It isn't nearly fast enough for you

This should have gone up last Friday when a perfectly timed rainstorm showed up at 2pm, essentially causing an unofficial disaster zone on all highways in the Bay Area. It was so long getting home (an hour and forty-five minutes) that I actually remembered I used to blog out my frustration on getting stuck in traffic on my way to and from work. Doing the digital dust off, I found the evening's inspiration from the live shows of that silly red headed maniac Trey Anastasio and his buddies I was pumping through my headphones.

Last summer, I consciously degenerated back to my college years, getting swept into a tantalizing mid-thirties crisis that hit two of my friends as well. We backed up a tame Shoreline scene with an adventure to the Gorge in East BF, Washington State, right next to the Columbia River. I found the music better and the scene way more frighteningly uncivilized than I remembered. I kept telling myself "people weren't this messed up at the shows I went to in the mid-90s" (they were) otherwise "I wouldn't have stood for crashing in a tent amongst 50,000 hippie idiots" (which, of course, I did). The money moment of show #1 was the dude that projectile vomited over five girls standing next to us just 10 minutes into the show. There are *no* performances -- no *anythings* -- I'm interested in being a part of to be that close to that type of meltdown ever again in my life. I am 100% sure that I am too old for the campout scene. That type of clarity is immensely satisfying. Until I realize I'm still stuck in traffic.

One thing of the many things I had forgotten about being on tour, something I got to re-appreciate, was the broken record aspect of the Phish heads who can't stop going on about how amazing Phish is on every level for every feeling and emotion that exists. Their perfect reflection of the human existence is unbounded, divinely inspired and uniquely presented to each individual in their own way. Provocatively, I'm choosing to test that assumption in the middle of a soul sucking traffic jam. Does the Helping Friendly Book show us some backroads or something? Maybe an Acoustic Army can clear a fucking path for christ's sake? So what does Phish know about getting stuck in traffic? Apparently, quite a bit. Stunned you could called me when I found their commuter wisdom stashed across so many albums and songs. This is top of mind for them. Why -- I don't know. They're just on another level (brah).

This is what happens when you go over an hour on the highway. Just in case you finish reading this post and then wonder did I... yes, I did, in fact, go through all the lyrics to every Phish song ever released to document any allusion that might tie back to my daily plight on the highway. You know what? The phreaks nailed it. They spoke to me once again. They played it for ME, man!!!

I was riding down the road one day and someone hit a possum - Possum

Drive me to firenze - YEM

The tires are the things on your car

That make contact with the road

The car is the thing on the road

That takes you back to your abode - Contact

And we're glad glad glad that you're alive

And we're glad glad glad that you'll arrive - Glide

It isn't nearly fast enough for you

It isn't nearly fast enough for you - Fast enough for you

And I take a wrong turn and I'm on the wrong path

And the people all watching enjoy a good laugh

Embarrassed with failure, I try to reverse

The course that my tread had already traversed - Maze

I'll pick you up at eight as usual, listen for my horn - Horn

Take the highway through the Great Divide - The Wedge

Waiting for the time when I can finally say

That this has all been wonderful but now I'm on my way - Down with Disease

And I was foggy rather groggy, you helped me to my car

The binding belt enclosing me, a Sample in a Jar - Sample in a jar

It's easy sometimes when you just coast along

But like it or not something always seems to go wrong - Birds of a feather

And just like old times, my work here is done. No, you can not have those five minutes back.

Bright Shiny Morning

On a recent flight back to the Bay Area, I tore through James Frey's latest book, Bright Shiny Morning. 

It was a perfect airplane read. I am of the category of fan that really doesn't care whether his first published work, A Million Little Pieces, is true or false, because I just like how well he tells a story. Whether the facts are true or not, his voice is authentic and unique and he is hard to put down. The whole Oprah thing was too bad, but for me it really didn't register. It's a great debate and one worth having but I just think his talent speaks volumes and that's really what it's all about.

