When we last saw our hero two whole months ago, he was trapped in the fast lane on the info superhighway, unread book in hand, struggling to find an exit sign…

When I first started this blog three years ago, I originally conceived it as a “moblog” — a mobile blog, meaning, I had just bought myself a nifty little smartphone, and my posts were all to come from the road, I would never have to sit in front of a computer screen. Sadly, my clumsy thumbs got in the way of that concept, leaving me back at a regular old weblog-blog ….

Last weekend I took a long hike in the woods, and I twittered from the trail, this time with an even smarter phone and fell in love again with the nimble, lightweight moblogging idea. My thumbs still being my thumbs, I went to the store today and bought a baby folding keyboard to allow my fingers to walk freely, and right now, I sit on a bench on a path on the banks of the Potomac river with my little contraption, a light wind at my back, the sound of water lapping against the banks. Returning to moblog.

I can’t tell you what I’m thinking right now (I spent all day thinking and i’m actually pretty f*ing burnt out on the very thought of thinking) but I can tell you what I see — to the right is the National Cathedral, looking gorgeously uplit as usual. Straight ahead is the Air Force Memorial, looking Wolverine’s claw-ish, as usual. To my left, planes are taking off and landing in the distance at Reagan Airport. A group of Chinese men are fishing and smoking next to me, piles of dead fish (at night they are white silhouettes) behind them. Behind me to the left is Hains Point. In the grass at Hains Point is a gigantic sculpture that looks like Zeus had recently dropped from his perch in the heavens and has impacted himself into the earth, meteor-like, and is now fighting his way out of quicksand.

Rising off the bench and walking, a blue heron perches on the railing to my left, water’s side. As I approach he flies about 20 feet down and perches again. I approach again and he flies 20 more feet to the next perch. Repeat, repeat, repeat again. To my right, I hear kids snickering in a willow tree as I pass. At the next bench, a man is making out with a woman that isn’t his own. More dead fish. The heron doubles back thus ending the cat-and-mouse. I step in mud. I drag my left foot on the pavement all the way back to my car.

I’ve made some changes in my life. Some big, some small. Some nothing at all. I point my smartphone at the sky and moblog these words into the ether. I sneak across the 395 underpass back to my car.

Just wanted to check in here as I haven’t posted in a few weeks … things have been heating up at work, and I’ve been devoting very many brain cells to the cause over there. So apologies. And a little quote to sum up the information overload I’m experiencing these days:

“…in an information-rich world, the wealth of information means a dearth of something else: a scarcity of whatever it is that information consumes. What information consumes is rather obvious: it consumes the attention of its recipients. Hence a wealth of information creates a poverty of attention and a need to allocate that attention efficiently among the overabundance of information sources that might consume it.” — Herbert Simon

When I get my bearings back I want flesh this out this post some more. Specifically, I want to better understand why I haven’t been able to read a book from start to finish in over six years. Time for some mental housekeeping.

The year of the cuke continues …

Two weekends ago Sunday was the much-hyped “polar bear jump” into the Atlantic Ocean. Air temperature was confirmed at 32 degrees Fahrenheit (that’s a big ZERO Celsius), 28 with wind chill. Decked out in a snow cap and robe, waterproof disposable camera in hand, standing on a sleeping bag on Rehoboth Beach with a couple thousand friends. The whistle, or gun, or whatever it was, was inaudible. The approach was chaotic as I started to run. Ten seconds later I was totally submerged in 38 degree water (I believe I did take a photo underwater — I also suspect the developers at Ritz Camera saw the murky brown polaroid and discarded it). Thirty seconds after that I was running back to shore, and a minute later, I was back in my robe, shivering and cleaning sand off of my completely numb feet. Threw on my complimentary sweatshirt, and headed to Rams Head Tavern for some crackling fire and crab soup. After that, headed home.

