Anchorage Anxiety

In a recent post, my virtual father figure gave us all a much needed history lesson about a little place called Times Beach, Missouri. The bottom-line for my Internet Pappa, is that people ought not live in known disaster areas, and then expect the rest of us to bail their dumb asses out when Mother Nature decides, and she inevitably will, to kick them in their collective nut sack. "Amen!" I thought. Call off the Google-sponsored paternity test, surely I must be of this man's click-stream.

Then, in a rare fit of putting myself in someone else's' shoes, I tried to imagine what exactly drives a person to hang on when they know that the backyard is a future swamp, fault-line, or volcano. Other than bone-drying, brain-baking heat, the regions of Texas I tend to reside in really have no weather-born predators. Too far from the coast to really be effected by Rita's sisters, too far northeast to be assaulted by roving gangs of Mexican drug dealers in search of cool tropical shirts and clean bathrooms. We do of course get the occasional little tornado, but nothing to uproot people to the magnitude of Katrina or Rita.

What then, drives this bizarre behavior? Group neurosis? Saccharine? Nocturnal emissions beyond the levels allowed by the EPA? The emergence of Krispy Kreme and Starbucks into every vestige of American society? A modern, innate shared death wish brought about by a combination of over-worked, under-recreated citizens working too hard to enjoy their lives or raise their children, mingled with a desire to simply find a better way to live in a modern South that increasingly has neither a Dunkin Donuts location, nor an independent A&W Root Beer outlet? Why are two million of my fellow Texicans turning I-45 into a south bound parking lot back into Houston, when there is no question that the greenhouse gasses from all those idling cars and burning busses will lead to another Category 5 coastal blow before the end of the season?

What is it I am missing that would make me act the same way? In a word: home.

I am not missing my home, a child hood home, nor the dumpy little house I am consigned to now. If there was one place that I would feel compelled to wait out Mother Nature, one place to disregard all of the open-letter warnings and all the obvious signs of of trouble, my heart and mind draw me back to Anchorage.

The International Airport sits on the edge of the Bering Sea, on top of land that just 40 years ago was 12 to 20 feet higher in elevation than it is now. Up until the yuletide tsunami last year, most folks had forgotten the little tremble that echoed out of the then future grave of the Valdez. As a result, miles of new beach front property were created around Anchorage, extending south to the mystical scrap of land known as the Kenai Peninsula.

It is just a matter of time before it happens again. The airport will be suitable only for water taxis and float planes. With the exception of an air carrier that shares paternity with a current NHRA team, I don't think that many manufacturers will try to put floats on a 747. Homes, shipping, businesses, historic buildings and tourist destinations will be rendered useless, save for acting as a spot to anchor one's fishing boat. People, undoubtedly, will die. Lots of people. Lots of good people.

I have looked in the eyes of the people who live and work there. You ain't gonna pull them off their mountain, our out of their streams, or away from the glacier. All of the faults and failings of modern day life, all of the unrequited desires, all of the disappointments of a job well done, are all washed away by the silent buzz of the Northern Lights. Bathing in the emotional warmth of the glacial glow of Denali cleans the soul of the soot of modern America and restores the mysterious lifeforce of a man's marrow. My commitment to the Church of the High Agnostic and the Holy Ambivalent was forever shaken by the divine fingerprint of Anchorage.

SO, my beloved greybeard, I promise that I won't complete the move to Anchorage until I have sold enough books or won a big enough lottery to support myself and my family through the next earthquake. I won't come to you with hat in hand asking to rebuild my beautiful Anchorage when it sinks into the Bering; because, once I find my mountain, I know you won't ask me to leave my home. I know you won't ask me to be Formerly Living.

[Blogger's Note: I truly do admire greybeard, and don't want any of my three devoted readers to think any differently. Read his blogs, read his comments, he is a kind, thoughtful, inquisitive soul. The world would be a much more miserable place without him.]

Post 9/11 NYC Virgin

The bank is still in a twist, so I continue the whirl-wind tour of the air terminals of the major metropolitan areas of the United States. Last week, a long-held dream was finally realized, bitter sweet as it was. Small town, small-minded Texas boy finally makes it to (but not in, sadly) the Big Apple. Talk about a dry hump...

