By Popular Demand - Stupid Part IV

For those of you jumping in without reading the articles in chronological order and wondering what the hell this has to do with the Alaskapade, the next paragraph is a repeat from a previous entry.  Everyone else just skip down.


I was sitting in a client's conference room in the midst of pre-meeting smalltalk when a co-worker brought up the Alaskapade and asked when I was leaving.  One of my clients asked what he was talking about and my co-worker pulled up the Alaskapade.com page on the conference room's projection screen.  We had but moments before the meeting kicked off, so there wasn't much time for me to explain.  There was time, however for my client to express his opinion that "this has to be the stupidist thing [I've] ever done".  My first instinct was to argue the purpose for my trip, but this is my customer and IBM probably wouldn't appreciate that.  So, I just grinned, nodded, and bit my lip as the meeting started.

It did get me thinking though.  I know I'm firmly resolved in my purpose for the trip and I also know that I've done many things more stupid than this.  There are too many to list without starting another blog, so I thought I would describe my top three in no particular order.

--

Those three came and went and they prompted many readers to write in and comment.  Most of those comments were something like "Anyone who does that kind of crap must have more than three stupid stories to tell."  I'm not sure how to take that except to wonder how they knew. 

Nevertheless, here's Stupid Part IV - Kickboxing

["Oh yeah! You're winning! No get back out there and finish kicking his ass!"]

After my encounter with Larry, Darryl, and Darryl, I decided to never knowingly put myself in a position to be an unwitting victim again.  I began training in Song Moo Kwan Tae Kwon Do at a local school near my home.  This class had been in place over 25 years with the same two instructors. Their system had a foundation which far exceeded the school's owner and some anonymous photo of a Korean "Master" hanging on the wall.  They also held classes in which my sons and I could train together.  This was nice because my boys were far enough apart in ages to always be on different teams and leagues in any given sport or other activity. As such, I relished the opportunity for the three of us to do something together.

Where the adults were concerned, ours was a full contact class.  We always wore protective gear and no one was out to truly hurt anyone else, but it was understood that shit happens and I was always sporting a cracked rib, a black eye, or a fat lip. As I worked my way through the ranks, various martial arts tournaments would come and go, but I was never really interested in them.  Tournaments were for the most part a game of tag where anything more than slight contact was penalized and usually grounds for disqualification.  The fight scenes in the Karate Kid movies were crap.

We were trained with the mantra "you prepare hoping you never have to use it" and we all nodded in agreement, but the reality was that everyone in the class secretly fantasized about an altercation wherein we would kick the ass of someone who deserves it, using the techniques we practiced daily.  Before class one night, word was spreading about an upcoming kickboxing tournament and everyone was buzzing about it.  These events usually had a few low-level professional bouts preceded by several amateur matches with fighters at various levels of capabilities.  I had always shunned traditional martial arts tournaments because they seemed lame, but these would be full contact, multi-round events where a guy could learn first hand how his skills stacked up against others.  I asked my instructor what he thought of my training for and entering the event.  The techniques used in kickboxing were quite different than those we were learning, but he and his instructor agreed to train me if I was willing to do so outside of class.  For weeks before the event, I would go to my instructors house and get my ass kicked by whatever guest bully he had show up to beat on me that night. I came home one night with my jaw so swollen I couldn't talk, much less eat.  I had been knocked cold from a heel rake delivered by one of my instructor's fellow teachers.  We were working out in the grass between the houses and I never saw it coming.  One second I was throwing a punch and the next, it was lights out. I came to looking up as a fuzzy rendition of my instructor was digging in my throat trying to prevent me from swallowing my mouthpiece.  I tried to avoid talking when I got home because I knew how much crap I'd take for doing something so stupid being the sole bread winner in the house.  Truth was, nobody at home knew what I was doing or what I planned to do. I never even told my family about the match or its outcome.

Kickboxing rules are different than regular martial arts competitions in many ways, most notably of which was full contact was not just allowed, it was expected.  I felt like I had an advantage, or was at least at par with my competition because our class trained the same way.  Part of our training included visiting other classes, one of which on one particular night was to a class where absolutely no contact was allowed.  From the youngest kids to the adults, the students were terrified of us.  I remember thinking what an injustice this school was doing to its students, wrapping them in belts having never really been hit.  Our organization was old school and our founder, now in his mid 60's, didn't believe anyone who hadn't been knocked out cold in training deserved to wear a black belt.  I still had a few years to go before my first black belt test, but I knew I already had that square filled.

The most difficult part of kickboxing for me was learning how to actually box.  The rules dictated that each competitor had to throw a minimum of six kicks in each of three three-minute rounds.  You could pummel your opponent, but if you failed to get your six kicks in, you lost the round.  Kicks were my specialty.  I had developed a wicked hook kick roundhouse combination with my forward leg that always caught my opponents off guard.  I just needed to work on that boxing thing. I went with my instructor to watch a kickboxing match and was shocked at what I saw.  These guys weren't martial artists.  They were all boxers who learned how to throw six kicks.  The irony was that you didn't even have to land the kicks.  The usual tactic seemed to be to just toss 'em out there in the general vicinity of your opponent and then slug it out for the remainder of the round.  I decided to take a different approach.

The night of my tournament arrived and I drove out with my instructor and his instructor, Mr. DeLuna.  I observed a few matches before mine and was pleased to see that my expectations had been met.  These guys also appeared to just be boxers who threw six kicks per round.  They even wore boxing trunks.  When my first match was called, I entered the ring in a full training pants with  my gi top wrapped by my blue belt.  The crowd was mostly silent except for the few friends I had there. Their cheers were drowned out by the snickering and outright laughter from others, but I paid them no mind.