The thawing out period (otherwise known as the workweek) began after that. Highlights were few and far between, but a few chuckles came as the workdays crept into the early evenings. The only people around after 6:30 or so are the serial clipper and the evening janitor (who kind of looks like this guy) so when I hit the vending machines I get to hear them talk over each other, which is always entertaining. The janitor knows I play fantasy football, so he always peppers me with quips (”Redskins they got them big boys” “Saints — who they quarterback?” “Bears they gonna run all over the Colts on Sunday”). Meanwhile the clipper simmers, then finally pontificates on what he perceives as the true opiate of the masses from a table in the corner (”Redskins, football, sports, waaahhh … while the village is pillaged, the granny is scratching her crotch“)

This weekend I stayed in DC, feeding Diana’s cats. Though it’s a very specific regimen I do it without question. Though it’s a bit disheartening when twice a day, I prepare a delicate Glindan concoction of wet food served with precisely two droplets of fish oil (from a punctured capsule of Omega-3), a pinch of brewer’s yeast, eye of newt, etc… and then watch them all run away, ’cause they’re afraid of me anyway. Sigh.

Last night I ran up to Delaware, ended up watching TV with the folks. Fox News beating to DEATH the paternity battle over Anna Nicole’s offspring, complete with an equivalent payout and only slightly fewer possible winners — including Zsa Zsa Gabor’s hubby, wtf? — as the lottery number broadcast that followed. Next was an airing of King of the Hill supposedly featuring not the Warrior, but rather John Goodman as a corrupt animal control specialist. WTF? AND I think my parents are becoming King of the Hill fans. My dad wears a mesh cap not unlike Dale’s.

Back to work tomorrow. Spent most of the today at various free wi-fi spots, catching up on the latest dirt. Like over at Morgalogue, Morg’s humble dispatch on the South Indian “universal city” of Auroville gets visited upon by a resident. Some interesting back-and-forth ensues.

Haven’t posted in over a week, but there hasn’t been too much to report. Spent the mostly lazy weekend working on Shelly’s birthday mix. The great part about making mixes for your friends is the quality control — meaning it has to sound good while driving around aimlessly. So drive I did. Up to Wilmington and back, then all around town, over local byways and back roads. Over to Wawa, then to Borders.

Got a few items from Mom to buy at the market so I headed to the Pathmark. Got out of the car mid-song, bopping and nodding my head in approval with the mix CD. Little did I know that my listening pleasure would not abate as I walked inside the store, where the loudspeakers were laying down some rather catchy rhythms and beats. I recognized them instantly, in fact, they were nearly the same rhythms I had playing in my CD changer. The last time I was in here they had Nada Surf playing. Time before that, it was the Shins. Now the Postal Service was thumping along as I snaked through the aisles, putting carrots and juice and aftershave in my basket.

NO Muzak! NO Mantovani! NO Celine Dion! Have the gods of satellite radio shone their light down towards the humble local grocery store? And more amazingly, has the person responsible for such a devilish backbeat on the airwaves not received a stern “turn that off!!” admonishment from one of their less rocking colleagues or clientele? Texted my brother, who texted back “somebody’s got good taste. Rock and roll Pathmark.”

Visions of 1979 ran through my head. I envisioned Joey Ramone doing a blitzkrieg bop down the frozen foods aisle. Debbie Harry splayed out on the conveyor belt at register 6, reading the Weekly World News. Lou Reed and The Velvets posing coolly near a Warhol banana print in the produce section. Jello Biafra yelping out “Soup is Good Food” in front of a Campbell’s display (or a Jello display!) Yes! Joe Strummer in a shopping cart pushed by Mick Jones, speeding through the parking lot, shades on, fist pumping, yelling “Safewaaaay, they don’t like it …. ROCK the Path-mark, ROCK the Path-mark!”

Too funny. I paid for my goods, let out a rebel yell and peeled out of the parking lot.

