eyes wide open

it's all about the people you meet on your journey.

for most of my childhood days in owosso we had a neighbor that owned a trucking company. his name was larry, and larry happened to have an arsenal of other incredibly cool shit-- motorcycles, fast cars and even nudie pictures of women from nascar calendars that were pinned inside the garage---

i still remember the day i discovered those calendars pinned up. i had built some sort of concoction of a fort behind larry's and our garage. mom yelled to me one night that dinner was ready and of course i hit the ground running like a bat out of hell. i ran fast and furious because i was husky and dinner was my second favorite part of the day. one night running in i hit my head on a mysterious object that was hanging off of larry' garage window. as i was clutching my head furiously i tried to figure out what the fuck had just jumped out and cracked my skull. as i looked through the window i discovered something bearing flesh at the opposite side of the garage. it was not clear at this point that i was looking at pornography but my curiousity was undoubtedly perked. days later i would be playing basketball with neighbor friend robert on larry's hoop in front of his garage and demanded i get a second opinion from him. we determined there was in fact a naked woman on the wall, perhaps two. it became habit at that point that we would mysteriously "lose the basketball" about 43 times a day in larry's garage.

so lets get back on track here. larry was the purveyor of all these interesting things-- namely naked women-- so naturally i paid a little more attention to everything the man did. so when i tell you that i became mildly obsessed with oversized vehicular transport at a young age it should now make complete sense that larry had a lot to do with this.

fast forward 15 years.

i drive a truck now.

going to weigh stations, trucker talk, CB radios, enormous sunglasses, a farmers tan from my arm hanging out the window, filling out my DOT drivers log book, checking engine belts and maneuvering a big rig-- bring it on. you would be proud, larry. well you might make fun of the fact that my "truck" is nowehere near an 18-wheeler, but i am getting there.

the rig clocks in at about 25 feet in length, weighs something like 15,000 pounds and when you sit in the thing you feel like you are on top of the universe. the steering wheel is roughly the size of alaska. and the entirety of the exterior is branded with crocs artwork and surprisingly this includes a portrait of don king holding multiple pairs of crocs. yes, don king. mike tyson/don king. big hair don king.

awesome.

and driving the old don king mobile around is a damn good time. i have traversed through some five states already and the adventures are abundant.

the scene was arizona. right at the border of california. sunny day, 85 degrees. it is pretty standard to roll through the port of entry weigh station for trucks when crossing any state border. as we rumbled over the scale at a measly 7 mph i gave the standard tip of the cap to the attendant in the window. there is a traffic light situated on the upper left as you pass through the scale, and if your weight is accepted you get the green light. if not, it will flash red.

the lady flashed us the red.

awesome.

apparently i was going a little too fast over the scale because she was screaming through the PA at decibels rivaling a small dynamite explosion. “BACK UP!” she yelled. i backed up the rig. “DID YOU NOT SEE THE RED LIGHT!?” i told her i was too busy waving at her to see the light. she wasn’t taking kindly to my jovial gesture. “GATHER YOUR REGISTRATION PAPERS AND LOG BOOKS AND STEP IN THE OFFICE!” feeling her atomic explosion of a voice crush my ear drums i gathered my shit and got out of the truck.

katie— my driving partner— and i approached the office and entered through the mid-70’s looking building. the door said “pull” but you actually had to push it. i entered the room greeted by a chilling aroma. it smelled of moist armpits that hadn’t been cleansed in a couple weeks. i cringed. katie’s face looked as though she was holding back vomit that was sitting in the back of her throat. we approached the desk. the two women sitting behind the counter combined for about 700 pounds and could have easily walked on to the detroit lions offensive line. these girls were large.

a. bonnet, or so her nametag read, approached me. her acrylic nails were about as long as my pinky finger. her desk was littered with photos of she and what i assumed was her significant other. her west coast choppers branded sunglasses were tucked within the confines of her blond highlighted hair. this woman was angry. and despite not having the PA microphone wedged under her chin, she was still fucking screaming.

i got a scolding immediately for going 7 mph through the scale instead of 5. i was ridiculed for having missed the red light. i nodded and said “m hm” about 15 times and happily took to asking her to repeat nearly everything.

“I WILL NEED YOUR TRUCK REGISTRATION, INSURANCE CARDS, LOG BOOKS AND MEDICAL CARD.”

i happily surrendered the documents to her outstretched paw that was about 8 inches wide.