As the bell rang out calling the fighters to center ring, my instructor looked me straight in the eye and told me to stick to our plan.  I had trained with he and his fellow instructors for a few months, but suddenly I had no intention whatsoever of applying what they taught me.  My opponent looked to be about my age, 31, but he had long jet black hair, was cut like a boxer, tattooed, and totally ripped.  I had short gray hair, was cut like a pancake, had no tattoos, and was slightly torn at best.  We touched gloves after the first round bell tolled and he started with the typical boxer dancing, bobbing, and weaving. I assumed a defensive stance with my weight on my rear foot and my arms positioned to protect my chest and face.  As he danced and moved around me, I just pivoted on my back foot, staying sideways relative to his chest.  This made me a slimmer profile and therefore a smaller target.  All he really had in his fighting arsenal was a straight jab.  My stance made me more elusive than the typical fighter he faced who stood face to face with him.  I figured out quickly that for all his muscles, he had no flexibility.  He had a hard jab, but that was it.  When he punched, I moved ever so slightly causing him to miss and stammer forward.  Throwing a full force punch and missing is much more exhausting than when the punch connects.  I heard someone in his corner yell out "kick".  He threw a half-assed forward kick in my general direction that was barely waist high.  I could throw side kicks that were head high.  Part of my instructor's training regimen was to have us stand sideways right next to a folding chair and side kick over it.  If I kicked too low, I kicked the chair and it hurt as bad as any punch or kick from an opponent.  That training technique was instrumental in my discipline development and my high side kicks were a reward.  About a minute into the first round, I figured out his pattern.  He would fake a jab twice with his left hand and then throw a right hand.  About every third set of these was followed up by a half-assed kick.  I maintained my stance, staying completely passive.  The crowd started booing at me and my instructor was pulling his hair out.  This was years before the Ultimate Fighting Championship and mixed martial arts became popular.  The crowd wanted a fight and I was taught not to fight.  I was taught to respond and eliminate the threat with minimal effort. About the time my instructor yelled out "sixty seconds", my opponent repeated his staple move.  I flinched slightly to the right and I could hear his fist whoosh past my left ear as he stumbled forward.  I pivoted to the left and launched a head-high side kick with my right leg that caught him square in the under left side of his jaw.  I remember seeing what looked like a slow motion view of his head slamming sideways on to his right shoulder.  The sweat from his long hair splashed off his shoulder and he dropped to the mat.  The crowd was silent.  It even took my friends a few seconds to realize what happened and respond.  The ref pushed me to my corner and gave my opponent (who had stood up by this point) a standing eight count. This scenario repeated itself twice more before the round ended.  He basically walked into every kick I threw.  After the third knock down, the ref called the fight.  I won.  I won in a single round against a boxer and I never even threw a punch.  In fact, I only threw a total of three kicks the entire round.  Ironically, had the round not ended before the TKO, I would have lost it because I didn't have my six kicks in.  The ref raised my hand in victory and the only cheers in the place were from my instructors and my friends.  My opponent hugged me and I stepped through the ropes and hopped to the floor.  I had about thirty minutes before my next match which would pit me against another first round winner.

My instructor was simultaneously happy and pissed at me.  He asked me if I had forgotten everything I learned the last few months.  I told him I learned from him, but what I learned most was how to exploit the weaknesses in the techniques they were teaching me.  He told me I was being cocky and that cockiness would cost me.  I outwardly feigned confidence, but I knew I was lucky.  My next match was the last of the first round winners.  When they called me for the next round, my opponent wasn't there.  They had to call in an alternate who hadn't fought all night because he arrived too late.  My corner was concerned because he was fresh.  Hell, I was fresh.  All I had done was throw three kicks and then rest for half an hour.  What I realized that my corner did not, was that this guy never saw my first match.

The clang of the bell sounded the start of the second round.  We touched gloves and I assumed the position.  My new opponent was a Hispanic guy who apparently spoke no English.  He started bobbing around and then just stopped, dropping his hands and looking at me as if to say "didn't you hear the bell?"  I seized the moment, launched a spinning back kick with my right leg and burying my heel into his breadbasket.  Down he went, but this guy bounced right back up.  I caught him off guard, but I didn't hurt him.  As the ref gave him a standing eight count, my instructor yelled out to me "You think lightning's gonna strike twice?"  I just shrugged, reinserted my mouthpiece and flashed a black toothed grin.  This match went longer and I actually got some hand strikes in.  The boxing gloves made it difficult to strike in the manner in which I was accustomed and had trained for over the last couple of years and by this point I had forgotten anything I had recently learned about boxing.  I figured out I could throw ridge hands and strike with the side of my hand and throw backfists.  I loaded up a backfist with a full 360 spin to the right, connected on my opponent's right ear, and knocked out his mouthpiece.  The rules dictated that if a fighter's mouthpiece was knocked out, it couldn't be replaced until after the round ended.  My opponent looked at me wide-eyed and motioned with his gloves towards his face as if trying to point.  His lips were wide open and his teeth were clinched.  He was saying something in Spanish, but I never got it.  Then I noticed that he had braces and was trying to show me.  I nodded, kept my strikes low, and finished what proved to be a pretty dull round.  The third round wasn't much more exciting, but I stayed close to him, marginalizing his legs, and we exchanged a lot of punches.  I took a few good shots to the head during that round.  I knew I won the first round, but I wasn't totally confident in the second and third.  To my recollection, they were close and I was gassed out.  The judges scored me the winner of the second round and in the end, although a moot point after the first two, I won the third round because my opponent failed to get six his kicks in.  Lightning had struck twice.

I had to wait about an hour for my third match.  The third guy was an Italian dude who was younger and leaner than my first two opponents. He wore full length gi pants wrapped by his black belt which was adorned with several gold stripes.  He wore no shirt and had a Ferrari symbol tattooed over his heart.  After seeing him, I was wishing I had braces to point at; or maybe a cane; perhaps a walker with tennis balls on the bottom.  He was a badass and I was in trouble.  We both knew it.

The bell rang out to start the fight and we touched gloves.  I assumed my defensive stance and hoped for the best.  He displayed no caution and ran in on me fast.  I threw a block with my left hand and tried to side step him.  Right about then, I heard what sounded like a really loud buzzing sound.  I remember thinking "I wonder what that is..."  Simultaneously, I felt what seemed like a jackhammer "buzzing" the sides of my head.  I'm pretty sure I knew what that was.  My ears seemed to clog up as if I had a severe cold and everything sounded muffled.  This guy was hitting me so hard and so fast that I never saw the punches coming.  He could kick too and his kicks weren't half assed.  They landed and they landed hard.  At one point I remember we were almost toe to toe and I was looking him square in the eye when suddenly, I'm staring at his feet going up sideways from the mat.  In fact the whole ring is sideways and nobody was falling over.  This was because I had fallen over immediately after he cold cocked me in the side of the head with his left foot.  The next thing I knew, the ref was giving me a standing eight count and I didn't remember standing back up.  The first round ended and I staggered first to the wrong corner, then to mine.  My instructor and friends were laughing their asses off.  I practically barfed out my mouthpiece and asked "How am I doin'? Am I winning?"  Mr DeLuna stifled his laughter and said "Oh yeah! You're winning! Now get back out there and finish kicking his ass!"

The second round began and I decided I needed a new strategy.  Duh!  The reality was it didn't matter what I did.  This guy had my number and there was nothing I could do except try to maintain some dignity and survive three rounds.  I began to notice an odd smell.  It smelled like something was burning.  I rubbed the sweat my face with my sleeve and it was smeared with blood.  I remember wondering "how'd that get there?"  I must have landed something.  Maybe I am winning.  I was so punch drunk I didn't even recognize the smell or taste of my own blood.  By this time, It seemed like someone had turned out some of the lights around the ring.  It definitely seemed darker.  I threw a few kicks and eventually heard my instructor yell out "six!", indicating I met the minimum.  Oh good!  Now I can run around and try not to get hit.  Suddenly, I had tremendous respect for those boxers who just hours before I had thought of as lightweights.

