It Came Upon a Midnight Everclear

Three words: “Dean,” “Martin” and “cats.”

As I begin this first post since all the chickens have come home to roost—except that’s a lousy analogy, because Donald Trump has, in the past five or so weeks, appointed so many bloodthirsty foxes to guard the social network and environmental henhouses that the fowl already are as good as dead—I’m thinking of recent exchanges with a couple of friends of mine.

In an email shortly after my “Night of the Living Dread” post, a similarly distraught Betsy told me she was getting an early start on immersing herself in Christmas music to try to at least somewhat anesthetize herself against the immediate horror of the words “President-elect Trump” and the inevitable nightmare of the next four (at least) years. I endorsed her move in the way that I support anyone stepping away from the ledge and choosing hope over the alternative. But I doubted seriously that I could follow suit, even though I love Christmas music and typically make WASH-FM—DC’s “Christmas music station” from Thanksgiving through December 25—one of my seasonal defaults.

The reason I so strongly doubted it was concisely stated by Alison, aka “NY Friend,” who responded to my November 9 post exactly a month afterward and—enumerating such causes for despair as Trump’s conflicts of interest, cabinet picks, continued fact-denying and childish gloating, and suggested contributions to planetary collapse (such as reneging on American participation in the Paris agreement on battling climate change)—declared “It’s worse than I thought” and ended her postmortem with this: “Disaster. No one with a spine to stand up to him. We are so screwed.”

I agree with every word she wrote. Everything Trump has done, said and tweeted in the weeks since his election has further degraded the office of the president, called into deeper question the survival of democracy in this country, and boggled the mind at the inevitability of things getting that much worse once the man actually places his hand on the Bible (cheered on by the likes of Jerry Falwell Jr, whose soul now is in Lucifer’s proud possession) and takes hold of the nuclear codes.

And yet, I’m no longer so profoundly depressed that my stomach constantly is playing a cacophonous Charles Ives symphony and it’s hard just to face the day, as was the case in those first weeks after November 8. Part of the reason is that, a few days after Thanksgiving, I decided, without much expectation of results, to at least give Christmas music—like the peace that Yule promotes—a chance. The even bigger reason for my improved mood was the entry of two new cats into Lynn’s and my life. More on them later.

I’ve written before in this space about my fondness for Christmas music, which is somewhat counterintuitive in that I’m neither at all religious nor particularly nostalgic about my youth or our family traditions surrounding the holidays. I’m not quite sure what it is. There is nostalgia in all of it, for certain: not so much for my own youth, as for a literally whitewashed past in which a homogeneous America had nothing worse to worry about than whether it could drink enough spiked egg nog to last until the sugar-hyped kids returned to school and whether it could sweet-talk that dreamy dame into staying inside and snuggling rather than venturing out into the snowy cold.

There’s also the loopy weirdness of the mishmash of songs we’ve culturally anointed to soundtrack the holiday. This is perhaps best captured in “Here Comes Santa Claus,” in which the sacred and secular mix in the line “Let’s give thanks to the Lord above ’cause Santa Clause comes tonight.” (It gets even stranger in the hands-down best rendition of the song, when that line is sung by Elvis Presley, whose own piety was counterbalanced by the secular excesses that killed him.)

What happened this Christmas season is that I fell utterly in love with a tune that previously had been only on the periphery of my holiday consciousness: Dean Martin’s 1959 iteration of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.”

You’ve surely heard it, just as I had before this year—whether or not you’re technically Christian, because even a cloistered Buddhist monk can’t completely escape Christmas music in December in the United States of America. But you may not have paid insufficient attention, as I hadn’t until recently, to the careless drunken joy of Martin’s iteration of this holiday classic, in which the famously oft-soused crooner shorthands the title mammal’s name  as “Rudy,” at one point describes him as “red-beaked,” and, most incoherently, lapses into pidgin German to ask, “Rudolph mit your nose so bright, won’t you guide mein sleigh tonight?”

