If I Could Save Time in a Bottle...

author's note: In response to Becca tagging me "IT," this one is about 3 pages, but a good bit of it is white space. Should be a pretty quick read. Next entry probably won't show up until next week and will bring you all back to the East Coast with me on my Karaoke Summer Tour.

So here were the questions of which I was supposed to answer five...

If I could be a musician, If I could be a doctor, If I could be a painter, If I could be a gardener, If I could be a missionary, If I could be a chef, If I could be an architect, If I could be a linguist, If I could be a psychologist, If I could be a librarian, If I could be an athlete, If I could be a lawyer, If I could be an inn-keeper, If I could be a professor, If I could be a writer, If I could be a llama-rider, If I could be a bonnie pirate, If I could be an astronaut, If I could be a world famous blogger, If I could be a justice on any one court in the world, If I could be married to any current famous political figure

Personally, besides a few of them, I thought they lacked creativity and didn't push me to really think. I've heard much better "situational questions for consideration."

Like Mr. Croce's for which I've titled this blog.

Or my good friend, Becca's. "If you could choose any superpower…"

And with my recent disposition, my own contribution… If you had to choose between farts that would make noise and those that stink, which would you choose? Think about the different situations… movie theaters, restaurants, blind dates, the in-laws.

But, since none of these questions was posed to me (or at least "tagged" to me), I’ll take a quick moment to hit a few of the aforementioned.

The first one is easy, but my girl will probably be the only one to get the humor. If I could be a bonnie pirate… I already am. To let you in on part of the joke, I’ve always been fond of any variety of facial hair. One particular fashion a few years back even got me a gruff “Aarrggh,” from a passing pedestrian late one Saturday night in Missoula, Montana.

If I could be a writer… Damn that would be nice, but my agent just isn’t convinced I’m ready, and I have to trust that she knows what she’s talking about.

If I could be a chef... well, that would mean that I would’ve also gained some notoriety as a writer, because one of my dreams is a huge kitchen… and the time to use it.

If I could choose to be married to any current famous political figure, I’d probably choose not to.

And finally, I would probably choose farts that stink, because you can always walk a few feet away to do it… or just blame the dog.

Okay, one last story before I go.

So a friend of mine was visiting a woman in New York whom he hadn’t seen in a few years. He always had a little thing for her, and when he got the invite to visit, he thought he might have an opportunity to get the ball rolling… so to speak.

Long story short. They’re having dinner at her place (we’ll call her “Janie”), when my friend (“Rich”) feels the uncomfortable rumbling in his lower gut. Must’ve been the Mexican for lunch. Here’s the best part. He would’ve just excused himself from the table to go to the bathroom to let one go (light a match, you know?), but her toilet was out-of-order until the Super could get in and fix it. Janie had told him earlier that the neighbor woman was always at home and would let them use hers, but Rich wasn’t about to go over to the neighbor’s just for that, and if he just went in the hall, well then Janie might…

Well, he was in the middle of thinking about his options when one just slipped out by accident without a sound, and while it may not have been deadly, it surely wasn’t pretty. Rich started to sweat as Janie crinkled her nose. “Jeez,” she said and waved her hand in front of her face. Now Janie’s dog (“Spot”) had been lying at their feet this whole time. She looked under the table and said, “Spot, get out of there!” Spot looked up for a moment, then dropped his head down and went back to sleep.

Rich relaxed, chuckling to himself that he had escaped the potentially romantically damaging situation.

Well, we all know that rarely do farts travel alone, and it wasn’t long before another one brewed up, but feeling confident that he was in the clear, he let it go. Again, Rich almost laughed aloud as Janie told Spot to leave the room, but she still didn't forcibly eject him, and Spot slept on.

With desert came the third occasion, and without a thought, Rich adjusted in his seat slightly and again without a sound, polluted the room. He actually laughed this time, waiting for Janie to blame it on the dog.

“Spot,” Janie said, “for the last time, get out from under the table before Rich kills you.”

Silly Dick and Jane.

(Insert two taps on the snare, followed by the cymble.)

A Simple Question

author's note: A little shorter, and a little more serious, this is something that's been stewing around in my head since returning from our Montana/Idaho trip a little over a month ago. And Becca, I'll get to the "it," but I don't know anyone else I could tag. I have another friend who blogs, but it's through a different network or some such thing. Anyway, on to a simple question.

“Are you happy?”

It’s one of the toughest questions, because it cuts through the bullshit, and while it is also the basest of questions, I’m constantly amazed at my instantaneous gut reaction after those rare moments when someone asks it that simply.