The second round ended and it occurred  to me that I may have been lied to by my corner after the first round.  They were all still laughing their asses off and urging me on as I sat in my corner.  I wanted to quit and I told my instructor I was done.  Then, Mr. DeLuna (who was a short, fat little Mexican in his late fifties and a total badass) spoke up and told me if I quit, he'd kick my ass worse than he (pointing to the ring) ever could.  Mr. DeLuna commanded respect.  He came up through the ranks the hard way, a direct protege of our organization's founder with all the old school rules.  It was his influence that drove our class and he did not tolerate anything less than 100% effort.  I knew he would do exactly as he said he would and I figured I looked better getting pummeled by the guy in the ring than by a guy eight inches shorter than me with a Santa Claus belly.  When the bell rang, I jumped up as if I thought I had a chance and we touched gloves.  The rest is pretty much a blur.  I know I got six kicks in, although they could have landed on my own head as far as I could tell.  I never imagined a human could move as fast and hit as hard as he was hitting me.  To this day, I suspect he was just toying with me because he could have easily knocked me out; probably in the first round.  The bell mercifully rang and it was finally over.  Lightning struck again.  Only this time, it struck me square in my ass.  We hugged it out and as the ref lifted his hand, I could barely lift my head.  I made it three rounds with this guy and tried to feel proud about it, but a part of me knew that he let me finish standing.

After the match and after I regained lucidity, the Italian bought me a coke at the concession stand.  He had just got his ass kicked in his next match. I was shocked.  If he got his ass handed to him after beating me like he did, how big a pussy must I have been?  He told me that he saw my first two matches and admired the fact that I tried to represent the art; the martial art.  I wasn't so sure I did a good job of representing anything except for Tampax.  See, it was common in the fighting world to use cut off tampons to stop nose bleeding and my instructor had stuffed on up my nose after the third fight.  I had a string hanging out of my nostril the whole time I was talking to him and others after my fight.  I remember looking in the rear view mirror on my way home, seeing the string, and thinking "Jeezus Christ! I AM a pussy!"



'

On Mothers' Day

Your mother is always with you.


She is the whisper of the leaves as you walk down the street.  She's the smell of bleach in your freshly laundered socks. She's the smell of certain foods you remember, the flowers you pick and the perfume that she wore.  She's the cool hand on your brow when you're not feeling well. She's your breath in the air on a cold winter's day. She is the sound of the rain that lulls you to sleep and the colors of a rainbow when you awaken.

She is Christmas morning.

Your mother lives inside your laughter and is crystallized in every tear drop. Your mother shows every emotion; happiness, sadness, fear, jealousy, love, hate, anger, helplessness, hope, excitement, joy, and sorry - and all the while hoping you will only know the good feelings in life.

She is the place you came from; your first home, and she is the map you follow with every step you take.


She is your first love, your first friend, even your first enemy, but nothing on earth can separate you; not time, not space, not even death.

- Sherry Martin

Code Blue Part Deux

If you're wondering what this entry is about, check out part one here.  If the lack of direct Alaskapade relevance bothers you, skip this and check back here in a few days.



The tracks for 508 Park were cut and we waited for the recording engineer to work his magic with the mix down.  That process included adjusting various levels, emphasizing this, minimizing that; whatever it took to make us sound better while maintaining our goal of not overproducing the record.  I thought the recording process was tenuous, but this was a mind numbing process.  The five of us all had opinions to offer on how the finished product should sound. Most of us were concerned with achieving a well-balanced sound and our input was along those lines.  I was primarily focused on the CD packaging and wanted to ensure everyone’s opinion and creative input were represented.  Jim’s input was consistently “I wanna hear more me”.  Once the mix down was complete, I delivered the master recording and artwork to the shop which would mass produce the CD for us.  I had been a PC geek for years and had some experience with graphics, but I was not prepared for the requirements that a four-color production would entail.  I learned fast and was happy with the final product.  The disc itself had a reflective image of the front of the 508 Park building.  It was a nice, professional touch for a low budget release.  The next obstacle was getting writing credits right.  It’s funny how when we were writing the tunes, everyone had input and the spirit of sharing and collaboration was high.  But once a name was to be assigned in the form of a writing credit, Jim’s ego had some competition.  I didn’t write anything, so I could care less other than I wanted the liner notes to be accurate.

I had read horror stories about bands being screwed over by record companies, former members, competing bands, etc. and ultimately losing the rights to their own material.  I wasn’t worried about a record company as much as I was worried about Jim.  We decided to copyright the CD and formed an equally-owned legal business entity. I had already trademarked the name Code Blue as a musical body, an action which would prove to be fortuitous.  Code Blue was a common band name, but none of the other Code Blues out there seemed to have any more notoriety than we did.  Still, it wasn’t uncommon for me to receive an email from some other like-named band from Austin or Houston demanding that we cease and desist using their name with threats of legal action if we didn’t.  They would usually cite the fact that they’ve been around longer or some other bullshit.  I usually just ignored them, but if they persisted and threw out the legal card, I would reply to them with a scanned copy of my copyright and trademark with a recommendation that they back off or my lawyers would be contacting them. Lawyers?  We ain’t got no stinkin’ lawyers. But it always worked nonetheless.  My feeling was they play where they are, we play here, and neither of us are likely to ever cross paths, so just go play your music and leave us alone.

All of us (except for maybe Jim) saw the band for what it really was; a creative outlet; a hobby that paid (sometimes).  When it didn’t feed our wallets, it almost always fed our egos. However, Jim wanted to be a rock star and would do anything to get there.  Code Blue was a stepping stone for him and he made no bones about it. The rest of us never felt threatened by this for two reasons. We saw the musical talent around us and recognized that there were some monster players out there with amazing talent that dwarfed us by comparison.  If those guys never “made it”, we never would.  We also knew that to a certain degree, we had brand recognition and could have another singer on board in a heartbeat if push came to shove.

Ken, aka Mr. Do It All

None of us (again, except for maybe Jim) ever expected the CD to launch us or anything. All I wanted from it was a piece of history; something to show for all the work we put into playing.  Anyone who thinks playing music in a band is easy has probably never done it.  Getting a group of people who have egos strong enough to stand before complete strangers and perform to work together, think alike, and just generally cooperate is a challenge.  On weekends when we played both Friday and Saturday nights, we usually blew off rehearsing the next week just so we could get away from each other.  By the third night on a three day weekend, we could barely stand to be in each others’ presence; and we were part timers doing this for fun.  I can’t imagine trying to live together on a tour for months on end.  I had neither the chops nor the commitment to put up with that nonsense.  After a long gigging weekend, I almost looked forward to getting back to my real job. Almost.

Having a real CD gave us a little more clout when it came to booking gigs and I always included clips from the tracks on the demo disk which was part of our promo pack. I knew the booking manager wouldn’t listen to any song entirely, so I picked the best parts of the best tracks and included them along with some live recordings to prove we really had people who liked us.  Code Blue was working as often as we wanted.  We weren’t getting rich by any means, but we were having a great time and I was able to sock away my share of the pay to buy more gear.  I became a gear junkie.  My drum kit never grew.  I played a 1974 Ludwig kit, usually just four shells and two cymbals.  I learned early on that the noise I could make with more drums and cymbals was negligible compared to the effort it took to haul, set up and tear down the larger kit.  Besides, having fewer pieces made me more creative with the ones I had and I felt it made me a better drummer.  I was into the PA gear and I owned everything the band had.  Unfortunately, I was also the only one who knew how to set up and configure it all.  This was probably for the best because I had a system.  Every cable was coiled into its own zip lock bag. and was packed into a specified case.  Every microphone had its own foam rubber storage spot in the trunks that hauled the gear. I even had a network diagram illustrating how and where every cable plugged into every piece of equipment.  Anyone who knew me personally was shocked at how neat I was with my gear because I was then, and still now, am a slob in most every other part of my life.  Nobody else in the band seemed to understand vocal compressors, feedback eliminators, and crossovers, so I did it all.

