Knowhere(ish)

 

This week is Spring Break at California State University, Sacramento. For whatever reason, Sac State “celebrates,” or places Spring Break on a different week than most other schools in the area (most others’ are next week). Be that as it may, this week, for me, has developed a little history and a tradition that also celebrates the coming of spring. It even has a name that MCU fans should recognize – the “Knowhere Ride.” It is the first long, multi-day motorcycle ride of the year and usually consists of at least three days (and could be up to as many as six or seven) and several hundred to more than 1,000 miles. The destination is always the same – Knowhere.

 

The first Knowhere Ride was in 2016. It wasn’t named that yet and it was way more planned than the ride would become – and it was not solo. They do not have to be, it’s not a “rule” (that’s kind of a thing, there are no rules), but it is better that way. That time was with a friend, and it was very much planned; it was a good ride that included the best parts of the PCH. I did PCH the opposite direction again in June, alone. I did not plan to go as far or be gone as long as I was – but I definitely needed some escape. The ride was piggybacked on a trip to Southern California for a friend’s wedding and a visit to my sons’ family to see my grandkids. After that, no plans.

 

That was when the magic happened. That was when the Knowhere Ride was born. It doesn’t have to be during Spring Break, but that is usually the first opportunity. It doesn’t have to be solo, but it is best that way. Once it was a group ride – a “shake-down” ride for those who were going to Sturgis that year. While that was called the Knowhere Ride, too, there wasn’t much knowherey about it. And not every ride that is a solo ride into the spiritual oneness that is the coming together of my bike, the road, and my mind is necessarily a ride to “Knowhere,” either. The ride is at once difficult to define but, at the same time, impossible to miss when upon me.

 

What is true is that there will be no Spring Break Knowhere Ride this year. It was planned (which means only a departure date was planned) but scrubbed a couple of days ago due to a number of factors – and the weather was not the only one. The weather would only delay my departure, there are other factors that made the postponement of the ride a good idea. The next available time is in the latter part of May. That’s okay and there is no sense in making any plans for a thing that defies planning anyway.

 

What will be happening is still motorcycle stuff. I have two motorcycle projects that are waiting to become full-fledged, roadworthy motorcycles. One is and has been in the mock-up stage and the other needs to be torn down for painting. But before that can happen my garage needs a major overhaul. That’s what will be happening this week -that and other stuff I’ve been neglecting that needs attention. While all that stuff is decidedly Somewhere (here), it all contributes to getting somewhere else – Knowhere.

The Eagles

The last time I saw the Eagles, I told myself it would be the last time. They put on an excellent show, they are one of my favorite bands, but I've seen them a few times over the years, and they are expensive. But that was before the show. After the show - the first of two nights at the COVID rescheduled shows at Chase Center in San Francisco, I posted the following to my Fakebook timeline:

This post is a departure from dogs, motorcycles and cigars, not the first one and not that last, but it is does run along the same theme of innocuousness. There is nothing disagreeable, controversial, adversarial, or, in the grander scheme of things, particularly important contained here. On the other hand, one could argue (I would) that nothing is more important than these small day-to-day , pleasures, victories, connections and the like. So, that’s a lot to set up this. If you’re still with me, cool. If you’re not, you have probably just skipped down to the pretty pictures and “liked” away. Also, cool.

Last night, the Eagles performed the first of their two nights at the Chase Center in San Francisco. This is the Hotel California/Greatest Hits Tour that was postponed for more than a year because of COVID. I’ll cut right to the, um… “chase” and go ahead and say that it was worth the wait. Since reforming after Glenn Frey’s passing, I’ve seen them three times - their first show in LA at the Classic West in 2017, again on their next tour in Sacramento at the G1C in 2018 and last night. All were quintessential Eagles performances, but last night was easily their best - before or after Glenn Frey’s untimely death, and prior, I’d say their best tour was their last with him, the “History of the Tour.”

Between Vince Gill and Frey’s son, Deacon, the elder Frey’s role is not recreated, it is reinvented, but in a way that pays homage to his legacy and, through his son, absolutely in his image. Yet, it was last night that the entire band, as good as it was right from the start, really came together in “that” way that few groups ever do, in the way the Eagles (almost) always have - and now they have again. There was magic on that stage. There was chemistry. Maybe it was alchemy, but whatever you want to call it, this band was truly enjoying their night, and their genuine appreciation for their fans’ - not just last night, but for more than 50 years - revealed an authenticity that cannot be faked.

