves
Or the sunlight reflecting
Off the ripples in a pond
Seem to scream out
That time is going by And that this
Sunday afternoon
is about
to die.
September 11, 2001 - Jeff's Birthday
Not such a good association to make, I suppose. What with the mayhem on TV since everyone piled into the living room at about 8:30, I haven't had much of a chance to wake up properly, let alone get my brain kick-started. Up until this point, it's been a whole lot of staring mindlessly at the TV - everyone wondering what the hell is going on.
America is apparently at a Delta level alert - the military is treating this incident as a declaration of war upon the United States. Could this be it? Are we in for the big one? Fasten your seat belts, kids - this one ain't going down quietly.Well, suffice to say, updates are going to be a little while. Apologies to you and thoughts to the folks in NYC and DC.
September 18, 2001 - Belated birthday blessings to Liana!
Made it to New York City in one piece after a long and relatively uneventful drive with Takashi. It took us about 22 hours in all, with 2 nights spent in highway rest areas. Made a few wrong turns upon arriving in the greater metropolitan area, but am now nestled safely in Chris' apartment in Brooklyn.
What was interesting along the drive was seeing folks react and deal with the destruction of the World Trade Center. The entire country feels and recognizes the loss, yet the mourning shroud they have donned is made from the American flag - on cars, bridges, houses, cranes, clothing, everywhere. The sense of solidarity (and vengefulness, to be honest) is quite impressive. I met 2 fellows from Seattle who had quit their jobs, packed up their stuff and left for New York the day after the tragedy, just to see what sort of help they could offer. Places to make donations for the victims and their families have sprung up in just about every town, as have makeshift memorials and shrines dedicated to the victims.In New York City it seems everyone has a terrifying tale to tell, be it what they saw or experienced at the time to some horrific incident that they have heard second or third-hand. Faced with these stories (most of which are too gruesome to repeat), I find myself not knowing what to think or how to respond afterwards. For the most part, I just shut up and listen. What else can I do? I watched the whole thing unfold on TV (as most folks did, even in NYC...) - I see explosions and destruction everyday; how many times did I watch the same footage of the planes crashing into the buildings? I'm not saying that I'm not moved by the whole affair, but how should I know what to do? Then there is the nasty side to the affair - the acts of vengeance upon innocent people here in the city. Vandalism of shops and homes, assault (both verbal and physical) and general racism towards Middle Eastern people that isn't being reported on the news. Don't get me wrong, it isn't particularly widespread and many people are speaking out against these acts, but they still happen everyday. Takashi and I saw a squad of 30 or so cops descend on a falafel restaurant as we arrived in town - what had happened and what happened afterward, I can only guess.
Everyone from the president on down has been saying that America cannot let this tragedy affect their way of life - I agree, I think that standing tall as a nation and showing that despite the attack, the country is still united and largely unaffected - but that isn't the case. The fear and hate that have been born of this tragedy are growing up fast - suddenly no one is safe, suddenly anyone could be a terrorist. These are the thoughts triggered by the attack in everyone's minds, whether conscious or otherwise. Leaving all further political events and ramifications aside, the destruction of the World Trade Center has affected the American way of life - and there can be no going back from here. The world, while fundamentally the same has been irrevocably changed; whether for the better or for the worse has yet to be determined.
September 19, 2001
Turbulent times in New York - riding the subway back towards Brooklyn after a night on the Upper West Side and a day in Manhattan, a middle-aged fellow got on the train. He was fairly nondescript: African-American, average height, average weight; I wouldn't have thought anything of him at all had he not been involved in the most harrowing experience I have had to date on this trip.
He began quietly, introducing himself to the train (I apologize for not remembering his name... I wans't really listening at the time) and greeting other folks on the train. He began to speak of his efforts at local hospitals after the bombing, telling tales of the tragedy as seen through his own eyes - and then he brought God into it. Fine, whatever, just another subway sermon. Or so I thought. Suddenly, a voice from one end of the train: "Shut the fuck up!"