Me & a Rare Beer Shot

The more we played, the more the four of us gelled as a unit.  Notice I said four. Jim’s ego was growing so large that the rest of him barely fit on stage. He would go on tirades and throw fits which would as a result, get us banned from the venue. This usually happened when he drank which was usually all the time. Jim’s drinking at gigs forced me to institute a no bar tab for the band policy at the bar for whatever venue we played.  Besides, we had enough fans buying shots for us.  We (Jim) didn’t need any more.  The straw that broke the camel’s back was placed there after a gig at O’Riley’s in Dallas.  We had been trying to get into that venue for a year and when they had a late cancellation, I got the call.  This would have been a rare, albeit well-deserved weekend off for us, but we all wanted to play this venue, so I booked it and called the guys.  We played really well and the crowd loved us.  The bar made a killing and the management liked our show.  We sold a pile of CDs and the tip jar was stuffed.  Jim had been hitting on this blonde bartender all night and became increasingly frustrated as the evening went on because he wasn’t getting anywhere with her.  When the gig was over, we all did our usual banter with our friends who had come to see us play as we packed our gear.  Some people even asked us to autograph the CD they bought.  That was always odd to me and I never felt worthy.  Jim’s usual trick when it came to packing up was to grab his microphone and stand, proclaim “I got my shit”, and leave the rest of it for us to pack.  Sometimes he would hang around, but that was when he was broke and needed the cash from the gig right away.  I handled the majority of the booking and payment arrangements and as such, was the one who had to hunt down the venue management to get us paid.  For some reason, Jim took it upon himself to collect, and used that as a reason to hit on the bartender some more. She wasn’t having any of it.  I was doing my thing bagging up my drums and dismantling my hardware when I hear Jim screaming over at the bar.  I leapt off stage and got to the bar in time to head Jim yell “…you fucking bitch!”  Earlier that night, I spoke with the owner as we were loading in and he asked me how we wanted our money.  I replied “In cash”.  He laughed and said he would divide it any way we wanted it, so I asked for five envelopes with an even split.  The bartender had deducted Jim’s bar tab from his envelope and apparently, that didn’t leave much.  About the time I got there, the owner came bursting out of the office behind the bar, walked up to the bartender who was now crying and said “What’s the matter honey?”  The bartender was the owner’s wife.  I tried to smooth things over, but the damage was done.  This was the fourth venue that we were banned from because of Jim’s actions.  Jim was a misogynist who had no respect for women whatsoever.  He admitted to being married and divorced twice and was always chasing skirts.  He had a Realtor license and would con his way into working for high end brokers until his draw ran out and then he would move on. He was a first class dick, but the man could sing and write.

Dennis & Stu

Afterward, Jim had a few words with Ken and Dennis and they were now packing up and keeping to themselves.  Stu was also keeping to himself, but he was as angry as the rest of us.  Stu was probably the smartest guy in the band. He was by far the most educated.  He was a deep thinker and it showed in his lyrics.  A wise man wouldn’t mistake his quiet disposition for weakness.  When we were in junior high, Stu had finally had enough hazing from some stoner freak and pretty much disassembled him in gym class.  For my part, I was fucking furious.  Our name was Code Blue, but I was seeing red.  I was standing at the front of the stage meticulously coiling and bagging cables when Jim walked up and spouted off about what a dive the place was and how he did us a favor.  In a rare display of tranquility, I just looked away and kept working.  Not willing to leave it alone, Jim hopped up on stage, got right in my face, poking his finger in my chest and said “What!? You got a problem with me too?” I maintained my composure and while slowly, yet deliberately pushing his finger down, quietly replied “If you say one more word to me, the last thing you’ll do before you die is taste your own blood.”  Jimmy Wise, as he liked to call himself, wisely turned and walked away.  The bar’s front doors were locked and we had to exit from the back into an alley.  I had moved my car there to load out and was standing there when Jim made his exit.  Startled, he turned and hustled back in and asked Dennis to escort him out because he wasn’t going to give me a shot at him alone in a dark alley.  What a douche.  One of his original tunes we performed was called “Drama Queen”. I had no idea that he had written it about himself.  But I digress.  I had no violent intent towards him.  He was out of my life and he didn’t even know it yet.  Dennis walked out with Jim and he drove off.  That was the last time I ever saw him.

The rest of us met up in the parking lot and collectively spoke aloud what we had all already decided.  Jim was out.  We had gigs booked the next weekend and we needed a singer quicker than quick.  It was 3:00am and we were emotionally and physically beat.  We decided to get some sleep and discuss it the next day.  The next morning, Jim sent me an apologetic email.  In it, he wrote that he was willing to stay with the band, but added “you have no right to threaten my life, man.  You don’t get to do that.”  I chuckled as I forwarded it to the other guys.  The four of us got together that afternoon on the phone to be sure we were all still on the same page after some much needed sleep.  Ken, as the elder statesman of the band and the one Jim respected the most, volunteered to make the call to Jim.  It's a good thing nobody changed their mind because I had already edited Jim out of the web page completely.

Jim's Typical Pose

Jim told Ken that he had been considering leaving the band at the end of the year anyway.  He also demanded his share of the potential CD sales.  Jim figured that with 500 CDs left at $10 each, he was due one fifth of the potential $5,000.  We all had a good laugh over that one.  Ken was going to meet up with Jim to hand over some gear he had left in my studio.  I handed Ken a box of 100 CDs with instructions to tell Jim he could sell them for whatever he wanted, toss them out, whatever.  I learned later that he took them to independent CD shops around Dallas and left them for consignment.  I wasn’t concerned about them.  I had recouped my production and duplication investment and then some.  I wasn’t in this for the money anyway.

 There were more pressing issues at hand.  We had a gig at the largest biker bar in Denton in six days and we needed a lead singer.

.

Thoughts on Obama & Osama

America and many around the world are ecstatic about Osama's death.  The self-proclaimed "strong horse" is now the dead horse.

I find it interesting that there is no assassination outcry and demands for a fair trial from ilk like Michael Moore and the liberal media.  Eric Holder surely would have wanted him tried in New York City.  Assassination is the proper word here.  Osama was shot in the eye, which means he was capturable.  This was clearly an assassination order as no commander would risk his troop taking punitive heat for a kill if President Obama wanted him alive.

People ask why this never happened under President Bush and it did so fast for President Obama.  Perhaps it was because the New York Times stopped publicizing leaked covert operations after President Bush left office.  I can only imagine the outcry from the progressive movement if this action had been carried out under President Bush, so maybe this is best this way.