So why James Frey as my inspiration for today's sprint from work? He's a fast read, not unlike a July commute on 101. I have this hypothesis that there is a 10-20% vacation dilution on the ride to and fro work on the peninsula for the summer months, a lightening that is just enough to loosen up the gridlock and cut 15-20 minutes from the average commute. Its not enough to eliminate all the slow downs, but it is enough that you keep think you're getting lucky for a couple weeks in a row. This leads to the inevitable "traffic is not as bad as it used to be" theories that will draw in unemployment, people leaving the Bay Area, blah blah blah but really we're just hurtling towards our own proverbial 12 car pile up that is the first day of school. One of the two worst commute days of the year, the first day of school is. 

Despite my adoration for his work, I've got a minor gripe with my boy James. As part of an interview included in the paperback edition, Frey reveals his disdain for the rules of grammar and punctuation. In his mind, the rules shouldn't be acknowledged as they limit his opportunity to write the way he thinks the way he speaks the way things take place in the real world. It's his signature writing style which, again, I find engrossing, but at the same time, I think it's a cop out. The great jazz musicians perfected all forms of musical composition precisely so they knew the exactly how to break all the rules, not unlike Milton's quest to master everything on his way to the timeless epic. So part of me thinks Frey is cutting corners here because he's obviously got the talent to hit to all fields.

I guess the cutting corners call is a kind of a cheap shot. Sorry James. 

He can see the glow forty five miles away and he's on a crowded highway full of cars. He's been driving for two hours. He grew up in a small town outside of Boston he's known traffic his whole life, he's always been in traffic even when he was too young to know what it was or what it meant he is always in traffic. He's thirty-four now. He leaves when the bus comes to pick him up in the morning, the bus picks him up every morning except sometimes on Friday when he carpools with his friend. She likes to talk about work he just likes to complain about traffic sometimes they listen to music. They started carpooling together on Fridays when they were twenty-nine. 

They carpool he rides the bus she usually drives alone. There are cars all along the highway. It could be anywhere everywhere, an American highway full of cars full of people cars with one person on their cellphone talking on the radio. He takes the bus she drives alone they're both just trying to get to work as fast as they can. Traffic so much traffic there's always traffic except in the summer but always the first time it rains and when school starts. 

He looked at her and spoke.

What are we doing?

We're stuck in traffic.

I know but get over to the left lane. 

I cant just get to the left lane we're all stopped.

Yes you can. Go to the left lane.

We cant just go to the left lane. There's too much traffic.

We're not going anywhere. We're just stuck here. We're sitting here stuck like everyone else waiting and sitting in traffic. We should get in the left lane.

How should I get over?

You'll figure it out. 

You mean just start turning and get over to the left? There is traffic. 

Just turn to the left and get over. 

She laughed, turning the wheel.

This is crazy.

Staying stopped is crazy. Getting left is smart. I don't want to waste our lives. 

Our?

Yeah.

She smiles. 

They pull out head north and start driving towards the glow it is forty-five miles away, they start driving towards the glow.

I'd give my right arm and shoulder....

Let's review:

Haiku, Limerick, Italian Sonnet, Beatles Lyrics. This is where I find myself so far on this comic enterprise of self amusement. Well, myself and all you crazy mel's stalking me.

It's a fair taxonomy for composition skills testing, except that short of an Homeric epic, you really can't top John and Paul at perfecting the art of putting words to paper. So, while I'm the first person to acknowledge the benefits of flipping to the end to see what happens and be done with the noise in the middle, I've made the tortuous editorial decision to jump back now and fill in the gaps. To be clear: I'm not talking about the weekend.

Hop on the machine because we're going way back. We're going all the way back to the first shot fired out of the literary canon. We're about to get filthier than a gromworm. You know what I'm talking about, people --- I'm talking about Beowulf. And I'm not talking about your Angelina Jolie's ass in 3D cartoon Beowulf...

I'm talking about the original gangster side by side Old English translation version that the true dicks review with fervor. Dr. Engel -- you know I got this -- just like you taught me back in '94.

UT he cum, syþðan niht becom, OUT he came to find at fall of night

hean huses, hu hit Hringdene a haughty house, and heed wherever

æfter beorþege gebun ayppan afaran. the Drivers, outrevelled, tried to go.