I told myself this would be my last Eagles concert. While they are one of my favorite groups, I’ve seen them a lot - enough, I figured - and they are an expensive production. However, maybe this was not my last Eagles concert. At the conclusion of the fourth encore song (that’s right, Sacramento, we got four - Henley’s “Boys of Summer” was included in the SF encore set), I toyed, briefly, with the idea of going back tonight. I won’t, but when the next tour comes around - because I seriously doubt they are done - you might just find me back in the stands.

Cue the music…

I’m already gone…

I have tickets right smack-dab in the center of the 202 section in the new 4,500 seat venue (named, originally enough, "The Venue") at the Thunder Valley Casino in Lincoln, CA. They are in the center of the center and close, closer than I was at the Chase, at The Golden 1 Center in Sacramento in 2018 and way closer than the band's resurrection after the passing of Glenn Frey for the Classic West festival at Dodger Stadium in 2017 or the seats I had as a broke-ass grad student in Louisiana when I saw them in New Orleans for the "History of" tour in 2014.

These tickets were close to $500 each (including all the bullshit Ticketmaster fees), comparable to the price of the seats I bought for both the Chase Center show last year and the G1C show in 2018. Were they "worth it?" That's a tough question to answer. If I had to put it on a credit card and I was paying those tickets off over the next few months (been there, done that - never again), then, no, it's not. But If I have disposable cash, then I decide what to dispose it on - sometimes I might "waste it" on motorcycle parts, others it might be an Eagles concert.

None of this means I will for sure use these tickets. I bought them because I could, knowing the investment is safe (-ish; I thought that about the pre-Covid Chase Center purchase, too - then Covid happened and I lost money on my "investment" extra tickets). They made selling the tickets a little more difficult by sending out actual, physical tickets in the mail - if I sell, it will be a real, not virtual, transaction. But that is only stupid Ticketmaster bullshit, not an insurmountable problem. And at least Ticketmaster won't get a double-cut that way. But I didn't "need" the money I spent and I don't "need" to double or triple it, either. However, I will get that if I sell them as a pair (no "friend deals," don't ask), that's the payoff for the investment and the risk I took.

But I also might go. What I wrote a year ago - combined with the fact that seeing the Eagles in a one-off small venue setting is not likely to happen again soon - is pretty compelling. I mean, I can be pretty convincing. If I do go, that will leave open one important question. Fortunately, I have, literally, months to decide.

Back to School

 

It’s early – way earlier than I need to be up and way earlier than I would ever wake up if given a choice. There are a number of reasons why I might get up this early, but not ever for no reason, yet here we are. It happens once in a while, and there probably is a reason, but fuck if I know what it is. I guess I do have a lot on my mind, but that’s not exactly new, or exactly out of the ordinary. In fact, it would be more curious if there wasn’t much on my mind. There was also once a time when I would use these “awakenings” (makes it sound more mystic that way) to pound the keyboard, to let the muse speak though my fingers and, usually, come up with something… some thing.

 

But it’s been a while. Not just since an early morning up-for-no-reason writing session, but since I’ve done any real writing at all. Oh, sure, I’ve done the shit for work – syllabus writing, assignment writing, emails and even a handful of letters of recommendation – but not this. And when I say it’s been a while, we are not talking about days or weeks – it’s been months. This is the end of August and I have not written anything besides a few longish Facebook posts this entire year. And now, all of a sudden, I wake up before four o’clock in the fucking morning and the words want to come out. Okay…

 

Speaking of work, yesterday was the first day of instruction for the fall 2022 semester at California State University, Sacramento. The official beginning of the academic year was last week, but the first day of school was yesterday and campus was packed. It was packed like it hasn’t been in a long time. It was packed in a way that I used to hate - the monumental hassle of the first week or two of school, the traffic, the parking, the students adding and dropping classes – all stuff that is part of doing my job but not part of the job. Yesterday I didn’t feel any of that frustration, any of that hassle, any of that over-peopledness. What I felt was gratitude even though I was stuck in a monumental traffic jam trying to get to the faculty lot that would likely not have any parking spaces available. I didn’t care.

 

I didn’t even have to be there yesterday. I have classes on Mondays and Wednesdays, but not on the main campus. I went because I needed to pick up a couple of things, but I really didn’t – that was an excuse. But I didn’t even understand that until much later, after I got home last night. In my reflection of why I was feeling the way I was, processing it, I came back around to what in the actual fuck did I need to be there for. I didn’t. I was curious. And I could have just waited until today when I will be on campus virtually all day. And perhaps that is what woke me up. Don’t know. Don’t care. Doesn’t matter.