“Are you happy?”

It’s rarely as clear or total as “yes” or “no,” but you’ll definitely know which way you sway. Without even trying, a flood of your life will rush over you, those issues that please you as distinct from those which bother, as stark as night from day.

On my trip showing Montana (and much of my previous seven years existence) to Jennifer, I was asked this question twice and am pleased to say that, even while some things could have been better (more money, more free time, less work. You know.), I could respond in the affirmative.

All said and done, Jennifer and I spent five days away from home, and while some of it definitely felt too rushed, I was ready to get back to Cedar, and even back to work (I'm the main person in charge of fulfillment for the family biz, and something of a control freak). After feeling worn out and somewhat stressed before we left town, after spending that time with my wonderful woman (and sometimes Wonder Woman, but I won’t go into that), I felt rejuvenated. I hadn’t mentioned this, but a couple weeks earlier, I took a super quick family trip to San Diego, and seriously got bitten by the traveling bug again. But the trip north was a good respite, especially knowing that we have another one scheduled on the East Coast at the end of July.

So I was back at work when the UPS guy showed up.

“How was the vacation?” he asked.

“Great,” I told him. “A little too short, but I was ready to get back.” Not necessarily super-excited to be back at work, mind you, but it was okay.

“Really?” he asked. “Coming back is always the worst part for me.”

“Hmm,” I might have said.

Okay, in my opinion, if the worst thing about a vacation isn’t, say, the amount of money you spent or getting bitten by an alligator or two dozen mosquitoes, but rather having to come back home, then there is at least one thing in your life you need to change.

Because that’s what a vacation is really, right? A crying out for change…of something. Maybe a change of pace, place, or just faces. If we were completely satisfied with our surroundings, we’d never need to go on vacation. One of the more fascinating things I discovered from 7 months in Hawaii was that their vacation destination was Las Vegas. Can you imagine? Having lived within 3 hours of Las Vegas for 8 years, I surely can’t, but I guess you even need a break from paradise.

I know it was probably a whimsical comment from the UPS guy, but too often it’s not just a joke. People are truly miserable to be coming home, and in that case, vacation isn’t what is truly needed. That’s when someone needs to sit down and ask you, and not because they want to hear a certain answer or tell you what THEY think you should change, but they ask just because they care. “Are you happy?”

And if you can’t be happy in your home, then none of the traveling, moving or vacations will let you escape. A bigger change is necessary. Happiness is attainable, and right now, I can’t think of a single person in my life who doesn’t deserve it. For you disbelievers, those of you convinced that we're only allowed rare moments of contentedness, I’m going to say that one again. Happiness is attainable, and right now, I can’t think of a single person in my life who doesn’t deserve it.

One of the greatest things about living in Missoula was a sentiment I believe shared by many of my friends there. Vacations were great, but it was also great to come home, but not for any particular reason. Certain things could’ve been better (I had some pretty shitty jobs… literally, and wasn’t always dating sane women), but generally I was pleased with the pace, place and faces. Generally I was happy. Any of you who know me then would be shocked to hear this now, but after a recent great vacation to Montana and Idaho, I was ready to come home to Utah.

“Are you happy?” Ray had asked me. He pulled me aside after a couple shots of whiskey and a little smoke. Since the throat cancer, he’s slowed down a little. Now he takes his shots with ice and a little clear soda. Ray is a whole other story. Ask me sometime.

The question caught me off guard, as it always does, and feeling the swell of emotions, the bittersweet mix of pining for a place I no longer live and living with a woman I will always love, I felt a lump in my throat. I could be happier if I could have it all, my love and all my friends and family together in a beautiful place where you could get a decent Bloody Mary on Sunday, but who doesn’t want that?

“Yeah,” I said. “I am.”

“Good enough.” Ray clapped me on the shoulder. “Now let’s go have another drink.”

Connecticut? Rhode Island?

author' note: This one takes you back on the road with me last Summer. It runs about 4 pages, but FEAR NOT, I'm going to do my damndest to intersperse shorter commentaries in between my longer bits. enjoy.


I have to check my wallet for Brenna’s business card for some sort of clue.

New London, CT.

But I’m pretty sure I was in Rhode Island as well. Maybe not. Did I mention I’m coming up on a year since I started this trip (have I come down, yet)? Damn it! Now I’ve got to get my atlas…

Okay, after further investigation, I had intended to go to Rhode Island, but ended up staying with Brenna at her grandmother’s place near the beach in Connecticut… where she worked… Connecticut, that is… I think.