For some reason, it seems that I only travel to the East Coast during times of severe weather (DC flight and drive to Baltimore two weeks ago was on the leading edge of Hurricane Katrina). After a two hour delay in Pittsburgh (I guess it was two hours, the missing links hired by American Airlines for baggage handling broke my bag, my camera, and if I still wore a watch, pretty sure that would have been busted to hell as well), our US Airways regional air hump started jinking and rolling as though pitched in an enraged beehive dogfight. While the aerial high-jinks were entertaining, I put down the latest "Gee-why-didn't-I-think-of-that" book long enough to throw a falsely bored look out the window.

An airborne hell scowled at me from outside the Embraer jet hurtling my fat Irish ass towards LaGuardia. Hurricane Ophelia was still lifting her skirts at the coast line of North Carolina, but a whiff of her juices had already covered NYC. As we spiraled into the lower portions of the approach pattern, the clouds covered the entire city, and were backlit by the orange sodium street lamps, neon lights, and the 24 hour ephemeral glow which emanates from the world's favorite city.

Apparently, we missed LaGuardia, and were currently on approach through the Gates of Hell. Not even Momma Nature herself could generate the otherworldly display created by the roiling storm clouds and the carnival style backlighting, which threatened to reach out and grab our little aircraft, sucking us into some backwater of Hell. (Travel tip: Do not read anything by Dean Koontz during inclement weather. Or when on the road. Or when tired, frustrated, emotionally vulnerable or morally bankrupt.)

The stormclouds seemed to be peaking at about 15,000 feet, too low for hail or tornado, but just low enough to throw all forms of nastiness at small, low-flying aircraft attempting to land in a congested pattern, on approach over a large body of water, at night, at the countries' busiest airport.

That was of no concern to me. US Airways, still under the protection of a bona fide U.S. Bankruptcy Court, would see me safely to the ground, busted up baggage and all. Bankruptcy suspends most other laws, including the laws of physics. (Note: Effective October 17, 2005, the automatic stay provided under sec 362 of the US Bankruptcy Code will no longer suspend the second law of thermodynamics without notice and hearing).

What did concern me was that there were any number of other regional puddle jumpers flying around in the sulfur fueled fog, also looking for the airport. Somehow, the FAA mandated 1,0o0 foot, 3-mile required separation between commercial aircraft isn't any greater distance than the the distance between me and the scarlet-mary, wheezing mope sitting in the seat beside me who spent the entire flight sucking his brain matter back in through his left nostril. I hope he died in his motel room, alone, and very slowly.

But there is no time to visualize the numerous manifestations of of hoped for death for my cabin mate. I was too busy running through the dusty files in my mind trying to remember the last breathless 20/20 broadcast discussing mid-air collision, the technologically challenged air-traffic control infrastructure, and the level of mental illness, retardation and substance abuse of career air traffic controllers.

On the initial descent into Satan's early morning mist, I caught a little kid two planes over from our wingtip alternately sticking his tongue out at me, then picking his nose and wiping the dividends all over the window. I flipped the future Senator the bird, and closed my window. The little heathen could pick on someone else, maybe a passenger in the 737 flying so close to us that I could smell the vodka on the First Officer's breath.

I cried like a baby, when, in formation tighter than the Thunderbirds, the four commercial flights in our impromptu squadron landed in unison, wingtip to wingtip, on a southbound approach. It was also this very moment I realized that the northernmost point of the southbound approach was mostly a piece of corrugated tin hung out over the Atlantic, supported by the frame of an old card table from the set of "Welcome Back, Kotter". Although the landing gear of the plane next to me blocked my view, it looked like the same technology the cajuns used to build their levees.

Too many planes, too little airspace. Too many people being moved around to too many places. Functionally, there is no difference between TSA security checkpoints, and the Ft Worth Stockyards, except that the stockyards usually smell a little better. That the governmental powers-that-be, and their partners running the commercial airborne cattle cars, are trying to do too much with too little would also come to summarize my all to brief and, likely, all too unfair snap judgment of NYC.