Now, don’t get me wrong. I know alcoholism is a horrible disease, and no laughing matter. Dean Martin’s Wikipedia page notes that he died at age 78 of lung cancer caused by his heavy smoking, but I can’t imagine that cirrhosis of his beleaguered liver would’ve been too far behind. So, kids, Don’t Try This At Home, even if you grow up to be a professional singer and record a holiday album that might stand to benefit from literal holiday spirits.  But oh, man, is Martin’s “Rudolph” ever awesome!

Everything about it screams He Just Does Not Care, and He Is Making Shit Up. Is it possible he wasn’t flat-out wasted when he recorded the song? Sure. Anything’s possible. I couldn’t readily turn up any juicy recording session backstory on the Internet. Maybe Dino was just in a soberly silly mood when the “record” light went on that day. But it sure as hell seems likelier that he was spilling hard liquor and ice all over the g-d studio floor as he leered at some skirt delivering a memo to an engineer in the booth and tried—not that hard, with uneven success—to remember the actual lyrics to the ridiculous kiddies’ tune he was being paid a fistful of greenbacks to sing.

One thing I did find in my five-minute Dean Martin/”Rudolph” research was a similar appreciation written four years ago by a guy on the website of the Portland Oregonian. He called it “the Drunk Dean Martin” version of the song, with an asterisk by the word “drunk” that he explained thusly: “I assume all Dean Martin songs are Drunk Dean Martin songs. And I refuse to believe otherwise. It’s better this way.”

It is better, somehow, to believe that Martin was utterly blitzed and cozily sloppy when he extolled the virtues of a crimson-beaked airborne deer on that particular day 58 years ago. It’s good to be reminded, at a point in history when everything is serious, and seriously awful—from starvation and annihilation in Aleppo to cynical anti-democratic power grabs in North Carolina to Christmas market terrorism in Berlin—that there’s still some fun to be had out there, whether at the bottom of a bottle or the turn of a radio dial. No, such fun won’t ultimately solve anything, but it sure as hell will make the slide toward Armageddon a little less terrifying.

I haven’t even gotten to the cats yet. And I won’t go into great detail here, because although I’m crazy about our cats in particular and felines in general, I’m all too aware that cats have become the universal-to-the-point-of-lame feel-good animal of his viral-video age. In that sense, I’m a little embarrassed to admit that our two rescue cats, Moz and Ike—who we brought home with us exactly a month ago today, on November 20—make me so damn happy. But they totally do.

They’re only about a year old and are totally kitten-ish. They’re also temporary confined to our small basement level while Bean, our three-legged hound dog, shakes the last vestiges of ringworm upstairs, so the boys not only are wild, but they’re also bored. As a result, they mostly are a crazily entertaining and often destructive whirlwind—chasing toys, wrestling madly with each other, severing my razor cord and toppling my radio from its window-sill perch, D batteries splattering across the floor. The rest of the time they are comatose—sleeping intertwined, often on my or Lynn’s lap, while we read on the sofa and marvel at how anything that devilish can look so deceptively angelic in repose.

To say that we are smitten is putting it mildly. To say that we are concurrently excited and really nervous to envision their extended reign of terror upstairs next month is 100% accurate. To say that it helps us more than we possibly could have predicted to have our years to come with them to look forward to, in counter-pose to the looming Trump years, is equally, thankfully, true.

So, yes, we’re no doubt screwed as a nation. We might live through the next four or—shudder—eight years—and come out on the other side still standing, or we might not. We might all die before that from a Trump-Kim Jong-un confrontation, or we might just wish to die when our free press ceases to exist. I’m not going to sugar-coat anything.

But at the same time, many simple pleasures in my life—from my marriage, to our dog, to my friends, to summer baseball, and now, most certainly, to our cats—give me a degree of joy and comfort, and the residual strength I'll need to fight the prevailing evils when, and as best, I can.

It’s worth noting, too, that alcohol remains an option. Ideally in moderation, but every once in a while, perhaps, in excess. Here’s looking at you, Dino the Red-Beaked Crooner.