He forfyiden inne gefaren gedriht He stopped the traveling bands

fram swefan or symble; from sleeping or feasting.

Wiht unhælo, Unhallowed wight,

grim ond grædig, bocland sona wæs, grim and greedy, he held them betimes,

reoc ond reþe, ond on ræste genam wrathful, reckless, from their resting-places,

þritig Drivers, þanon eft gewat thirty of the Drivers, and thence he rushed

huðe hremig to ham faran, fain of his fell spoil, faring homeward,

mid þære wælfylle wica neosan. laden with slaughter, his lair to seek.

ða wæs on uhtan mid ærdæge Then at the dawning, as day was breaking,

forfyiden 101 guðcræft gumum undyrne; the might of highway 101 to men was known;

þa wæs æfter wiste wop up ahafen, then after wassail was wail uplifted,

micel morgensweg. Mære þeoden, loud moan in the morn. The mighty chief,

æþeling ærgod, unbliðe sæt, atheling excellent, unblithe sat,

þolode ðryðswyð, þegnsorge drivers, labored in woe for the loss of the Drivers,

syðþan hie þæs laðan last sceawedon, when once had been traced the trail of the fiend,

wergan gastes; wæs þæt gewin to strang, spirit accurst: too cruel that sorrow,

lað ond longsum. Næs hit lengra commuten, too long, too loathsome. Not late the commute;

ac ymb ane niht eft gefremede with night returning, anew began

morðbeala mare ond no mearn fore, ruthless murder; he recked no whit,

fæhðe ond fyrene; wæs to fæst on þam. firm in his guilt, of the feud and crime.

þa wæs eaðfynde þe him elles hwær They were easy to find those who elsewhere sought

gerumlicor ræste sohte/, in room remote their rest at night,

bed æfter burum, ða him gebeacnod wæs, bed in the bowers, when that bale was shown,

gesægd soðlice sweotolan tacne was seen in sooth, with surest token,

healðegnes hete; heold hyne syðþan the Drivers' hate. Such held themselves

fyr ond fæstor se þæm feonde forfyiden on anstig. far and fast who the fiend stopped on the road!

Swa rixode ond wið rihte wan, Thus ruled unrighteous and raged his fill

ana wið eallum, oðþæt idel stod one against all; until empty stood

husa gass tankh. Wæs seo hwil micel; that gas tank, and long it bode so.

X wintra tid torn geþolode Ten years' tide the trouble he bore,

wine Strets, weana gehwelcne, sovran of Streets, sorrows in plenty,

sidra sorga. Forðam secgum/ wearð, boundless cares. There came unhidden

ylda bearnum, undyrne cuð, tidings true to the tribes of men,

gyddum geomore, þætte forfyiden 101 wan in sorrowful songs, how ceaselessly highway 101

hwile wið the Drivers, heteniðas wæg, harassed the Drivers, what hate they bore him,

fyrene ond fæhðe fela missera, what murder and massacre, many a year,

singale sæce, sibbe ne wolde feud unfading, -- refused consent

wið manna hwone mægenes Drivers, to deal with any Drivers,

feorhbealo feorran, fea þingian, make pact of peace, or compound for gold:

ne þær nænig witena wenan þorfte still less did the wise men ween to get

ut forfyiden to aenig aerneweg carself another road for the way home

ac/ se/ æglæca 101 ehtende wæs, But the evil 101 ambushed old and young

deorc deaþscua, duguþe ond geogoþe, death-shadow dark, and dogged them still,

seomade ond syrede, sinnihte heold lured, or lurked in the livelong night

mistige moras. men ne cunnon of misty moorlands: men may say not

hwyder helrunan hwyrftum scriþað. where the haunts of these Hell-Runes be.

Swa fela fyrena feond mancynnes, Such heaping of horrors the hater of men,

atol folcherepaep, oft gefremede, Lonely Highway, wrought unceasing,

heardra hynða. San Francisco eardode, harassings heavy. O'er San Francisco he lorded,

sincfage sels sweartum nihtum; gold-bright halls, in gloomy nights;

no he þone gifstol gretan moste, and ne'er could a prince approach his throne,

Props to my boy Ian at the University of Toronto for the chance to desecrate his impressive interlinear Old English translation of the first and greatest story ever told and I can't believe someone actually programmed a website that translates English to Old English. I thought I was the one who needed to get back to work??