 

I’m entering my eighth year of teaching at Sac State and, if I include the teaching I did as a grad student, first at Sac State and then at Louisiana State University, my 15^th year of teaching undergraduate university students. I started in 2008 at Sac State, continued in 2011 at LSU and in the fall of 2015, it became my full-time job back at Sac State. Prior to 2008, I was a full-time student for all but one semester from fall of 2003 until I received my BA in late 2007 – from Sac State. That’s a lot of time in the same area for someone who historically gets bored with not just his job, but with his entire career every five to seven years. In fact, I am in record territory for remaining with the same employer, never mind the same career.

 

But COVID nearly changed all that. I do not like people (as a collection, as groups, in general), but I love being on campus, in the classroom and amongst students and colleagues. It seems to be the only kind of peopling I can tolerate. When COVID hit, it reduced the one form of interaction with people that I actually like to little black squares on a monitor. The classroom collaboration and cooperation were all but eliminated and only those who were already naturally predisposed to engaging with their peers would do so – the rest (which was most) of them were content with Zoom anonymity. And it was like that for more than two years. The switch was turned almost overnight, but it took a long time – maybe as much as an entire semester or more – for it to get turned back. And, while it appears to be more or less back to the way things were pre-COVID, I am sure there are many nuances that remain, many of which will show themselves today in my three sections and one office hours session – on campus.

 

But I will be on campus, and so will they. And that is good, despite the monumental cluster-fuck it’s going to be. I have never looked forward to a traffic jam or a crowd or students jostling for a seat in one of my classes or any of the other first day/first week trials and tribulations like I am this week. I remember all too clearly venturing onto a virtually deserted campus on the first day of school not very long ago. This is so much better.

Dog People

One of the great injustices in life is that the average human lifespan is so much longer than that of the average dog. For those of us who cherish our canine companions, that means we will not only have to endure their passing, but also that we go into the relationship knowing that will eventually come to pass. They don’t, they live each day as though it is their only day — not like it might be their last, but like it’s the only day there is — the only one that matters. It is among the most profound gifts they give us, but it is among many, many others. If we, the so-called “dog-people,” are lucky, we will experience a few dogs who both grace our lives… and depart from them. Luck, however, is a two-edged sword, both edges are razor sharp. One side cuts deeply into our hearts, our souls and our lives, filling us with unequivocal, unconditional love; the other leaves the pain of their passing so unique it is difficult to describe. The sting of loss will fade over time, but their love never does.

“But what is grief, if not the perseverance of love.”

~ Vision, from Marvel’s WandaVision

Facebook, as much evil as it sews, is remarkably efficient in cataloguing my activity and recalling it as “memories” on a daily basis. In that respect, it only reproduces what I have put in, and much of that is absolutely worth remembering. Sometimes what is worth remembering is the “perseverance of love.” There have been a handful of really special dogs in my life, all lived out what would be considered long lives — for dogs. Facebook reminded me of two today. One passed on this day peacefully in her sleep nine years ago at the age of 15. Her name was Magic, a pound rescue black lab/Australian shepherd mix whose name fit her perfectly. The other, Bella, in this Facebook video, was just a pup 12 years ago today. She passed less than a year ago. Both of these dogs left paw prints in my heart; I feel them, still, persevering. The sting of their loss has faded, but their love remains — unequivocal, unconditional, eternal.

Now I have Möbius. He has not replaced Magic or Bella or any of the other dogs who have graced my life over my 59 years on this planet. He has added to them, he is among them, he is part of their pack. He lives every day like it’s the only day there is. He loves me unconditionally, he is always happy, his word is always full of optimism. However, the odds are that I will outlive him and one day, he, too, will have to leave me. He doesn’t know it, but I do. He still has a lesson for me — he has the tools to deal with that reality, to deal with all future possible calamity, uncertainty, whatever life might throw at me: Live today like it’s the only day — not like it’s my last, not like there is no tomorrow, and not like a dog without any need to plan for the future, but to enjoy what time I have and just live. Today. And love — like today is the only day there is.