Night of the Living Dread

It’s a little after 2 am on November 9, 2016, as I begin writing this post. The outcome of the presidential election had become clear by the time I went to bed about three hours ago, my stomach in knots and my brain in shock, but the rest of me utterly exhausted.

Lynn, meanwhile, had—wisely, it now seems to me—turned in perhaps an hour earlier, when things merely looked bad but could conceivably, just maybe, still work out.

“Wouldn’t you rather go to bed without knowing for sure,” she asked, “and be able to sleep, and find out in the morning what happened?” I felt frightened and disconsolate, and anything but sleepy at that moment. I beseeched her for reassurance, as if I was a little boy and she was Mother Courage. Where, in reality, I’m four years from eligibility for most senior discounts, and Lynn is my pragmatist spouse of the same generation.

She assured me, at around 10:15 pm, that, even if Trump should win, we—meaning she and I personally, and all Americans who believe in decency, facts, science, truth, democratic institutions, and the rule of law—would Get Through This. “This” being at least four years of being led by an ignorant, infantile, bullying narcissist. We would have no alternative but to do so, Lynn  reasoned. She reassuringly added, though, that Donald  Trump’s stupidity and empty promises to Make America Great Again—whatever that meant, in code or in procedural practice—inevitably would  reveal themselves, and ultimately would turn all but his most rabid supporters against him. Her message, basically, was that, yes, a Trump presidency would suck, but that this, too, would pass.

With that, Lynn went to bed. I told her that I might not even seek updates, and might rather just read magazines for a little while to see if I could get sleepy. But of course I did check in with televised results and newspaper websites. Which is how I knew soon enough that reason would in fact not prevail this day, in a country where there are several irrational grievances and at least one firearm for every single human being.

I then turned off the television and my smartphone, and I laid down on the sofa with a crossword puzzle to divert my brain and the white noise of a fan, directed away from me, to soothe my senses. Somehow, improbably, it actually worked. I started getting drowsy. (It seems that fearing the end of civilization takes a physical toll.) So, around 11:15 I crawled into bed beside my sleeping spouse, took a lot of deep breaths to calm myself, and somehow fell asleep.

For less than an hour, that is. By that time, a phenomenon that had begun many hours before—when it first was becoming apparent that the forecast Clinton victory was at very least in serious doubt—had jolted me awake. That phenomenon was a near-constant need to pee—as if I’d gone in the span of one evening from the typical middle-aged man who must relieve himself periodically during the night to a Depends-wearing geezer whose drain train pulls into the station every few minutes.

Did I mention, by the way, that, as those early election returns and first state-by-state forecasts were coming in, I was catching up on Sunday night’s episode of The Walking Dead on our PC while Lynn was watching an old episode of The Good Wife on our iPad? I could see her through the glass door, sitting on the couch in our sunroom, blissfully ignorant of the latest manifestations of both the zombie apocalypse on the PC screen and the electoral Armageddon on the kitchen TV. I was running to consult that TV during Walking Dead broadcaster AMC’s frequent commercial breaks, while also stopping by the bathroom to let loose great streams of urine—a river out of all proportion to the amount of liquid I’d downed in the previous many hours. By the end of that Walking Dead episode, Daryl, the show’s crossbow-firing macho hero, looked to have been all but broken by the evil sadist Negan and his murderous band of sycophants. My spirit felt equally broken by the electoral trends. And my urinary tract was suggesting that I’d suddenly become a man of 80.

So it was that my brief sleep ended a little after midnight, never to reengage. That first post-bedtime trip to the loo woke me sufficiently that the electoral events of the evening, and all of their chilling implications, came flooding back over me. Try as I might to resume the deep breathing and calm my increasingly feverish brain, it was all over. My stomach again was in turmoil, only now it was doing somersaults. I was up roughly every 15 minutes to piss. (In fact, I have to do so now. It’s as if my body wants to purge itself of his horrific election-night folly, but simply can’t get to the bottom of it. There’s no relief because there’s Always More in there—just as there first will be President-elect Trump, then a President Trump, then, perhaps, a Generalissimo or Fuehrer Trump.)