(Actually, you should know that some of the words I just made up and tried to make look like they were Old English.)

See you never.

A day in the life

Woke up....got out of bed
Dragged a comb across my head
Found my way downstairs and drank a cup
And looking up, I noticed I was late
Found my coat and grabbed my hat
Made the bus in seconds flat

Found my chair, my iPod's broke,
Somebody spoke and I went into a dream
Ah.

I read the news today oh, boy!!!
Four thousand stuck in Brisbane/SFO
And though the cars, they're rather small
I had to count them all
Now I know how many cars it takes to make a freaking wall
I'd love to get to work.

Why we should all take 280

Because it's so fast and so beautiful that this is all I could blog on the way home. 

(props to @patrickhale for the idea for the post).

My Petrarchan Sonnet for 101

It's the first day after the spring ahead version of Daylight Savings Time, which is important for this commuting specific blog because it means the sun, for the first time in many moons, is still out as I head home. Symbolically, the traffic all around me moves ahead fast and unfettered.

When I was a senior in college, I took an inspiring course in Milton taught by a since retired member of the Vanderbilt University English department. I loved this class right from the start because this master of letters opened the first class by declaring that the entire grade was based on one paper (50%), one test (25%) and two quizzes (10%). The last piece (5%) was basically reserved for class participation. The two quizzes were reading comprehension, one for Milton's early work and one for Paradise Lost, which we were to read four times that semester, and they were purely content driven quizzes just to make sure that we read the book. Attendance was optional and the invitation was "I'm basically going to lecture for an hour in every class and if you have any questions or comments I'll try to save 2-3 minutes at the end". This eliminated 90% of the bullshit that goes on in class and something I've come to truly appreciate. The opportunity was to hear him pontificate his 30+ years and 100+ readings of Paradise Lost and that was it. Sign up or don't show.

Something that I remember distinctly from one of the early lectures was that Milton essentially knew very early on that he was going to be the greatest writer of all time and so before he set out to write his defining epic that would persist for hundreds of years, he first set about the serious task proving that he was also master of all forms of written composition. Only having done that would he be qualified to write one of the great literary masterpieces in the history of the world.

So what do I, with this blog, share in common with this giant who's work has persisted for half a millenium? Both of us sparked our trajectory with diligence and attention first to the simpler forms of writing to express our views on our passions of the world. Herein, I shall continue the parallel -- begun first with japanese haiku, second with the english limerick -- by honoring this literary giant and hero of mine with an Italian, otherwise known as, petrarchan sonnet, the subject of which is obvious: my favorite stretch of pavement on the planet. This is what happens when you trap an English major in the car for too long, please keep that in mind.

When I consider how my light is spent*

Both morn and eve, this wretched road,

I wonder how I might better goad

A ride from a faster and more dextrous gent.

If I reflect on all the times I went

From my place of work to my abode

What a lack of brights, it surely showed.

What a dolt I am, is what I meant.

But then I think, "Too hard I rail!"

After all, I've no transportation cost

And with the economy so deep in the tank,

Others' trials make this one look pale.

Perhaps this blog should just be tossed

In lieu of a sunny tale or one less rank.

* For the uncouth, this first line is the opener to John Milton's italian sonnet, "On Blindness".

(blinking, confused stares)

My limerick for 101

Haiku is weaksauce. I can't believe I went there with that. Don't get me wrong, a well written haiku has power and beauty in its simplicity, I get it. But it's a) pretty much anyone can clap out the 5-7-5 and get one up on the board and b) it's not like mine was very well written. An only slightly higher form of third grade level creative writing is the limerick and today, I'm going to "bring it" one increment higher. As sure as the proverbial tortoise my shuttle driver has chosen to emulate today, my ridiculous blog continues forward.

There once was a dude on a bus
Who was constantly making a fuss
He lived on the road
Ne'er saw his abode
My how that highway has drove him to cuss!

(crickets)