We all know the current administration's claims to inheriting the fiscal crisis our country currently faces. I find it interesting that no one in the Obama administration admits to inheriting the intelligence information gained by waterboarding Khalid Shaikh Mohammed in Guantanamo Bay; the same Guantanamo Bay that President Obama swore to close down over three years ago.  Regardless, credit goes to Nobel Peace Prize winner President Obama for making a decision; especially when the last democrat president who attempted a covert desert operation was humiliated and hustled out of office in the next general election.  There is a part of me however, who can't resist correlating this action with the fact that Obama's approval ratings are in the toilet in every other possible category.  Where is the praise for General Petraeus and his staff?

I for one am very proud that it was an American who got the kill.  Imagine the rush that Seal Team member experienced when he looked at Bin Laden's left eye though the cross hairs immediately before he pulled the trigger. Someday we'll find out who this hero was and if he cashes in and advertises some product, I'm buying.

I also find it odd that for several months, Osama lived in the largest compound in hundreds of miles that sported 18 foot high walls and was surrounded by a community of retired Pakistani military officers.  Are we supposed to believe the Pakistani government didn't know he was there?  Rest assured, Pakistan is pissed that a foreign power entered their territory and conducted an assassination operation. Given President Obama's nature of being an apologist to the rest of the world, I'm surprised he authorized it.  I'm just glad he did.

Bin Laden's ceremonial burial at sea was, in my mind, an exercise in politically correct sensitivity.  If Obama had any real economic sense, he would have had the body flown to the US for a stone throwing tour.  We could probably wipe the deficit clean with the money Americans would pay to throw a pork soaked rock at Bin Laden's corpse.  Nevertheless, I hope Bin Laden enjoys his 70 virgins.

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A Great Day for America

This is a great day for America and for the world.

A surgical shot through the left eye now serves as a emotional shot in the arm for a thousands of families who have lost loved ones over the last decade and for millions who love them.  

There is a price to pay for evil. Bin Laden's death is pocket change in comparison to his indignant burial at sea and the morale toll it will impose on his followers.

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Alaskapade Tunes - Code Blue

I just received a 16Gb memory chip for the GPS/mp3 player I'll be taking on the trip.  I needed to upgrade from the 8Gb chip I had previously installed because I have so many tunes and a small library of audio books stored that I actually ran out of memory.  While I was transferring all the data from one chip to the other, I began adding music from my media storage drive that wouldn't fit on the smaller chip. In doing so, I started listening to some tunes I haven't heard in years.  One of the folders I copied over was a collection of tunes from my old band Code Blue.  I hadn't listened to any of our stuff in a few years and when I did, it really took me back.  While this series of entries is barely relevant to the Alaskapade, it satiates a need I've felt for a while to document what were some pretty cool years in my life.  I suspect it will take me a few entries to wrap my head around all the memories and document them. I won't let these entries interfere with the true purpose of this blog. Nevertheless, if non-Alaska related material bores you, stop reading here.

L to R: Jim Ken, Stu, me & Steve

Code Blue came together in 2001 when my best friend (the prom photo friend) and I decided to quit talking about someday playing music together and actually did it.  He and I used to sit around in high school and draw album covers talking about how we would someday tour the world and elsewhere.  Stu played bass and I was a drummer.  We managed to jam together a couple of times while I was in the Air Force, but he was a teacher up in Dallas and I lived in Austin so there was never any real collaboration.  I played in bands down there and he had projects up here.  When I exited the service, it took me a few years (eleven to be exact) to get my career together to a point where I had enough free time to pursue music and commit to a band.  I ran a Craigslist ad and had numerous responses right away. One of those responses was from a singer/guitarist named Jim who brought a guitarist along for a casual jam session with Stu and I.  The guitarist (Steve) was a weird little dude, but he had good gear and the guy could really play. Jim was a pretty good singer, but his ego was larger than his balding forehead.  I was weird also and so was Stu, so what the hell?  We cranked out a few electric blues tunes and instantly had a tight sound and a rapport that seemed to click.  We decided to select a few more tunes and get together again the next week to see if that excitement was genuine or fleeting.  As we parted ways, I mentioned that my friend Ken played keyboards and offered to ask him over for the next session.  Ken was an excellent singer, keyboardist, rhythm and lead guitarist, and drummer.  Recognizing Jim's ego, I kept Ken's additional talents to myself for the time being.  Ken joined us the following week and things really clicked.  Those early jam sessions were instrumental (no pun intended) to the band's future success because jamming instantly identifies the presence or lack of musical chemistry among the musicians.  Within a few weeks, we had a nice repertoire of tunes and the neighbors who heard us playing were always complimentary.  It seemed we were on to something and it was time to play in front of a crowd.  We needed a name.  I don't recall who came up with Code Blue, but we all liked it and the name fit well with slogans like "Blues that take your breath away" and "The blues never hurt so good".

First Gig - "Woodstock" in North Texas

Not many bands have the luxury of having their first gig compared to Woodstock. Ours was, but only in that Woodstock was also held in a cow pasture.  We drove a hundred miles to play a dirt motorcycle event held in the middle of nowhere.  We set up on a large flatbed trailer and powered our instruments and amplifiers with portable generators.  The weather was great and the crowd of about 200 people seemed genuinely appreciative.  I was especially nervous for a number of reasons.  I hadn't performed in front of a crowd in twelve years and this crowd was comprised of many of my friends. I was one of the organizers of the motorcycle event, so my reputation was on the line on many levels.  All the tunes were covers, but our renditions of some of them were pretty unique and some of the tunes were so obscure that many in the crowd might have assumed they were originals.  We finished the gig and knew without question that we indeed had the makings of a decent band.  We just needed time, more tunes, and gigs.

Our second gig was in downtown Dallas on Mother's Day at an event that was sponsored by a local radio station.  Dallas has a ritzy area called the Swiss Avenue District with enormous old homes that are worth millions.  Each year, the Swiss Avenue Tour of Homes is held on Mother's Day and is centered around a park in the middle of the district.  The tour is an opportunity for the common people to wander through the rich peoples' homes and admire their stuff.  I never  really grasped what enticed the visitors, but I was glad they were there because they made for a large audience and we were right in the middle of the action. I did wonder however, if people who were interested in fancy Tudor homes would be interested in the music we were bringing.

This was an easy gig because we didn't have to bring any PA gear.  All we had to do was show up, play, and be good.  The event and our band name were advertised heavily in Dallas area television, radio, and print media in the days preceding the event. and all of our friend sand families came out to see us. No pressure!  There were a few opening acts on stage before us and we made it a point to get there early enough to see them and size up or competition.  We missed the first act entirely, but apparently everyone else did too because there was no crowd gathered as they were unloading from the stage.  The next act was a quartet of little old ladies who called themselves Flute Salad.  Seriously.  They each sat up on the stage in chairs and their music stands were draped with miniature quilts adorned with their names and cutesy little pictures of flutes. The five of us stood looking at the quartet in their full-length dresses and then at each other in our sleeveless black rock and roll t-shirts.  Well, all of us except Ken.  Ken was older than the rest of us (around 60) and was sporting a collared golf shirt, Bermuda shorts, loafers, and tall white socks.