“I DON’T SEE YOUR DOT MEDICAL CARD IN HERE.”

fuck. i forgot that in the car and explained. i told her i would go get it and be right back. i got to the truck and was rifling through my papers at record speed only to realize that my employer still had my card on file at their office.

awesome.

realizing that i was probably going to be subjected to a firing quad without my medical card, i wearily walked through the messed up door back in to the office almost vomiting again from the stench. she smiled as i informed her of my inability to produce the medical card.

awesome.

she was rifling through katie’s and my log book at speeds that suggested she wasn’t even reading so much as a single letter or digit. i was incorrect in my assessment unfortunately. “YOU CAN FACE UP TO $600 IN FINES FOR THESE FAULTY LOG BOOKS.” i rattled off another “m hm.” her quasi-southern accent coupled with her penchant for screaming made it hard to understand the woman.

she looked over the papers and then demanded entrance to our truck for an inspection. she went through her checklist, of which i was able to produce the majority of the items sans the warning triangles we are supposed to have on board. we had cones instead of triangles but this wasn’t going to do it for a. bonnett.

“I WON’T CITE YOU FOR FAILURE TO PASS INSPECTION” she shouted, “BUT I AM GOING TO GET YOU FOR NOT HAVING YOUR MEDICAL CARD.”

i gave her back a bland “m hm” as i tried not to awkwardly stare at her acrylic nails that reminded me of edward scissorhands. she wrote slowly for about 45 minutes filling out my ticket. she handed it to me upon completion. i about shit my pants when i read that the ticket is going to cost $305.

“NOW YOU HAVE A NICE DAY YOU TWO.” she said it with the sort of sting that suggested she was so proud of herself. she had probably just met her monthly citation quota. maybe her boss was going to take her to the local fish fry as a reward. i would be lying if i said i didn’t think about these things.

hopefully after my little run-in with the united states department of transportation i can officially nominate myself in to the trucker subculture. there’s a bit of camaraderie to be had traveling the lonesome highways for 14 hour stretches at a time.

frances was the attendant at the truck stop in sierra blanca, texas. she was manning the counter at the only diesel stop within about 50 miles in each direction on I-10. the rig was cruising on fumes so we had to fill up the 30 gallon tank. i take every opportunity to have a good chat at the truck stops because 9 times out of 10 the good folks have a story to tell. every trucker wants to tell you something— how to avoid the bitch at the weigh station 40 miles ahead, the inevitable conversation about illicit use of the CB radio or something else involving women and a lack of clothing.

anyway, sierra blanca is situated about 40 minutes north of the mexicale border, and frances spared no time in telling me that the area was an absolute hotbed for drug and human trafficking. that explained the border check 10 miles earlier off I-10 complete with sniffing dogs, a bomb squad and mysterious equipment that apparently could tell the federales if i had a truck full of illegal mexicans. turns out the conversation got me a free coca cola and frances sent me off with a handwritten map to austin. nevermind that the GPS would get us there just fine, the gesture was well received.

a few hundred miles later, max monroe was the fiery counter attendant at the truck wash in segovia, texas. my american express card wasn’t going through when i paid for my diesel and the man wanted nothing to do with the hassle. after two unsuccessful swipes of my card he got right on the phone and called american express. at that hour we were of course routed to an overseas answering service and this lit a fire under max monroe’s fruit of the looms. i could tell the line picked up with a recording and max took to yelling “operator, operator, operator” at least a dozen times. similar to a. bonnet over there in arizona he was screaming loud enough for people to hear in the next town over.

“am i talking to india? my name is max monroe and i operate a truck stop here in segovia, texas. i got a philip j lauri ii here trying to fill up his rig with some diesel fuel and your people are telling me i need an authorization code.” his belly vibrated with every passing syllable.

“uhh, max. i can probably take care of this.”

“oh you just sit tight, i’ll get this squared away with india.”

then right as i thought someone picked up the phone max put his headset down and started an entirely different conversation with me about where i was headed. i told him i was going to austin, texas and we exchanged comments about our favorite bars on sixth street—the popular stop amongst locals and tourists for live music, food and plenty of booze. midway through talking to me max picks up the phone to what is now presumably a frustrated attendant in india who just heard our conversation about drinking beer and looking at women.