When it became crystal-clear to me that there’d be no more sleep for me, I knew what I had to do. The title of this post may not be terribly clever—it’s bound to be echoed in duplicate or in spirit by scores of other shell-shocked headline writers on news sites and blogs—it accurately reflects my feelings, and it dovetails nicely with the whole Walking Dead thing. It formed in my mind before I ever rose out of bed and headed to the PC to write this post.

I know that this is far from the best-crafted or most thoughtful narrative I’ve ever written for this space. And it sure as hell isn’t the funniest, as my sense of humor seems to have escaped me. Nevertheless, I’ll cursorily proofread it—resisting the urge to sand its edges and try to make myself sound smarter—and post it before daylight. It seems important to me to do this.

Several hour ago, before the Trump win was certain, I heard on the radio that President Obama had said, somewhere, something yesterday along these lines: The important thing to remember, whatever should happen, is the beauty of democracy. Keep perspective. Whoever wins, the sun will come up in the morning and we’ll all still be Americans.

Notwithstanding the fact that it may well have been easier for our incumbent chief executive to say such a thing before it was revealed that he will be succeeded by a doofus madman, I do think that President Obama’s sentiment was sincere, and that he truly believes what he said. (Although I imagine he also now believes that morning sun would feel a lot warmer had his political party run Anybody Else against the admitted pussy-grabber.) Still, it’s really, really hard for me to share Obama’s steadfast belief in the leavening powers of democracy.

Why? Because the facts as I see them are that the fate of our nation, and to an extent of the world, will be in the hands, come January, of an ego-driven borderline (?) sociopath who David Letterman rightly described recently as “damaged.” Because Lynn and I, and millions and millions of Americans who think like we do, will be beholden to Trump's immature whims and grudges, while he’s abetted by a compliant Republican Congress and an echo chamber of zealots and right-wingers who’ve somehow become so bereft of both hope and reason that they literally would—and did—elect anybody who wasn’t the inexplicably demonized and hated Hillary Clinton.

It really feels to me as if democracy both triumphed (the system doesn’t look so rigged now, does it?) and died tonight/this morning. While I imagine the sun indeed will come up in a few hours, maybe it shouldn't.

It feels right to me to post these thoughts while it’s still dark outside, and after I’ve scanned through my 100-plus earlier blog posts to see that everything in them seems trivial compared with what’s just happened.

I would love to look back at this post someday—ideally sooner rather than later—and regard it as having been hugely hyperbolic and melodramatic. I hope it will prove to have been exactly that—as our vaunted democracy kicks in, straightjackets the power of the Idiot King, and boots him out of office— disgraced as he should be—in  2020.

But it’s hard—near impossible, in fact—for me to take the philosophical long view at this moment. When it's still pitch-black outside.

[Postscript: It's now a little after 8 am and it's overcast and raining. There is no sign of the sun.]       

And So We Carrie On

It was interesting timing to me that the theme of my office’s Halloween party this week was the high school prom. I remembered having read somewhere that this year marks some significant anniversary of the first film version of Stephen King’s horror novel Carrie. That’s the story, you might recall, of a naive teenager with telekinetic powers who’s cruelly humiliated at her prom and reacts by blowing not only her own fuse, but also those at the high school gym, on her way to burning the place down and killing as many of her classmates as possible. 

The timing is noteworthy to me because, as it happens, the film was released 40 years ago, in 1976. Which is the year that I graduated from high school.

I wrote a newspaper column during prom season around a quarter-century ago, when I was a feature writer at a middling rag in Savannah, Georgia. The gist of it was that I was so uncool and socially marginal during my years at Grimsley High School in Greensboro, North Carolina, that, while I had to assume that proms were held at that time, I couldn’t swear to it, because the whole concept was so alien to me that any prom-related announcements or hoopla might just as well have been spoken or written in Arabic, Chinese or some other language that I not only couldn't parse, but that was encased in an impenetrable alphabet.