The next act was a solo vocalist named Angie Streck.  Angie sang to a CD soundtrack and was excellent.  She captured the crowd and sang her heart out. I sat at a table near the back and just listened.  She looked as good as she sounded.  I commented to the one other guy at the table that her voice was as hot as she was.  He just nodded.  After her performance, I went to say hi to her as the crew prepared the stage for our gear.  I told her how much I enjoyed her act and we chatted a moment.  Then she introduced me to her husband; the same guy who was sitting at the table with me moments before. I was sure glad I included her vocal talent in my description of her when I spoke to him.

Code Blue @ Swiss Avenue (Notice Ken's Socks)

Code Blue were up next.  We set up our gear and did a quick sound check.  I stood at the front of the stage before we went on and noticed a big sign the radio station had printed that read "Code Blue - Smokin' Eclectic Blues".  It was supposed to say "Smokin' Electric Blues". As I read it, I wondered if it was an error or a judgment call based on the previous acts.  It was too late to care.  I hopped on stage and we kicked off our set with our arrangement of "Turn It Up", a mild, bluesy number littered with smooth guitars and old school Hammond keyboard sounds. The moderate-sized crowd applauded politely.  The tempo of our set ratcheted up sharply with a tune called "Big Leg Woman" during which a much larger crowd gathered and applauded more enthusiastically.  By our last tune, "Superstition" we had a huge crowd which we figured were the people who were dragged out to the event, but had no interest in touring the houses.  This was no Stevie Wonder rendition of "Superstition".  Ours was more like George Clinton and Parliament Funkadelic meets Metallica and it ended with Steve's whammy bar guitar wailing feedback echoing off the houses across the park.  The crowd of previously subdued suburbanites went crazy as the guitar squeal faded.  There were plenty of onlookers who were just confused by what they heard as the others were enthusiastic, but the majority of people there got it and we were stoked.  I'm not sure what the ladies of Flute Salad thought of our set. We killed despite the absence of a gimmick like custom quilts.  Maybe it was Ken's socks that bridged the generation gap. We left that event having been offered (and accepted) two club gigs on the spot.

Legendary Hole in the Wall

The highlight of Code Blue's beginning was a twenty minute set at a place called The Hole in the Wall.  The Hole was Dallas' premier blues dive and its name aptly described the place.  It was a tiny shit hole of a bar with a postage stamp sized stage and had no lighting or PA.  It also had the best burgers in town.  The place was such a wreck that you'd never use their bathroom, but you couldn't resist their burgers.  We were offered stage time by a guy named Brian Calway (better known as Hash Brown) who ran the Hole's Wednesday night blues jam.  Blues jams came and went, but the Hole's blues jam was the place to be in Dallas.  Hash's band would play a while and then various musicians would join them on stage to jam.  If a drummer wanted to play, Hash's drummer stepped aside. Same for guitarists, horn players, singers, whatever.  Jim convinced Hash to let us take over the stage to do a couple of numbers.  It was a gamble for us and for Hash.  If we were a hit, we all won.  If we sucked, the mauling we would receive from the Hole's crowd would probably be just as entertaining.  As we hit the stage, Hash flashed five fingers three times, signifying that we had fifteen minutes.  I don't recall what tunes we played, but after the third, people were standing on chairs and tables. The parking lot emptied and the tiny bar was crammed well past the fire code.  These were hard core blues players and fans who had a chip on their shoulders because their music was pretty much ignored by the rest of the world and they did not like it played poorly.  Amazed at the crowd response, were all looking at each other and collectively thinking "holy crap!"  Jim was saying thanks when Hash yelled out, "do another one".  Getting an entire band on stage at a Hole int he Wall jam was one thing, but getting twenty minutes was unheard of.  Among the tuna-packed crowd was the Hole's owner, Tom Ford who approached us and offered us a Saturday night gig on the spot.  None of us knew what our respective calendars looked like, but we all just said "yes".

Cover Looks Cooler in Person

As the months went by, our set list grew, our fan base grew, and our tightness as a band grew.  However, nothing grew as fast and as large as Jim's ego.  We had established ourselves as a tight, rocking blues band with a reputation for bringing a crowd to the venues we played.  We played all the Dallas club districts; Deep Ellum, Lower Greenville Avenue, and branched out to suburban gigs, city festivals, and private parties.  As the band's primary booking contact, I was always scheming for ways to distinguish Code Blue from other bands.  When a print publication listed us on their agenda, I would clip and copy that ad and include it in our booking packet. when the booking agent listened to our demo CD, they would see all the venues we played.  If I couldn't get us into a club, I'd book us next door and remind the other place who we were when we filled the place up. We had t-shirts made emblazoned with our logo and gave them to our real fans who always showed up.  We sold the rest for a 100% profit at $10 each. T-shirt revenue was sometimes more than the gigs themselves paid.  We did a live radio broadcast show from a club in Dallas one night from which we cut a short five-track CD "Code Blue - Live in Deep Ellum".  I shot the album cover from behind my drums and to this day, I think it's one of the coolest covers I've seen.  We used that CD for promotions and gave it away with the t-shirts we sold.  We returned to that same venue and had a tongue in cheek celebration of our Live CD going "tin".

We had our share of dead venues.  We worked one club where literally the only person in front of the stage was the janitor sweeping the floor as we played.  It was the dead of winter and Dallas had just had one of its infamous ice storms.  The building had a power outage and tapped electricity from the building next door.  Our gear barely functioned and there was no stage lighting or heat.  They didn't even bother to open the bar and probably wouldn't have opened the doors had we not shown up.  Nothing puts your ego in check like playing to a janitor in a dark hall while your teeth are chattering.  Every note of every tune seems to pass like a snail crawling through salt and all I wanted was for the gig to be over.

We played many venues that had no door cover charge.  Always looking for a marketing angle, I would place a printable Code Blue logo on our web page's performance schedule with instructions to print and bring to the venue for free admission.  They would have gotten in free anyway, but when the venue had multiple acts, it always impressed the management when there was a pile of Code Blue pages at the front door.  One club owner brought a pile of them to me as we were loading out after a gig and asked me what I wanted to do with them.  I replied "use them to remember who brought the crowd." Those pages and the crowd of Code Blue t-shirts always sent a clear message to club management.  We were the headline band at our next gig there.  The bigger the crowds, the bigger the paychecks, and the bigger Jim's ego grew.

After a couple of years, we had a large catalog of original tunes and a new lead guitarist named Dennis.  Dennis was an accomplished player and a great songwriter.  Between Dennis, Jim, Ken, and Stu, we had some serious musical creativity.  As the drummer, I had no real musical skills.  All I could do was count to four. I just did it very steadily.  My contribution was musical structure and dynamics, especially in our performances.  Any band could play the middle of a tune.  The transitions from tune to tune, starts and stops, and key modulation were all elements that few people in the crowd understood, but knew instantly when they were lacking or inappropriate.  People kept asking where they could buy the tunes we played.  People actually still bought music back then.  We decided it was time to cut a real CD.