Asbury Park, NJ. The mere mention of the name conjures up many images in my head. So when Kevin and Mary mentioned over beers and oysters in B’more that the Hold Steady — a band with more than a little Boss running through their veins — were playing at the friggin’ Stone Pony of all places — and the Boss “rumored” to make an appearance, ahem, Madame Marie is telling fortunes again — I couldn’t help but get a little bit of nostalgiac rush. Nostalgia not in the personal sense (Asbury’s been a dump for as long as I can remember in my own short life) but a general nostalgia for all things simple and fun and closer to human scale, things more Astroworld than Disneyworld, sno-cones, fun-faced Tillie and Tilt-a-Whirls. Things that were once great and may very well be again.

From what I could see, the three coolest places to go in Asbury Park at night are, by default, the only places that showed signs of life at all: a gay bar/hotel called the Empress, the Pony a couple blocks down Ocean Ave., and further down, a bowling alley/concert space called Asbury Lanes. The Lanes looked intriguing (wow — rock-n-bowl with live music, sweet!), but they were having an event , so I met my friend Shannon on the corner in front of the Empress, in the shadow of a giant dilapidated casino. As we were early for the show, we popped in for a few drinks. Cute place and I regret not staying the night there.

Afterwards, it was on to the Pony, where we met Kevin and Mary and my brother Rob. The Hold Steady rocked out while more drinks were consumed. Love “Stuck Between Stations BTW …. “some days I think Sal Paradise was right / boys and girls in America / have such a sad time together … ” Maybe so, but sorry Sal, tonight it was not the case …. some bobbing and weaving through crowds, some conversing and other things that memory doesn’t serve up at the mo, and we were careening out the front door, stumbling back down the street and back into the Empress where a full-on drag queen extravaganza was taking place. Tables with translucent lighted tops, leopard-skin couches and pillows and shawls and more drinks and a little bit of dancing to “it’s raining men, hallelujah” thumping through the speakers, then somehow ducking into a cab parked outside in front of the windy desolate boardwalk, off to a hotel far, far, away and passing out with my clothes and shoes on.

Waking up in the morning and taking an hour to eat a banana, hungover — er, no, still drunk — and watching the news anchor’s painted smiley face on CNN looking not unlike the Tillie face slapped thick with makeup on the photo of the Palace Amusements facade, the last waking memory of the night before. Took the cab back to the bar where the car was parked and drove the hazy length of the Turnpike home, then collapsed.

Yeah, I know it’s Monday. And the monster trucks, they hit downtown Washington on Saturday. But I really wanted to say that. The Beetlejuice-like ode to the day of Shabbas, screaming the equivalent of “bring out your rednecks!!!” out of TVs across America and melting eyeballs and eardrums in the process …

And so there I was, my inner diesel fume addict answering the call with John and Michele and Gregg (who I haven’t seen in ages BTW, cheers man if you read this, let’s do some Guitar Hero some time!!) all sitting in the upper deck at the Verizon Center, Budweisers in hand.

Can’t say I’m a monster truck enthusiast but I got to witness the new scourges of county fairgrounds everywhere.

First off was the Virginia Giant, the Manowar of trucks, and the undisputed decibel champ. This truck goes to 11. The Iron Warrior was surly and erratic (reminds me of another Warrior, hmmm ….). The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle came swiftly out of the gate then peetered out early.

Black Stallion smashed the cars going forward AND going backward. He even smashed them going diagonally. He wreaked absolute havoc across the dirt in arguably the best show of the afternoon. He also stank up the entire arena, which was a plus.

The people’s favorite, Grave Digger, successor to Bigfoot in all-time most popular truck, had a hard act to follow. And yeah, he flashed some lights, burnt some rubber and crushed some metal, and followed it all up with a petulant spin that sent dirt flying across the front rows of seats. But IMHO, it was anticlimactic, a lot of bark in response to the Black Stallion’s bite.