During the ride into Manhattan (all the jokes about NYC cab drivers are true, by the way), one gets the feeling that the story of modern day NYC really is one of excessive good intentions and overreaching of goals, weighed down by the lack of resource, space, or cohesive thought. The bridges from Queens into Manhattan haven't seen fresh paint since the Kennedy administration, the steel and cable supports look to date about Civil War-era. The oldest buildings on the edge of Manhattan, many clearly marked for eventual destruction to cap generations of desecration, were probably well-aged by the time Vito Corleonne was setting up his olive oil import business. Parks and play areas are squeezed in between buildings and parking lots, surrounded by black, ornate iron fences. On the fence rests a simple sign that reads "Play Area". There were also signs that had nothing more than a Maple Leaf on them, so I wasn't sure if these areas were marked as "Safe Havens" for wayward cannucks.

Churches, schools, and apartments all looked as though they were bulging, seams ready to happily unravel and fail, spewing forth all manner of humanity and aggregate personal belongings. One can feel the psychic friction created from so many people trying so hard to squeeze so much utility out of the land and the resources available.

The World Summit was in town, and what little broken, pigeon English I could understand from the cabbies made it apparent that traffic was even worse than usual. I am still not certain how that is possible. The widest streets appeared to have room for parking against each curb, and two lanes designated for moving traffic. Incredibly, this somehow meant that six informal, meandering lanes of traffic became possible. Even when faced with a red light or a blocked intersection, the traffic whipped and throbbed, like a snake having a seizure. Like watching an interstate getting stuffed into a sausage casing.

Perhaps the infinite well of enthusiasm that once seemed to define American culture is what inevitably led to this Dr. Who Police Box feeling of compression, and the ever-present feeling of unrequited human want. For a fleeting second, I wondered what all the occupants of the vehicles sporting "Consular" or "Diplomat" plates really thought about this city, its people, and the nation that invariably follows its lead. Do they too believe that we have taken on too much, tried to serve too large a Sunday dinner to the masses? Is this why we justify a million people living in a soggy lakebed a/k/a New Orleans, and collectively gnash our teeth when the cavalry cannot rush in immediately and restore power so that they can use the HDTV's they boosted from Circuit City during the flooding?

I soon dropped that line of thought, and was satisfied with just being pissed off that the diplomats had their own barely used lane of traffic, through which they could freely drive their black Lincoln Towncars. God forbid that they be late for their chance to get a televised audience so they can rant and rave about the evil, lazy Americans at a time when Canadians are openly threatened and people look likes sausages stuffed into Vito's colon, or, well something like that.

This is not my final take on NYC, and barely passes as a beginning thought. However, it raises the troubling query of, whether or not the overly-ambitious existence of NYC, both decadent in desire but anorexic in remaining capacity is the chief culprit for the scene played out in suburban America each night as mom and dad arrive home from work later and later, leaving children unattended and unappreciated in the never-ending quest of attempting too much with too little to work with.

I can see why it would be easy to fall in love with NYC, for now I remain uncommitted. Until all the layers can sifted and understood, raise a cold one to the hopes that, until we have time to figure it all out, NYC does not leave us all Formerly Living.

All of my life, with the exception of limited periods of exile, I have lived in the Great State of Texas. Texas is big, Texas is good, and all things Texas, even if they make you uncomfortable, are right. We publicly don't question or challenge our mommas, the Bible, or the President. Thats just the way that it is.

It is true that we all carry guns, we all believe that the government screwed it up, whatever IT is, and that pickup ownership is a God-given right that transcends even the fickleness of a living, breathing, two-ply constitution. Women really do live in a prairie twilight zone, where they don't open their own door, they never buy their own drink, and they don't walk to their cars by themselves any later than 30 minutes before dusk. That's because they are too tired from taking care of all those lesser matters, including without limitation: picking up my underwear, bringing me a fresh beer (until the children can be trained to do so), policing up the empty beer bottles, cooking all three meals plus cobbler, keeping gas in her pickup, walking the dog, taking the trash to the curb, cleaning the pool, dressing the children, washing my clothes, interfacing with my ex-wife, making sure the child support gets paid, and still managing to look like the perrienial runner-up in the annual Ms. Peach Festival Beauty and Hog Calling contest, whether we are white-trashing with the wannabe lesbian college coeds, or at the bosses' Christmas and Silent Reproach party. That is just the way that it is.

Despite the infrequent pangs of guilt, or bizzare 3:30 a.m., Jack Daniels induced questioning about whether or not there might be a better way to live, there really has been no reason to live any differently. No need for the South to rise again, the modern South is a virtual cracker's paradise nestled snuggly inside a Pandora's Box.