Robert Johnson (circa 1936)

As egotistical as Jim was, the man had connections.  Stu had pointed out to the band that there was a musically significant and historic location right in downtown Dallas which was all but forgotten.  The dilapidated building at 508 Park Avenue had once been a  film distribution center for the Elm Street theater district.  Elm Street was revitalized as a club district in the 80s and became known as Deep Ellum.  The 508 Park building had the distinguished history of being the last place that Robert Johnson (the father of delta blues) recorded his music back in 1937. Stu had the brainstorm idea to try to get into 508 Park to record our CD of original tunes.  Jim's connections paid off and we secured access building - for one day.

The wheels were in motion.  We found a recording engineer, picked ten tunes to record, and cleared our schedules for a marathon overnight recording session.  We loaded our gear into the building which was in major disrepair.  The place had electricity because it was for sale and prospective buyers might need it.  But, it had no plumbing, heat or air conditioning, and most of the windows were either broken or boarded up.  None of this would have really mattered had it not been January and Dallas was in the grip of freezing rain.  508 Park was directly across the street from The Stew Pot; a church ran kitchen that fed the homeless.  As such, every square inch of sidewalk anywhere near our building was lined with homeless people sleeping under whatever they could find to shield themselves from the rain and cold.  We were a blues band and if the scene outside didn't inspire us to make a good record, I can't imagine what would.

508 Park - Outside & In

We started loading in early in the morning and wound our gear up the street past the indigent sprawled out around us.  Occasionally, someone would ask who we were and I one even asked for my autograph...and any spare change I might have. We were recording by noon and continued through the cold, rainy night.  At one point, an editor and photographer from Southwest Blues magazine showed up to document the event for what would eventually become a pretty cool cover story.  Word of what we were doing had spread among the Dallas blues scene and thus the pressure was on for us to deliver musical justice to the legacy of the building.  Hash Brown notwithstanding, the Dallas blues scene could be pretty cut throat and we heard rumblings of "why them" when the story got out.  Why not us?  We thought of it and we seized the opportunity.

Bright-Eyed & Bushy Tailed (Before the Sessions)

We recorded all night long, taking turns bundling up to go outside and check to see if our vehicles were still there.  The crowd of homeless people grew as the hours passed.  I doubt any off us had any idea how arduous the recording process could be.  We would record a scratch track for each tune.  The scratch track was a basic playing through of the song with no fills or solos.  Then, each of us would play along with the scratch track with our particular instrument removed from our headphones.  This process afforded us a chance to establish the "official" structure of the song and then accompany the rest of the band in the actual recording.  It also allowed us to record "live" as an entire band rather than cutting each track one instrument at a time.  Our goal was to reproduce the environment and sound that Robert Johnson had when he recorded.  We had all become pretty close friends over the last couple of years, but nothing tests a friendship like five creative minds being cooped up in an abandoned concrete building in the dead of winter for 23 hours straight.  There were times when we all just had to stop and separate from each other for a while.  Stu and I would bundle up and head to the rooftop to unwind.  The skies were crystal clear, yet there appeared to be no stars.  The night sky was as cold as the air around us.  I remember looking down at the street below and seeing dozens of people just standing around, many looking back up at us.  The Stew Pot would be opening soon and the hungry were jockeying for position in line. It reminded me of a scene from Dawn of the Dead where the derelict zombies were just standing waiting for living flesh to eat. 

After countless takes, arguments, curse words and even a few tears, we emerged from 508 Park Avenue in the morning daylight with blurry eyes, hoarse voices, sore limbs, and ten original tunes.  It didn't take us long to come up with a name for the CD.  Since the other guys had the writing credits, I took on the artwork and production responsibilities.  I ponied up the cash to have 1,000 copies pressed with the clear understanding that any and all band proceeds came to me first until my investment was repaid. We had a CD. Now what do we do?

508 Park CD Cover Art & Fold Out

Rear Cover

CD Insert Art

To be continued...

Bear Attacks in Canada

This is just what I needed to read about with 50 days to go before the Alaskapade begins.

Bear Attack in Churchill, Manitoba, Canada

These are pictures of an actual polar bear attack.          

The pictures were taken while people watched and could do nothing to stop it.

Reports from the local newspaper say that the victim will make a full recovery.

The photos are below.

To the Arctic Circle (and Beyond or Back?)

This is it.  Today, I head north on the Dalton highway and into the Arctic Circle.  I'm told that the Circle officially lies about 200 miles north of Fairbanks and that the terrain isn't too bad this time of year for an experienced rider.  I suppose I'll see for myself today, but all I know is I'm so close to my goal I can taste it.  My friend Jeff has been giving me updates from the pump stations along the Trans Alaska Oil Pipeline.  I rained up there yesterday, but stopped last night when I hit Fairbanks.  Jeff advised that I wait it out today and let the sun dry out the roads.  I needed to get the tires I purchased mounted, so I heeded his advice.  With fresh rubber and new brakes, Hester is ready to roll.

Once I get there, I have some decisions to make.  My original goal was to just make it to the Circle monument and place Martin's hat there. Shortly thereafter, I expanded the journey northward and wanted to try to get as far as Deadhorse near Prudhoe Bay. I abandoned that later goal upon reading of horrific road conditions between the Circle and Deadhorse.  Now I'm rethinking the rethinking that I rethought a while back and I think (again) that I want to try to make it to Deadhorse.

I don't imagine I'll ever be up here again, so this is likely the only chance I'll have to truly ride to the top of the world.  I still haven't decided which way I'll turn after my little Arctic Circle arrival celebration. Weather, road conditions, and my general mood will all impact my decision.  If I turn right, the adventure continues and I'll go as far north as I can.  If I turn left, the adventure still continues as I head back home via the Black Hills.  I'll send a satellite check-in message from the Circle when I arrive there.  Since I won't have a means of updating this blog until I get back to civilization, you'll have to check in here and view my GPS status to see if I turn north or south when I leave the Circle.

Watch my status on the map, look for my update alerts, and wish me luck.

Second Amendment Rights & The People's Republic of Canada

This entry will probably rub some people the wrong way.  That said, please know two things:

1. I am sensitive to your feelings and do not wish to offend you in any way.
2. #1 is complete crap and I couldn't even type that with a straight face.  My concern over the opinion anyone disagreeing with me might have regarding the topic at hand can be measured in micro give-a-shits.

Actually, I don't intend to offend my friends in Canada. We have plenty of stupid policies down here too.

I've mentioned before that the majority of my nights on this journey will be spent camping in a tent.  I love tent camping and used to be an Olympic caliber camper.  These accommodations are as much a preference as they are a financial necessity, especially given the skyrocketing price of gas and its impact on my Alaskapade budget.  Nevertheless, when I consider the fact that Alaska boasts the highest population of bears and wolves in the United States, I have a legitimate reason to be somewhat concerned for my safety.  I don't go looking for trouble, but anyone whose read any of my stuff knows trouble and stupid situations just seem to find me.  Obviously, I can't get to Alaska without passing through Canada. The Canadian portion is not just a logistical requirement, it's also something I look forward to.  Riding through the Canadian Rockies, Banff, Lake Louise, the Signpost Forest, and the ALCAN are all aspects I am excited to see.  The one aspect I'm not looking forward to is the Canadian requirement that I travel unarmed.