But alas, the world of monster trucks is not a democracy. It is a popularity contest (so maybe it is too much a democracy?) Anyway … the band with the merchandise stand always wins. The emcee left it to mob rule — a battle of applause. Grave Digger in a landslide. The other trucks turned off their engines and sulked in the corner, resigned to the fact that they, like the Washington Generals to the Globetrotters, were mere lambs sent to slaughter at the altar of … the Digger.

After the event, we went back to RFD for some beers, my brain and ears throbbing, I was nodding throughout and when asked if I was even listening to the conversation, said, well, yeah, I can hear you but I just can’t process the information. Please try later. However, I did balance a salt shaker on its edge — proof that my motor skills weren’t completely shot.

Back in ‘93, the early days of the Interweb, when dial-up services ruled the earth. I was sitting at a prehistoric Mac computer, signing up for my very first “address” in this newfangled invention called “e-mail”. Well, I didn’t exactly know who would send me things, I knew that I got to pick out my own name. I needed something cool — a tag, a handle, an alias, something cool looking, something rebellious with an x or a q or a z in it.

My friend Mike had his own at the time: “Mazzo.” And he’d perfected its typography. He’d scribble it down wildly, like some New York subway spray-paint artist, on whatever surface at his disposal … the first stroke, an “M” slicing seemelssly into the “A”, the second stroke, a double “ZZ” striking its target in the center of the final “O”.

So I looked around the house for inspiration, which led me to the handful of CDs sitting near the computer. I picked up a couple, and one in particular caught my attention.

Praxis. The word started with Aristotle, worked its way through the Marxists. I’ve had a few conversations with people who said if I used it, I’d be linked to the Marxists via word association. Whatever. It means “theory in action.” Gramsci called Marxism a “philosophy of praxis.” It is also the name of a teacher certification exam, a Home Depot-like store in Europe (I lived near one), lots of things. And now, apparently, a church. Finally a religion to call my own :-) .

And these things are all well and good. Lots of symbolism and deep intentions by all concerned, I’m sure. But, at the risk of revealing the glaring superficiality behind the whole exercise — Praxis is just an incredibly cool word. And its origins rested firmly in that CD, now sitting in my hands as I sat at the computer. A word nicked from a collective of New York musicians, who in turn nicked it from someone or something else.

At the time, I was 19, living a suburgatory existence of community college during the day, supermarket checkout at night and dreaming of greater things that had yet to happen. The CD, called Transmutation (Mutatis Mutandis), was beautiful. Futuristic, kaleidoscopic cover art, music like Sun Ra channeled through Slayer in a vortex. Dense, barely intelligible liner notes. “Chaos is not entropy,” they lysergicized, reasoning away the constraints of earthly existence, “chaos is continual creation.” Everything a 17-to-19 year old kid like me could possibly ask for in packaged stimulation. All of it a bit excremental, in hindsight, but then — incredibly cool.

And the word in front of it all, “praxis” with its magical fulcrum “X” that made it leap out from the page like the outstretched hand of a crossing guard, you just had to stop in your tracks. I drew imaginary lines with my finger, the loopy, curlicue “p” lead-in, segueing into the “ra.” Then, the vicious, capital “X’ in the middle. Then the baby “i” and the serpentine “s” tailing off right back into the middle. Then the dot for emphasis.

Yep. I typed it into the computer. Rejected. Someone — some no good son of a bitch bastard had taken it. Some prefab “would you like” names showed up on the screen.

But no, I wanted that name, clearly I just needed a flourish. Somewhere lying around was a program for the 88 Olympics. The logo was cool, a double infinity standing on end, interwoven into the rings of the Olympic logo. Just the number “88″ was cool. Just like praxis was cool. So there they were, praxis and 88, a shotgun wedding of pure coolness. So I grabbed a sharpie. Tried out some combinations on a sketchpad. p RAX is 88. PRaXis88. prAxis-88. Finally settled on a design, the “praXis” followed by two loopy eights, each with baby heads leaning to the side off of a giant thorax, like melting snowmen.