That pretty much encapsulates my high school experience. It wasn’t entirely sad—I made some very good friends who I still have today—but it was far from the halcyon experience that proms are designed to pump up and celebrate. So, I can’t say exactly why, from the moment I got my postcard invitation in the mail, I was intrigued by the prospect of attending my 40-year reunion.

As I recounted in a previous blog post, it had made a certain amount of self-serving sense for me to attend my 20th reunion, as by that time I had a good job and an attractive wife, I wasn’t fat, and I still had a lot of hair. All of which fueled a turnabout-is-fair play narrative in which I fancied I’d gaze across the room at the schlubby former elite —humbled by mundane employment, mounting bills, ungrateful kids and unforgiving mirrors—and subtlety share knowing smirks with anyone else of my teen social strata who’d attended the event for similar reasons. Never mind that, as it happened, schadenfreude played a very minor role in the good time that I had that night. (Alcohol might have.)

But what point was there, really, in attending my 40th reunion? Wasn’t I still in touch with all of my former classmates with whom I wanted to be? If I wasn’t sufficiently curious about the rest even to establish a Facebook or LinkedIn account for spying purposes, why should I pay almost a hundred dollars for Lynn and me to spend an evening awkwardly standing around in a historic theater’s former props room, scanning name tags, seeing which of them perhaps rang a bell, and waiting for long-dormant memories to emerge from the deeper recesses of my brain?

I tried not to analyze it too much, beyond the fact that it surely was, on some level, a mortality thing. I mean, I’m nearly 60 now, I did share a time and place with these people, and I likely wouldn’t ever see most of them again. Also, the logistics were easy and the circumstances convenient. Greensboro was only a six-hour drive, the recent death of our beloved old cat meant we weren’t tethered to the house by her various medical needs, and we could spend time some with my mom and dad while we in town.

(A quick aside here: I love my folks and I don’t mean this cruelly, but they, too, evoke Stephen King—in that they are The Parents Who Wouldn’t Die. They still live in the house from which I caught the school bus during the Gerald Ford administration. And yes, I do realize that making this joke at their expense means that one or both of them inevitably will expire before Christmas, damning me to everlasting guilt for having written these words.)

So, we drove down to Greensboro a few weekends ago—after I’d done a little web-searching, found some contact information, and determined that two people I wanted to see at the reunion wouldn’t be there, one would, and a fourth either was determined to avoid me or had abandoned that email address.

We arrived in town on Friday afternoon, but I purposely missed the first of the reunion weekend’s planned activities—the homecoming football game, that night, between GHS and its arch rival, Greensboro Page. I’d had no interest in high school football in the mid-1970s, or any detectable school spirit for that matter, so the match-up was no draw for me now. (I was amused the next morning to learn, however, that the Page Pirates had thoroughly annihilated the Grimsley Whirlies—which I have some dim recollection had been the typical result decades ago, too.)

I similarly skipped without regret a Class of '76 meet-up after the football game at what in those days was an Italian restaurant named Anton’s but now is a cigar bar owned by a classmate of mine who I don’t remember from Adam. (You could smoke on high school campuses back then, so he might have been the Guy With The Stogie who I'd nevertheless somehow missed.)

There was one other pre-reunion event in which I was interested, though: a late Saturday-morning tour of the school. Though I’ve been back to Greensboro a zillion times over the years—what with my parents still living there—I hadn't made a dedicated trip to the campus where I’d spent so much time over the course of three years being largely bored and sometimes miserable. (Go figure!) For whatever reason—perhaps that mortality thing again—I decided it was time to walk the halls and grounds for the first time in decades.