Then an odd thing happened on the way to the office. A bank made two of the worst mistakes that banks ever make: getting their knickers in a twist over their own bad business decision, and hiring a bunch of Yankee lawyers to do something about it. The ensuing "mine is bigger than your's" match that always follows closely behind any congregation of lawyers numbering more than one, resulted in a little road show spanning from Coast to Coast, and Border to Border. (A taxi driver in Houston, in between rants about "those people" from New Orleans, told me that Canada has never had enough infrastructure to be more than a "prissy little territory of the US", because the Canucks had been waiting for the Mexicans to migrate that far North and build their country for them).

Suddenly, the displaced cracker is left questioning how comfy the Lone Star State's comfy chairs really are. People in the Midwest really are nicer, and more decent than anywhere else in the country. (One possible exception being Oklahoma, which really is nothing more than a prissy little territory of Texas). Suddenly Abu and Stella, who run the Shell station and live bait hut down the street seem a little more bitter than I remember. Indianapolis has a great drag racing event, steeped in just as much history and tradition as that run down Flying Saucer belly-button of a racetrack that runs in circles, and is unfortunately more closely associated with Indianapolis and motor sports. Burning nitro-methane smells just as good in the corn fields as it does in my garage when the wife and kids are gone. All of life is better with nitro-methane.

On the north side of Chicago, where houses the size of Country Clubs are being built, there is a lovely young professional looking blond driving a convertible Mercedes through the cool air of late morning traffic. She gives me hope, and condemns me to failure, all at once. Drive well, and drive fast, sweet lass.

Baltimore and DC are filled with mean, miserable people. Baltimore has a beautiful city, with a vibrant downtown, the U.S. Constellation, and Cal Ripken, Jr. Even with all those things going for it, I think they somehow screwed it all up. Shame.

At the risk of being ex-communicated by Gov. Perry, I fear that Boston has unveiled the Yankee that has always lurked inside my beer-guzzling, gun-toting redneck self. (Clearly here, you read Yankee to mean Yankee as in East of the Mississippi, North of the Mason-Dixon line, colonial style house with picket fences and old, funky looking barns overlooking rolling hills of hay and fresh grass kind of Yankee; and notYankee in the sense of NY Yankee baseball club buying its way into the playoffs every year kind of Yankee). Boston is too big, too bright, too thick of an accent, Too Much in the way Dave Matthews sings about Too Much.

Within 3 minutes of escaping Logan airport, and after paying $314.58 in tolls, I missed the ramp from the Ted Williams Tunnel to I-93 and South Boston. Native Bostonians are undoubtedly shaking their heads in a solemn understanding. It took two hours for me to realize my mistake, find a three foot wide section of missing guardrail to squeeze the rental car off the tollway, fight Dallas size traffic in Opie size hamletts on Highway 16, locate a major highway, and find an active artery back into Boston.

But during those two hours in the Massachusetts countryside (I guess I was in Massachusetts, for some reason no one puts any road signs up in this state), I found some alien yet familiar spot that felt like the wildest departure of imagination knocking at the door of some spot so natural and so much a part of the soul that it felt like returning home. The homes, the trees, the water. I know now why television commercials, whether they be for paint, Pine-sol, or those little blue pecker pep pills, are all set in Eastern sea-board beach front homes with a fragile picket fence hugging the contour of the land and marking the border between grassland and sand. There is something native, something universal to Americans, about this little pocket of the country.

Driving around a sharp bend on a two lane highway, peering into the twilight and the shadows just beyond the grass shoulder of the road, catching a glimpse of a stone chimney among a grove of encroaching trees and shrubs, is a startling reminder of how long white, god-fearing, gun-toting men have lived on this land, having instituted a still peach faced theory of governance. I hope the people who live here pay the right homage and make the right offerings to the ghosts that surely inhabit this place. Even when I snuck back into Boston on highway 9, I noted with some pride that the shopping mall was gracefully hidden behind the landscaping and strategically placed trees. Back home, malls are viewed with a sense of reverence once reserved only for pick-ups and good hunting dogs. Airline pilots use the overbearing lights of the local home-improvement chain store to line up for final approach during storms.

Now, if I can just figure out a way to help the bank get its knickers out a twist, so I can do some real sight-seeing...

Don't be Formerly Living.