So there it is. The deep origins of my identity. Representing nothing but the blip on the timeline, and like the other reminders, the little fishbone scar/tattoo on my back or the ratty t-shirts and faded concert tix, dreaming of greater things that had yet to happen. I can get behind that, even now.

Left my parents’ place at 9:30PM. Into the cold rainy outdoors and into the Matrix, the two-hour pilgrimage down country roads, through Amish country, past the Herr’s potato chip factory, and eastern Pennsylvania towns where they ring in the New Years by dropping all sorts of foreign objects — wrenches, anchors, roses red and white, and perhaps most bizarrely, a stuffed goat. Passed them all, on my way towards the sour, green center of pure absurdity :-)

The pickle drop. ‘07. Dillsburg PA. Street signs led the way as I approached. It was a town I’d passed before, the type of town where you blink for a second and miss entirely. I veered off rte. 15 to the main drag downtown. Parked the car on a side street. Tucking the pickle card in my jacket for dryness, I walked towards the first sign of shelter, a Bingo hall where a cukette with collagen lips served up pickle soup, and outside of which a man purporting to the mayor gladly offered his John Han-cuke to my card, all under the auspices of a bovine of questionable dairy output.

After picking up a few souvenirs (and eating a chocolate-covered gherkin … yep), and making all the obligatory calls and texts, I jostled for position behind the yellow police tape, dodging umbrellas for a clear line of sight, and set my camera to camcorder mode.

The crowd became rowdy, green balloons signalled the way, and at the tick of 11:59,
the cuke of ages began its slow descent into the barrel of destiny, ejecting fireworks from its Fred Astaire top hat, finally immersing its dillhole into the brine as the clock struck midnight.
A modest fireworks display later and the crowds dispersed. I snapped a few pics before jumping back in the car, my second jacket of the night drenched, and over to the local 24-hour diner. There were more waitstaff than patrons inside (at 12:15am on New Year’s Day? Three blocks from the celebration?). So I sat down for a breakfast platter and showed my video to the waitress, who casually said, “oh is that the thing over there in Dillsburg? Can’t say I’ve ever been.” I looked at her with a furrowed brow. “Never been? Have you lived here the whole time?” “Yep, Dillsburg born and raised.” “Oh, so I guess you couldn’t get the time off?” “No, hon, wasn’t workin’ neither. Just never made it downtown is all.” OK, well, to each their own, I guess, shaking my head.

In the diner bathroom, as I wiped my face down in the mirror, I said to myself, “Wow. You just drove two hours here in the rain by yourself, and still have two hours’ drive back, all to watch a giant pickle drop into a barrel when even the locals can’t even be bothered to watch. Are you fucking nuts?” Again with the furrowed brow. Eyes darting. Head scratching. “A giant pickle …. ” Then slowly, the tomato-red face in the mirror contorts into a big smile and laughs. “I’ve never been so proud. Happy new year.”

So I was on my lunch break, sitting at a table in the Chinese restaurant down the street from work. I was slightly anxious, eating my customary noodle soup and pretending to read a City Paper but in reality, I was just turning work-related god-knows-what in my head, as is usually the case.

A female coworker comes by my table, she says hi, I give a swift glance up from my paper and smile politely. She asks me if she can sit next to to me. Sensing my distractedness, she seems unsure of my reply. I motioned towards the chair. She sits. I fidget. We make small talk. “How was the holiday party?” “OK. How about you?” “Yeah, same here, good, thanks.” as my eyes move back and forth between her and the newspaper.

Sensing my polite yet curt responses, she gets visibly uncomfortable. Tapping her foot, eyes darting nervously around the room, she says “come onnnn …. where’s my food? …” Ah fuck.

And so — I thought to myself — a nice, attractive, possibly single woman is interested in having a conversation with you. Hello? McFly? Where are you? Internal brain coach walks out to the mound to hit the pitcher over the head with the resin bag.