Somewhat to my surprise, most things didn’t look that different to me. There’s a new, modern cafeteria and a few other notable improvements, but mostly it’s the same stolid collection of brick buildings with dingy interiors. The institution dates back to the 1920s, when it was generically named Greensboro High School because it was the city’s only public one. (At least for white students, but that's another story.) A multicultural group of delightfully dorky current students—the type of earnest kids who'd gladly volunteer part of their Saturday to field questions from geezer forebears—led us at one point into the school's main auditorium. The stage still looks like it could host a vaudeville show for North Carolinians time-heisted from the Coolidge Era without any of them realizing they’d been zapped into the 21st century.

But also not surprising, sadly, was the fact that the school newspaper—for which I’d written during each of my years at GHS— no longer exists, because the very idea of reading a print compendium of days-old happenings is bizarre to today’s social media-bred youth. A teacher who was on hand for the tour told me that the wheezing publication finally gasped its final breath a few years ago, and that a brief effort to revive it online went nowhere in an age when any school news worth noting has been texted or tweeted within minutes of its occurrence.

High Life—a boilerplate name in one sense, but a tokingly appropriate sobriquet in another—was highly significant in my life, in that it set me on my career course, first in print journalism and then in writing and editing for membership organizations. The newspaper also attracted as staffers a compatible group of misfits who loved words, and relished the rare opportunity at that fraught stage of life to have some power over them. Newspaper staff gathered during the last period of the day. I have fond memories of heading home with residual feelings of camaraderie and shared effort.

At least, I noted with slight satisfaction, there’s nothing high-tech now in the large room where the newspaper offices once were. The space is a French classroom. Which seems kind of appropriate, in that the Gallic tongue lost its relevance battle with Spanish a long time ago.

After the school tour I drove back to my parents’ house, where Lynn was waiting, and we all went out to lunch. My 88-year-old dad was driving and nearly got us all killed at one point when he overshot the left turn for the restaurant and lingered seemingly forever on the wrong side of the double-yellow line as a stream of cars loomed toward us in the not-so-far distance as we all screamed, and what remains of our aging lives flashed before our collective eyes. (So, let me revise that earlier description. Let's make it The Parents Who Wouldn’t Die Unless They Could Take Their Son and Daughter-In-Law With Them.) Thankfully, however, there was no collision, and Lynn and I lived to attend the reunion.

We arrived at around 6:30 and wouldn’t end up leaving until about four improbably delightful hours later. That was about two hours after Lynn, ever the trouper and looking fantastic in a new dress—had started sitting down because her knee-high boots were killing her feet. She also reported that the Spanx that enhanced her profile were simultaneously narrowing to a trickle the blood supply to her midsection. Fortunately, however, she didn’t embarrass me by passing out. (Just kidding, sweetie. Thanks for making my classmates scratch their heads at our visual mismatch, just as they had in 1996.)

I’d spent much of my time leading up to the reunion wondering if I’d find enough people to talk to, whether the whole evening would be incredibly awkward, and if I could possibly sneak enough alcohol to maintain my spirits with the lovely but far more adult Lynn watching me like a hawk. As it turned out, however, I had just two glasses of red wine during the course of the evening and felt no need for the mellowing effects of more.

In fact, it was a great evening. Even though I found out for a fact—because the presence of the king and queen was announced—that there had indeed been a prom my senior year, apparently held in some alternate universe far from my solar system. I met up with Anita, who’d been an early fan of my newspaper writing and still was the same smart, funny person I remembered from back then. I spoke at length with Janis, who I’d liked a lot in high school but came to realize through conversation that night and a subsequent email exchange that I’d never really known. Now that I've learned at least the broad outlines of where she came from to get where she is now, I've added great admiration to that affection. I enjoyed getting reacquainted with Mark, who subversive humor came back to me the more we talked. I kidded him about his jailbait wife, who was born during the comparatively recent Nixon administration.