Brenna Chapmann. I met Brenna when I was just a few months away from leaving Missoula. I had moved into The Duck (a whole other book) with one foot already on the road. Friends practically instantly, we kept in communication after I left Montana (even met up with her and Kim Joyner for a week in Mexico. The “week-barometer,” by the way, is a great litmus for true friends).

Before Jennifer, I wasn’t sure if I’d meet another woman with whom I liked hanging out as much as Brenna. A fellow artist and traveler, outstanding writer and photographer, Brenna is still searching for her place in this world, figuratively and literally, seeking ideals in a journalistic world often lacking such, trying to wrap her mind around her purpose. “Raisin duh‘etre” for you Frenchies.

When I caught up with her last Summer (the previous time was probably on one of my trips through Missoula) she was spending her time between Rhode Island, where her parents and grandmother lived (Bill, Lynda and Nana, right Brenna? Great folks. Bill, great mustache. I’ve since grown mine back.) and her grandmother’s place in Connecticut. I think Rhode Island was my original destination, and might still have been were I not running late leaving Maryland. Nothing like a few repairs to your vehicle to set you back… in more ways than one, but I was having too much fun at this point to worry about finances.

After meeting up with my family, as well as a slew of other family, in Virginia, Maryland and NYC (more on this later), I bid a fond farewell (not so fond to the mechanics) and started the second half of my trip.

Footnote: Travel up to this point, through the Mid-West and up the East Coast, had been clear of any major weather. Also, my travel days usually fell on weekdays, subsequently avoiding much traffic.

I’m pretty sure it was a Friday when I left Maryland. Some of the worst rain I’ve driven in hit me just as I was just outside of New York City. About nine of ten p.m. Yeah. Here’s the ironic part (I think). In Maryland, my brother, his family and I opted to take the train to New York for that leg of their visit, so we wouldn’t have to drive in the city while we were visiting our cousin, Libbe. Yeah.

Well, I survived the drive, but as the hour grew later, I realized I’d better call Brenna. Here is where plans changed (although I don’t remember why) and I was diverted to the beach house in Connecticut. Sometime after midnight, I navigated through the narrow curving streets of a barely lit sleepy East Coast beach neighborhood. The ocean was purportedly nearby (apparently after one of my wrong turns…the damn signs were TINY… I almost found it) but it was too dark out to tell. Finally I found the place, and even though both of us were worn-out from our days, we still wanted to catch up, and tired conversation ensued until yawning took over. I went to sleep, trying to picture what the unfamiliar neighborhood would look like in the daylight.

Brenna had done her research. Apparently just one week earlier, one of the local independent rags ran a cover story on karaoke…AND DAMN IT! I TRAVELED PROBABLY SIX THOUSAND MORE MILES WITH THAT ARTICLE, AND NOW I CAN’T FIND IT!

Moving on. The cover showed a guy probably not too far from his mid-thirties in a black button down shirt, sleeves rolled almost to the elbows, and yes, black leather pants. He sported a trimmed black goatee and, appearing to be a few pounds heavier than his height, was working hard at his impression of what the article informed me was probably Meat Loaf. Apparently, he was a die-hard Meatloaf fan, and being something of fan myself, I can only snicker a little.

The article went on to give a little history of karaoke, of course, and tried to decipher the same mystery that sent me on this trip. And it gave a quick run down of the bars and taverns where one might find karaoke in New Haven… New London… Newport?

But we were deciding to hell with New Something! And it was off to Misquamicut. Ahh, Misquamicut. If you haven’t been, I highly recommend.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. This is easy to do in this case, because I’m coming up on a year since I left on this adventure (June 28th), and some of the details (or at least the order of the details) probably should’ve been written down.

But should they really have? I wonder sometimes. Kind of like taking a picture. Or choosing not to. Memories will imprint, rise to the surface and then fade again, like waves as the years go past. So many moments work to shape us each and every day that sometimes I’m forced to lock the writer in a closet and just drink it in, life through every pore of your body until you can’t see straight, and you don’t remember what happened the next morning. That was really what this trip was about. The karaoke was an extension to my real vision of experiencing life. Different places, hundreds of different faces. To drink of it all until I was drunk, and even though the writer was often locked away, he didn’t complain so much.

The buzz was infectious.

And now that I’ve said that all about keeping the moments simply in your memories, I’ll throw out a quick teaser of my next segment. Film footage exists somewhere in this world of my performance that night at the Windjammer in Misquamicut, Rhode Island.