Earth to Mars — wake up! Chill out! Drop the god-knows-what, whatever is consuming your brain, how important is it, really? I’m not even trying to be this way. Why am I being this way? More importantly, how often do I do this? Coach smacks player in the ass, walks away from the mound. Player exhales, resumes focus, tugs his cap, and starts his windup.

I lobbed a soft pitch, hoping she’d swing, asked her about what she ordered, and what’s her favorite dish from this place. She said she liked the Kung Pao. I itemized the merits of my soup — nothing fancy, but filling and economical. I mention how I like the fact that they fill up the bowl above the rim, and that when they bring it out, the chicken, pork, and shrimp rise well above the noodles so you have to work just to get to surface level.

She smiled. “so what’s it called?” “Um… [looking at menu] … Chicken, pork and shrimp noodle soup. Hehe.” “Very apt description.” “Yeah.” We both laughed a little. Our eyes locked in at that point, just slightly. I began to warm to her presence, finally.

As the conversation progressed, it became like a short animation I remember from a long time ago, where a couple sits at a table with a single word bubble hanging cloud-like above them, the man says something and a jigsaw puzzle piece flies into the bubble, the woman replies and spits out another piece, which connects with the first, he speaks again, a third piece joins the other two, and so on and so forth as the word bubble fills up with a mosaic of jigsaw tiles, and the couple draws ever closer to each other.

Back at the table, we moved across subjects with ease — meal preparation, dissidents, foreign militaries, immigrant culture, painting. By the end of it all, we just looked at each other. It was like Paul Benjamin in Smoke, staring deeply towards Auggie Wren after he finishes his Christmas story — eyes half open, vulnerable, slightly hypnotized, asking eagerly “so what happened next?”

At that point, the waitress came with her food. We both slowly snapped out of the haze, she grabbed her takeout bag — Kung Pao, yes? — and paid the cashier. We both made tentative plans for lunch some time next year. She walked out.

Feeling incredibly calm, I grabbed my soup bowl, swirling its contents, and brought it to my mouth to slurp the remaining broth. It tasted peppery, I’m not sure if it was usually that strong, or I had just become more sensitized. Either way it was delicious. Whatever work tension or anxiety I had was gone. Just me, my soup and fortune cookie, whose advice mirrored that of Auggie, admonishing Paul as he impatiently flipped the pages in the photo album: “You’ll never see anything if you don’t slow down.” So I took the advice. Walked back to the office, gradually finished out the work week in a relatively peaceful state. Relaxing, conversing, perhaps some imbibing :-) rounded out the days.

I made a mental note to myself — over the holidays, watch Smoke again and to do a jigsaw puzzle. As of this post, my brother and I have spent the holidays completing a thousand-piecer, with another to follow. And Smoke has been playing on a loop in the DVD player upstairs. Just as it should be during Xmas. And a New Years resolution in the works. Work on the dialogue. The rhythm, the cadence. The sentences, and the air between the sentences. Do more puzzles. And pay attention. It will be reciprocated.

A couple days ago at my folks’ place, after a spell in the basement watching football, I ascended the stairs into the living room to see Brave, the greyhound, lying on his dogbed licking a wound. On the carpet all around were small patches of his blood — my dad says to me nonchalantly, “yeah, he lost his nail” then reached down, like Grissom from the CSI episode which commanded his attention, into the wastebacket to let me examine the evidence, the long, brittle yellow claw with the bloody pulp end, which drew a cringe from me. My mom was sitting on the floor with a sponge and a bowl full of cold water. She said that was the best way to clean blood stains, so I offered to reprieve her from plasma detail. After helping her up, I dropped down on hands and knees, soaking the sponge in cold water and rubbing the first stain, then blotting with a paper towel. Repeated this over and over until every blemish in the carpet was gone. Ended up with a bowl filled with cold water, hair, and blood. An unappetizing mix.