“yes, is this india? can you understand me? my name is max monroe and i own a truck stop in segovia, texas. i have a customer here named philip j lauri ii who is tryi-----“

he was presumably cut off and he started yelling again. not at me, not at india but this time it appeared as though he was just yelling at the wall. jesus. finally, max handed the phone to me and after some trials and tribulations with what was now a manager on the other line, i managed to get the approval code and my diesel paid for,

“crazy times we live in, phil.” it looked like max was recovering from a near heart attack. sweat was pouring down his forehead and collecting on his furrow brow. “and that girl didn’t understand what was going on. good thing you got a manager on the phone.” i nodded back at max as if to assure him that everything he just shouted in to the receiver was gospel.

mildly dumbfounded with my diesel paid for, i gave max a tip of the cap and headed back to the rig. as i passed through the glass door he shot off a “keep your eyes wide open on the road” and i pulled off in to the darkness. he had it right though—it is all about keeping your eyes wide open on the journey. there is plenty to take in, absorb and bounce around in your head. scenes dart in and out of your periphery, people pass you by, thoughts linger, dreams remain and images permanently embed themselves in your memory block. it all marinates somewhere in my right brain and propels me forward.

so i pressed on like i always do. the lone star horizon was long gone and the calm of the engine rumble and a cracked open window had me basking in the glory of max’s parting words.

miniature victories

well, thank christ i finally found a power outlet.

you would have thought that there was an energy crisis in the smith terminal at detroit metro airport because it was damn near impossible to plug my laptop in. and this was something of a serious crisis because i had intricate plans of charging my laptop while waiting to board my plane, and then doing some writing once boarded to kill some time.

nine terminals down i finally found a power outlet that didn’t already have someone hovering over the thing as if to suggest that my intrusion on his fucking power outlet would result in total carnage.

i plugged in and sat on the floor because every seat was taken. a woman stared at me awkwardly as if i was going to eat her baby or something. this felt really, really uncomfortable for the 23 minutes or so that she decided this action was necessary.

aside from creepy staring woman with enormous eyebrows that wanted to breath dragon fire on my chest, i was pretty relieved that things were going to plan. that is, i was really fucking happy my laptop was getting charged. sweat was pouring down the back of my neck because i think i had 14 shirts on. i mean what the hell else are you supposed to do in the miserable cold that is the midwest? i took off my scarf and threw it on the ground. i opened up my book and began to read while electric currents entered my laptop preparing me for the journey.

eventually my flight boarded. united flight 485, direct to denver. fair enough.

just 5 months ago i was alerted that i am now a united airlines premier member because i traveled over 25,000 miles in the air last year. such an accreditation yields me about 14 more metric tons of paper mail per year from the airline, but also gets me boarded on the plane earlier and sitting in “priority” seats. i mean “priority seating” these days is kind of bullshit. as it is, i am sitting in what seems like a perfectly normal seat that apparently has 5 extra inches of legroom. interesting.

so with this heightened “status”, i get to board the flight early. and see, i was so fucking excited to be finally using my premier membership so this was kind of a big deal. as it was, the day that i was granted my status was actually the last time i flew on a united airlines jumbo jet. so for the past 5 months i have been pining to get a taste of the surreal life like snoop dogg or something.

so i walked through the line with the high rollers and handed my ticket to the attendant.

“uhhhhh sir, this would be the boarding call for premier 1k and first class.”

“well, maybe you didn’t see my ticket. i was recently inducted to premier status.”

“of course, sir. but premier is different from premier 1k. your boarding call is next.”

oh jesus christ. forgive me your majesty. i was completely unaware of the semantics related to the difference in my status title. i wanted to take the pen that was tucked behind my ear and write a big giant “1k” next to where it said “premier.” i was now bitter and the man could tell.

“please just go ahead, sir.”

awesome.

i gallivanted past that awkward situation.

i wiped my forehead that was now drenched in sweat and slammed my ass down in to seat 4c. i did so much as breathe for one second while seated and was greeted by an outstretched palm extending from the passenger to my immediate left. the guy had an enormous beard and kind of looked like that dude that did those painting shows on pbs— he was always talking about “happy fences,” remember? well, within that outstretched palm of the painter look-alike was a purple oval-shaped piece of what looked like an arsenic tablet.

seriously? what the fuck was going on? it became obvious that the world was against me at this particular juncture. the airline attendant made me feel like an idiot and now the guy sitting next to me wanted to kill me.

awesome.

i examined the palm in front of my nose for about 1.2 seconds and immediately accepted the offering when i realized that it was not arsenic but was in fact my fourth favorite piece of candy: a grape flavored mentos tablet.

awesome.

a random hero.

as i sat recovering from the trauma and enjoying my mento, i looked out the window across from me and actually saw my bag being loaded in to the jumbo jet. this was a first for me as i can’t even remember the last time i checked a bag on to a plane. it appeared as though the position of the bag on the gurney may be seriously crushing my costco-sized box of clif bars that i had packed in my suitcase.