All you left-wing voluntary victims can unroll your eyes now.

I have a squeaky clean past and as such, have passed FBI and local background checks and earned my Concealed Handgun License. Most states have reciprocal carrying agreements with Texas and I'm allowed to drive or ride with personal protection while in them as long as I abide by their specific requirements.  I am not paranoid; I am prepared.  I do not live in fear.  I live with the quiet yet confident knowledge that I am willing and capable of defending myself and those I love should the need arise.  I find it ironic that so many anti-gun people would throw a fit if they learned that the school they send their kids to didn't have fire extinguishers, but wouldn't tolerate that same school allowing its faculty to carry a weapon.  The irony becomes obvious when you ask yourself when the last time a student died in a school fire compared to when a student died because no one was allowed to defend them against an armed assailant.

Wanted for Assault of Clueless

I've been a helpless victim before.  In 1990, I woke up on the side of the freeway in east Texas, my face crispy from my own sun-dried blood and seeing blurry black dots that eventually came into focus as buzzards circling over me as laid on the highway frontage road. I had the living shit beat out of me by three guys who looked like Larry, Daryl, and Daryl because I was unaware of my surroundings.  I have also been on the other side of the fence.   In the years that followed, I took measures to learn to protect myself and those measures paid off when I successfully did so against two assailants in Chicago's O'Hare Airport.  I was arrested on the spot, but was released after witness statements were collected and ultimately exonerated when video surveillance revealed that I was actually the good guy.  In January of 1996, the State of Texas enacted its CHL program and I earned mine in May of that same year.  The way I saw it, I had been getting my head kicked in in martial arts training for the previous five years and if the State was offering me another level of defense, I would be dilatory for not taking it.

Canada offers nothing for handguns and while a rifle strapped to Hester's hip might look cool, it might also draw unwanted attention. I spent weeks researching the Canadian Firearms Center web pages looking for a legal way to carry as I make my way to up Alaska.  Canada classifies all handguns regardless of barrel length as restricted and the ones small enough to reasonably conceal are prohibited altogether. There is a special provision to the law that allows US visitors with licenses issued in the States to carry a pistol after a stack of forms are filled out and temporary license fees paid.  This provision comes with one caveat. The pistol cannot be carried for personal protection, nor for hunting.  So, unless there's a national shooting competition for which the Customs officer can verify I am registered, I'm out of luck. Don't think I didn't consider trying to sneak mine in.  I'm told by other riders who have ridden into Canada that Customs Officers at the smaller points of entry practically disassemble your motorcycle and actually make riders unpack everything for inspection before letting them through.  I know that having Hester impounded and myself tossed in jail on firearms smuggling charges would make one hell of a blog story, but I think I'll pass.

One member on HDForums.com mentioned that he had heard of a Canadian program wherein your handgun is sealed in a tagged container at the Canadian port of entry and allowed to be carried through by the owner.  At the exit border, the tags are verified as legitimate and unbroken and the pistol is unpacked. As unlikely as this seemed, I called around the Royal Canadian Mounted Police Customs offices and asked if such a program did indeed exist.  I received mostly laughter from everyone who answered.  Interestingly enough, I had a few private emails telling me several places along my route where I could buy a pistol from individuals on the street.  I suppose the old saying is true: If guns are outlawed, only outlaws will have guns.

I have a workaround though.  I found a Federal Firearms Licensed dealer in Tok who will receive my weapon for me. Tok is the first town I'll reach after I enter Alaska.  I'll ship it from a FFL dealer near my home a week before I depart and it will be waiting for me when I arrive. I found another FFL in Washington and will have my Tok FFL ship it there so I'll have it for my return trip.

It seems not only unfair, but puerile that I have to expend so much energy and money just to exercise my Constitutional right to self defense.  I know, I know.  Canada doesn't care any more about our Constitution than I do about their maple syrup or Celine Dion (the two of which I find equally interesting). Still, it's not like they can't completely check me out in mere seconds while I'm at their station. I read about a rider who was denied entry into Canada because he had a DUI over five years prior and had to seek a Canadian Minister's Approval of Rehabilitation and pay a hefty fee to enter.  I've never had a DUI nor a record of any kind other than a traffic ticket years ago. My point is that with existing INTERPOL networking capabilities, they clearly have the ability to look into the legal records of American citizens whereupon in my case they will see that I have passed an US FBI background check and have been issued a CHL.  Admittedly, that alone will probably incite them to crawl up my butt with a microscope.  Nevertheless, I find it incongruous that as a proven law abiding citizen I must be subjected to the same obligatory victim status to which they subject their own citizens when all I'm trying to do is get to my country's state of Alaska or back to the lower 48.

I'll stop whining now.  A few hours of my time and some cash are minor annoyances compared to the experiences I'll have on this journey. At the very worse, it gave me fodder to vent here. As if I needed that...

Happy Easter!

Manopause?

This week, I was asked if taking this journey is just me going through "manopause".  I suppose that's a contemporary slang term for what was once referred to as a man's mid-life crisis.  I looked it up at UrbanDictionary.com and found this:

man·o·pause
noun \ ma-no-pȯz

A mental condition typically found in men in their mid to late 50's brought on by the realization that old age is just around the corner. Symptoms include: frequent reminiscing about the “good ol’ days”, cranky judgmental attitude and a closed minded approach to anything new. Usually punctuated by the chronic need to play a lot golf and vote republican. The condition is difficult to cure and almost always progresses into oldtimers disease. 

Personally, I don't think that definition comes close to describing me.  First, I'm only 48 and although my hair may be in its mid to late 50s, it's all still there. Nevertheless, I embrace age. I don't think how old you are matters. I think it's how you are old that counts.  I don't believe I'm cranky, but I have been labeled judgmental a time or two.  I don't think I judge people per se.  I simply form resolute opinions based on astute observations. I'm very open-minded and love to try new things. I have no desire to chase a ball across finely manicured lawns and I think they named it golf because all the good four-letter words were already taken. Finally, I never simply vote for a political party. I generally vote for fiscally conservative candidates without regard for their political affiliation.

So why can't a man pursue an adventurous dream without his sanity or commitment to his family being called into question? It's not like this idea just sprang up. I am many things, but spontaneous is not one of them.  I've thought about Alaska for years and over the last six months, have taken a systematic approach preparing myself physically, mentally, financially, and equipment-wise to see it through to fruition. Nevertheless, people see my growing hair and shrinking belly and then look around expecting to see a new Porsche and a twenty-something girlfriend.

I haven't gone off the deep end, nor have I lost my mind.  I have lost the willingness to suppress my goals to the benefit of those who don't share them and for those who possess an irrational sense of entitlement to the time and freedom for which I've worked so hard my entire adult life.  Furthermore, I refuse to act old just because I'm getting old.  I'm chasing a dream. I'm going to Alaska!

"I swear by my life and my love of it that I will never live for the sake of another man, nor ask another man to live for mine."  - John Galt/Ayn Rand

I'm trying to apply this mantra to my life, one aspect at a time...

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