Heads turned, the orator chuckled softly to himself and continued on, pausing only to thank the heckler. Barely halfway through the next sentence, the voice rose again: "I said 'shut the fuck up'!", to which the orator gave the same reply. A third time, a fourth, the exchange repeated itself, the heckler's voice rising each time, the orator's level and calm. Then the heckler got up and revealed himself: a middle-aged, somewhat portly Caucasian dressed in black. He continued on repeating "shut the fuck up" over and over again from a distance of roughly 6 feet before throwing his belongings down on a seat (which miraculously became vacant as soon as he stood up) and marched right up to the orator.
I believe it was at this point that the orator began taking this individual seriously - the man screaming: "This is a tragedy! Don't you ask for money! Get the fuck off this train and shut the fuck up!" and so on. The man came right up to the orator, obviously looking for some sort of physical confrontation. Seeing that the orator wasn't about to fight him, the man continued on with his tirade, only this time he included a point that I had not even considered - his brother had been killed at the World Trade Center.
What does one do in that situation? Everyone else had cleared out of the area, leaving me sitting in front of this exchange. Then, quietly and without speaking, the orator got off the train, turned around and said "I'm sorry. I'm not getting off this train for you, you know." and walked away.
I looked at my watch: just over a week ago - what was I doing here? Thinking about the incident on the way back to Chris' apartment, I didn't know what to make of it. It is possible the orator was simply playing on the sympathies of the crowd to make a few bucks, but he had made no mention of cash at all when the second man started in on him. Yet I can't portray this other individual in too negative a light - losing a brother is something I can only imagine; how do you come to terms with something like that? Who can you blame, or forgive? I caught myself thinking at the time what may conceivably be a terrible thought: what if the planes had missed the World Trade Center and crashed in Brooklyn? Or Harlem? Would it have been such a monumental tragedy then? I've noticed that the lives of the people on the plane which crashed in Pennsylvania aren't getting all that much consideration - after all, that was just your run-of-the-mill disaster.
I don't know where these thoughts are coming from, or even whether it is offensive to put such things down in writing, but I can't help but wonder. Over five thousand people perished in the disaster - yet this was the first case of purely personal grief that I have seen and its got me thinking: would I be any different? Had I lost a loved one in the tower, would I be more or less willing to spare a thought for the other lives that were lost, or would it forever be in reference to my own personal grief?
September 27, 2001
Where does the time go? I could've sworn I had updated more recently than this... I think the longer I stay out on the road, the less sense I have of the passing of time. Funny how that works - the one thing in my life that I have plenty of is the one thing that I really don't pay any attention to. I suppose that's normal, somehow.Have returned to the Great White North and am currently soujourning at Don and Kathy's apartment in Toronto. Strange mix of feelings being back in my homelands yet visiting friends (the only ones I have in the city) that I met in Japan - I feel nostalgic for my youth and my recently-ended life both at the same time. I don't really know what to make of it, much less what to write about it.
Have finally bit the bullet and whipped up a resume in the hopes of finding some temporary labour while I am here - I'm a little bit excited about it, to tell the truth; events like these tend to offer up opportunites which can forever alter the course of one's life. Simply traveling around and visiting folks in the States has kept me distracted from thinking about just how many paths lead from the crossroads I have come to, how the choices I have made and am about to make are going to echo and reverberate for years to come. I know that this sort of thing happens everyday of one's life, but this is the first time that I've ever stared it in the face and seen it staring right back at me.
Am I being melodramatic? Hell, I don't know. It's fast approaching 3AM and I can't even think of sleeping. My mind is racing with half-formed visions of might come to be, eclectic thoughts of where I am today and bittersweet memories of where I was just a short while ago. All these mixed messages concerning how much I've accomplished in my life, yet at the same time noting that I've really only just begun to live - where do I find the energy to continue, having been so lucky to have seen so much; yet eagerly looking forward to whatever tomorrow might bring?
And then I wonder: are these thoughts mine alone, or are they the thoughts of a generation slowly suffocating in this age of logarithmically increasing accessibility to information? There are times I feel myself sinking beneath the waves of information that wash over me every single day; how can I keep track of it all? What with fiberoptic cables gradually surrounding the world, slowly constricting and making it a smaller place every day, I am only able to catch a minuscule portion of all that is out there - and I can't help but feel shortchanged somehow.I also feel like I am no longer making much sense; maybe it's time for some cathode-ray lovin'.
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