note: it is relatively impossible for me to take any step forward without costco involvement in my life in some capacity. as it is, that bag that was being loaded on to the jet and was holding my entire life for the next six months, was purchased at costco.

yep.

i just chugged my eighteenth water of the trip. it’s remarkable that i haven’t pissed myself yet. the guy next to me across the aisle has those noise-canceling headphones on and is completely unaware of the fact that he is tapping his foot to the beat of whatever song he is listening to. the woman in front of him looked back at him with the eyes that suggest she could be lucifer in disguise.

such is the life of a united airlines premier member.

not 1k.

saying goodbye to home life today was mildly nerving. i got really, really used to eating cooked meals that mom so expertly crafted, waking up at 12 noon everyday and spending time with some great friends. i mean who would complain with these things?

as it is, i am leaving to move on to something i do in fact love. so i cant complain with that. i will be moving coast to coast in a box truck talking to people and telling them about crocs. sounds reasonable enough. my geographic time schedule is plotted out in the link below via the good people at google:

google maps link

oh god, toe-tappin’ tommy is at it again next to me. lucifer is lighting her firetorch.

home life— so yeah, there’s more to be said in that department. it’s always tough leaving that kind of comfort. but jesus, its not like this isn’t about the 50th time i have made some sort of transition in the past 3 years. some call it itchy feet, some call it being lost, some call it discovery, some call it brilliant and i just call it being smart. hah, awfully narcissistic of me, eh?

transition.

movement.

decisions.

exploration.

how can you get to your destination without exploring the route that will get you there?

i was up until the wee hours of the morning last night because lets be honest-- i have been sleeping in until noon every day. i read over the commencement speech i did for my graduating class at one point. it was kind of reassuring as i read it. i feel like the thoughts i laid out on that day— december 10, 2005-- i am still clinging to and wearing on my sleeve. i have made changes, i have made moves, i have bounced around and probably will continue to in some capacity—but all in the pursuit of simple pleasure. how important are the riches and the premier 1k membership when you don’t have the key happiness component?

seems simple enough to me.

and the band played on

2008, a new direction.

2008, the tortoise and the heir.

2008, uhhh traveling... again.

2008, keeping things interesting.

2008, fuck yeah!

sorry, just trying to figure out a good opening line.

to commemorate the interesting tail-end of 2007 on the road i put together a little video montage of the trip. well, to call it a montage is partially inaccurate, so i will just say that i composed a video and posted it on youtube that attempts to encompass the events that unfolded in the past couple of months..

click here to view it

moving forward.

one of the highlights being home in michigan for the past few weeks was spending the new years holiday up north on lake charlevoix. ahhh, it was a good dose of good old american fun: shooting ranges, board games, drinking and adventure sports.

awesome.

i have been to a shooting range once before in my life. it was a nice summer day and i was tagging along with my friend ryan. we went skeet shooting. i think we chucked out about 3,000 of those orange discs in the air—half to me and half to ryan. i am reasonably sure that ryan has a future as a marksman because he was hitting those fucking orange flying saucers with the kind of accuracy that suggested perhaps he had a career as a sniper. contrary to ryan, i didn’t hit a goddamn single one of those stupid clay things. my shoulder felt like it would fall off at any moment and no audible sound could be sensed by either of my ear drums. this had to have been one of the worst days.

fast forward about 5 years to my latest shooting extravaganza—this time with two of my uncles, a cousin and my father and brother. i woke up and was advised that we would be doing some “gunplay” later in the afternoon and i was instructed to dress in my neon orange bibs and jacket.

awesome.

i was perfectly pleased not going to another shooting range, but it was either go shooting with the men, shopping with the women in nearby petoskey or stay at home with the dogs. i hate shopping and dogs both, so it would have to gunplay—the lesser of the three evils.

we showed up and it became instantly apparent to me that i would be frozen solid and unable to shoot anything within 32 minutes. the shooting range was outside. everyone was wearing thick boots and clothing that made them look as if they weighed 30 pounds more than they actually did.

i stepped out of the car with my vans on, a pair of tight wrangler jeans and a jacket that wouldn’t keep me warm for more than 10 minutes in this frigid cold. i stepped inside to the “lodge” where a woman barked orders at us regarding which shooting stations we would be manning for the afternoon. she was no more than 5’4’’ and had enough makeup on her face to cover her entire body. she wore what appeared to be a bright blue sharpie marker line across her eyelids and i was questioning whether her eyebrows were tattooed on her. i understood maybe 20% of the phrases that came out of her mouth because i wasn’t so much as familiar with even where i was.