 

The Script, Pt. 2

 

The Eric Rood Administrative Center is the main government building complex for Nevada County, a rural county in the Sierra foothills just east of Sacramento, California. There are two main buildings – one holds all of the main county governmental machinery and the other is the Wayne Brown Correctional Facility (WBCF) – the Nevada County jail. Yesterday, the 30^th Annual Nevada County Toy Run once again attracted in the neighborhood of 1,000 motorcycles with various toys lashed to them. They were all gathered in the parking lot outside of the jail for their annual pilgrimage to the fairgrounds. For 30 years, the toy run has provided toys, clothes and food to the less fortunate residents of Nevada and Placer counties. For me, it is also sort of a homecoming.

 

In the summer of 2002 and again in 2004, the WBCF was my home for a while. For 78 days in the summer of 2002, I would pay my debt to society and, because I am not very good at following directions, I returned for another 40 days on August 6^th of 2004. In 2002, although it was not my first time in jail, it was my first extended sentence; it was more than just a day or two, or four or five – it was weeks. I was tired, I was becoming compliant, I experienced some moments of what we call “surrender,” but I was still fighting, still a “victim,” and still way smarter than virtually everyone else. And I had my rights, dammit! I was convicted of a non-violent felony (since then, after a few years, reduced to a misdemeanor) and sentenced to the relatively cushy trustee “N Section” of the jail. I felt I could improve upon my situation and worked myself right into the much less cushy general population “A-pod,” where I served out most of my sentence.

 

Every year that I ride in the toy run – and on the other occasions I happen to be on my bike at or around WBCF (it’s located right on CA-49 near CA-20 in Nevada City, an absolutely beautiful place to ride a motorcycle) – it takes me back to a little rectangular window on the second floor, right on the corner of the jail, in A-pod. That was my cell. I used to stare out that window and watch the Harleys and other motorcycles riding up Highway 49, pissed off, at first, but eventually just sad. Sad because at some point while I was there I had an epiphany. One day – and I will never forget it – I realized why I was there. It was not because of the cops, or the judge, or my idiot “friends,” or my parents or anyone else. It was because of me. It was like lightning struck me. That day, I stopped fighting.

 

Until I got out. I was going to follow the script. I had every intention of cleaning up, of getting into a 12-step program, of following through with the second part of my sentence – three months of residential treatment – and starting a new, drug-free life. But withing six hours I was right back where I was when I went in, and I had no ability to turn it off. It’s not the first time I was going to “quit” and meant it. It’s not the first time that I connected the dots, saw where they led and said to myself, “enough!” I’ve had these “moments of clarity” before – and as recently as less than two years previously when my behavior almost killed me.

 

A little more than 21 years ago, on October 17^th, 2000, I was living the life of a “non-conformist,” of a “renegade,” of a “freedom-loving American,” or whatever other euphemism I would come up with to defend my “right” to put whatever drugs into my body I saw fit. I would say things like it no one else’s business, that the only person I’m harming is myself (and I didn’t believe I was, anyway) and that if it bothers you, that’s your problem, not mine. I bought into all of that bullshit in order to do what I wanted to do, when I wanted to do it. That morning, due to the drugs I was consuming, I fell asleep at the wheel while driving my then 13- year-old son to school. I drifted into the oncoming lane and hit an approaching logging truck almost head-on. My son escape major physical injuries (however, non-physical injuries are serious, too), as did the logging truck driver, but my injuries damned near killed me.

 

I don’t remember almost all of it, and what I do remember is seriously clouded by shock, pain medication and a medically induced coma. I “woke up” five weeks later. Within a day or two, by the time the fog cleared, I knew exactly what happened. I knew this wasn’t a “close-call,” it wasn’t a “near-miss,” this was a direct hit and, of all the times in my life that I “could have died,” this time I should have. They thought I would. They didn’t think I was going to make it. And I knew why, even though it was determined that “drugs and alcohol were not a factor,” (I have no idea how or why, but that’s what the police report said).

 

I’m not stupid. I almost killed myself, I could have killed my kid. I put my parents and everyone else who cared about me though literal hell. It was everyone else’s business. I was never going to do that again. But I did, not long after I got out of the hospital three months later – still with metal and tubes sticking out of me. I rationalized that now that I knew what could happen, I could prevent catastrophe, but that was yet another lie. Law enforcement came into my life in a big way and by 2002, I found myself looking out that little window longing to be part of that world, wishing I could have followed the script that would get me there.

 

I finally got into residential treatment in March of 2003 and stayed for six months. I gained a lot of clarity, participated in 12-step recovery, tried to work with the “god” thing – something that took a lot of work, because there is no old man with a beard living in the sky in my world. But there was a path around it. In the fall of 2003 I returned to school and thrived like never before. The success I had there was a two-edged sword, however. It bred an arrogance that would soon be dealt with at the end of 2003 with a relapse, a probation violation in 2004 and a return to WBCF on August 6^th, 2004. Since that day, I have not found it necessary to use any drugs or alcohol. I have found that following that script is working for me.