we stepped outside to our designated spot at the range.

it was fucking freezing. the bottoms of my feet felt like steel in an ice pond. rock solid.

the guns were pulled out and i started to get skirmish. i couldn’t even give you any idea of the caliber of these weapons—they were just shotguns that were very large and one appeared to have a sawed off barrel.

awesome.

skeet shooting ensued. my dad was knocking down an occasional orange clay disc and i am reasonably sure he wasn’t even sure where the trigger was on any of these assault weapons. my 14 year old brother knocked down plenty of the fucking discs. my other cousin, 10 years to my junior, was also nailing fuckers left and right. the uncles were kicking ass and giving me plenty of instruction—much needed instruction.

i didn’t hit a single fucking disc. not one. at one point in the skeet shooting competition i was standing roughly 15 feet from the stupid orange disc and still couldn’t hit it. awful. i was getting awkward instructions at every turn like “stop sticking your ass out” or “hold the gun on your shoulder.” jesus, little did they know my shoulder felt like raw meat being pounded by a kitchen hammer every time the goddamn gun would fire off. not to mention my fucking feet. i couldn’t feel anything on my body below my dick.

awesome.

clearly my skills as a marksman are just non-existent. some things never change.

board games are another story. i consider myself to be a very successful board game player. i usually always win in monopoly (this happens to be my favorite) and can out-act anyone in a game of charades. my success rate tends to be fairly consistent, however, it gets somewhat difficult to maintain undefeated records in a day and age where there are at least 12,000 board games available to you when you shop for them at the toy store. what ever happened to hungry hippos? checkers? card games like war? things get infinitely more complex with games that encompass every sort of odd category you can imagine.

taboo was the name of the game we played over the holiday break. this game was not my idea of perfection in a game—after all there was no board—but could certainly keep my attention occupied.

board games get intense with my dad. he typically yells at 3 times the volume that everyone else is talking whilst playing. he remains very intense throughout. jokes run rampant but all with the intention of pissing the opponent off and causing a competitive advantage. dad was on my team. my brother rounded out our team of three. he is calm and collected with board games. i tend to be somewhere between the two—occasionally screaming and scaring the shit out of opponents but also trying my damndest to remain intensely focused on winning. i hate losing in board games.

the three hours of taboo that ensued were victorious for my team. we won 2 out of 3 in the series. the rubber match came right down to the hair—we took the cake when we got the 35th point.

success.

watching the ball drop with my family was really nice. i mean i haven’t been home for this type of celebration in a long time. as it is this year, i was supposed to be in chicago having a rip-roaring dance party with my friends but plans change and those unfortunately did.

that being said, i was intent on drinking heavily to bring in 2008 despite the participants in the party being all contained within my blood line. my thought is that this fact should never matter. as such, i demanded talking to my uncle about mostly things related to naked women or some mild variation of that topic. a particular talking piece that kept coming up was why it’s socially irresponsible for hannah montana to be dancing on stage in times square at the age of 14 looking as though she is 21. i mean christ, that spells prison for any warm-blooded male with a dick.

later as we flipped through the channels it became apparent to me that there was a hawaiian tropic bikini contest that was showing on one of the sports networks. i demanded we watch this for "wholesome entertainment" and the rest of the family filtered out to the other room. i eventually caught on to this and uncle and i succumbed to listening to anderson cooper and kathy griffin on one of the major networks in times square. that griffin is a character though. i think she would be an interesting woman to have a beer with.

despite the women flashing on the screen and the amount of bass ale i was consuming, i couldn’t help but think about the past year that was 2007 and what would be in store for 2008.

so far the year has me beginning with a job. i suppose thats about the best possible way to start the year at this juncture. i am going on a nationwide tour to marathons, festivals and events doing "experiential marketing" for the client i am working for-- crocs. yeah, those goofy looking.... ehhhh.... sneakers?

i am excited.

i mean, how the hell could i not be? i am travelling coast to coast in a box truck for the next 6 months in warm climates with 3 other people. we are encouraged to travel at our leisure in between the events. meanwhile, everything is paid for and i am earning some nice coin to boot.

i won't complain.

i will keep the blog updated with my whereabouts in the coming months. hopefully this time i wont be talking so much about ramen noodles and canned green beans. i will be sleeping in hotels all the time, too. a pleasant upgrade from my recent digs in the back of my ford ranger. things are looking good.

i'll keep you posted.