 

But it wasn’t easy. And it wasn’t just the drugs. I had to swallow years and years of pride, a world-view that had me at its center without a concern about how my actions affect others. I had to take all of that back – in a very real, personal and direct way. Do I follow all of the rules? That’s not a simple question. There are rules and then there are rules. Some conventions I do not follow – but they do not affect others. My tattoos, my long hair do not. That really is your problem, not mine. My motorcycles? That’s a much tougher question. If I were to be seriously injured or killed on my bike, that would absolutely affect those I care about – those who love me. But that is a little different, the same can be said for simply walking out my front door – it is a dangerous world. Drugs, at least those that defy “recreational use,” have no redeeming features – they lead to destruction, despair, dereliction and, often, death. The script I have followed for the past 17-plus years absolutely, 100 percent prevents all of that. It has a proven track record.

The Script, Pt. 1

Just to be able to remember “what it was like 21 years ago,” we must be considerably older than 21 years of age. My first memories are from the age of maybe four or five – perhaps a little younger, but they are so sketchy that I hesitate to qualify them as full-fledged “memories.” Those are more ephemeral, ghostlike, perhaps dreamlike images that I cannot really contextualize. But from the age of about five, they become much more concrete. That means I had to be at least 26 before I could say things like, “Twenty-one years ago, we didn’t have…” However, I can remember what life was like when I was 26, and I wasn’t thinking about shit like that. I wasn’t really thinking much at all.  

 

Twenty-one years, in the context of a human life, is a long time. It is almost one third of the average human life expectancy, worldwide. It was, and still is for certain things, the arbitrary number of years it takes for a child to reach “adulthood.” For many species, 21 years is more than enough time to come into existence, live, procreate and die without a trace. When looking at recent technological advancements, the past 21 years has been nothing short of amazing, although 500 years ago, a 21 years span might have looked no different at either end. Still, for people, generally, 21 years is a good long time.

 

 

And that went on for many years. I did some things. I had some success. I had a family, a home, a white picket fence and a mini-van… a wife and a career. But all of it, in retrospect, felt like I was living by someone else’s script and all the while I was “ad-libbing.” What did the ad-libbing look like? It was the epitome of not thinking. Following the “establishment script,” the rules, the norms, the conventions, the “way we are supposed to live life,” would have served me well and kept me out of trouble, but for some reason I just could not keep on that track (I have some ideas why now, but at the time I had no clue). The “left turns” were minor in terms of adding, for lack of better words, excitement, entertainment or recreation to my life – through chemistry - and the related larger “left turns” that manifested in major life changes. The minor, over time, often led to the major because there is no such thing as recreational substance abuse, better known as addiction. 

 

At 26 years old, I was still largely a responsible(ish) young adult with a promising future ahead. All I needed to do was follow the script that remained ahead of me. While I did need some cooperation (the dissolution of my short-lived marriage was not in the script and, while my wife and I going off-script contributed, there is a divorced, single father responsible adult script left), it was still in my hands, if I could do it. I could not, and playing the victim was particularly helpful in my justification to take my character into new and uncharted waters. The twelve years between my 26^th and 38^th birthday, in retrospect, was not a long time, but so much happened. The successes were still there, but they were fewer, farther between and shorter. And the trouble mounted, slowly at first, but it grew by orders of magnitude. I finally got a handle on all of it in 2003 and again, for good, in 2004, buy by then a lot of damage was already done.

 

Twenty-one years ago today, my life was chaotic, and my two youngest sons were along for the ride. They might have said that they were living a good life (they have said so before), but they were not aware of everything going on and, despite living in what many refer to as “paradise” in the mountains, there was plenty of trouble in paradise. In just four days, all hell would break loose. 

 

We were all, of course, blissfully oblivious to what was on the horizon, but it was all part of the script I was living – it was not a preordained conclusion, but is was certainly in the cards. On October 17^th, 2000 – not quite 21 years ago, everything would change. For me and my family, it was the beginning of the end – not quite the end yet, that was still coming, but it was the beginning. The beginning of the beginning would not come until 2002, but the actually new life I enjoy today took another two years to come to pass. Ironically enough, I am following my heart and following the rules, conventions and norms of civilized society – the script I fought against so hard for so long.

 

To be continued…