One guy I totally didn’t recognize tapped me on the shoulder and greeted me with great warmth. He told me his name before I even could read his name tag, and my immediate recollection of him was his sequined, bewigged and thrilling star turn as Diana Ross in a lip-synched rendition of “Stop In the Name of Love” in drama class. I mentioned it and he seemed embarrassed. He was giddily effeminate back then, but he looked and acted 100% straight now. I couldn't think of any politic way to ask, “Didn’t you used to be gay?” and it seemed presumptuous of me to exhort, “You can be yourself around me, honey!” So, I told him it was great to see him, and let it go.

At one point prizes were bestowed to alumni who could answer various school-related trivia questions. Since I’d been in most ways peripheral to school life and was involved in no activities other than the newspaper, I figured my chances of knowing any of the answers was slim to none. But one of the questions related to a striking yearbook photo in which a bunch of guys in flasher trenchcoats are standing in front of a marquee, acting as if they're about to expose their junk. I correctly identified the venue as the Star Theatre, an X-rated movie house that had been located, much to my parents’ horror, mere blocks from their Catholic church. The Star fell victim decades ago to neighborhood gentrification, but it lives on in my memory as an icon of an earlier, gentler time, when smut was the province of dank, sticky showplaces, and not something abundantly available on the nearest telephone.

My prize was covered in wrapping paper, but was exactly the size of a boxed set of videocassettes. This had me simultaneously blushing at the thought of the box containing—given the question I’d answered—director’s-cut editions of Behind the Green Door and Deep Throat, and cursing the fact that we have no device in our house on which I might watch such abhorrent cultural artifacts. As it turned out, however, I discovered, when we got back to our hotel, that the door prize actually was a pair of shot glasses bearing the name of that cigar bar. (So, still vice-related, but less interesting.)

The evening’s ambiance was frankly kind of wonderful. While the prom king and queen and I never mixed or even acknowledged each other's presence, there was no sense of social stratification in the room. We all were adults here in manners and congeniality, as well as in age. (Although not necessarily in self-perceived maturity. The gap between our external appearance and evergreen insecurities was one of the evening’s recurrent conversational themes.) Some of us have kids, others of us don’t. Some of us have stayed local, others migrated. Discussion of religion and politics was wisely left at the check-in desk. And, I have to say, most of us still look pretty damn good, considering that we came of age at a time when today’s world, for better and for worse, was essentially unimaginable.

So, yes, I did miss my high school proms. I know that for certain now. But, so what? It’s not like my high school years were a horror movie that ended in death and devastation. At worst that film was a pretty dull documentary. One that nevertheless had its moments and memorable characters, with some of whom I’m happy to now be reacquainted. High school certainly played a role in making me the person I am now, and living the life I now lead.

Attending that reunion probably did start out as a mortality thing, more than anything else. But I now see it as more of a continuum-of-life thing.

Still Waiting for My Close-up

I’m back. I’ve been back for almost a week, actually. Nothing bad happened to me out West, notwithstanding the seemingly foreboding dream referenced in my previous post. But neither did my ascent to celebrity begin in the Inland Northwest, as I fancied for an exhilarating nanosecond that it might.

My 15 minutes of fame turned out to be not even that long.

If you are a longtime reader of this blog, you … are a member of an infinitesimal subset of humanity. But also, if you are a longtime reader of this blog, you know that I have an ambition that someone recently described as a bucket-list item. I guess it is, although I’m not sure if it really qualifies as that, because I in fact have no list of achievements I’m looking to fulfill in whatever time is left to me. I mean, I have zero interest in skydiving, or hiking the length of Appalachian Trail, or sweating my way through a standup act on some comedy club’s Open Mic Night. (Were I to try any of those things, I’d probably suffer a heart attack that would hasten the aforementioned bucket’s arrival. I’d kick it during the flailing process.)

The goal to which I’m referring is running in all 50 states. If you’re not a regular reader of mine, don’t misunderstand. You’ve heard of people who’ve run marathons or even completed triathlons in every state? Who crowd-fund these efforts and raise piles of money for worthy charities by getting people to sponsor them? Who tie trips to far-flung states with community service in each locale, leaving each place a little better off from their presence? Well, what I’m talking about is pretty much the opposite of all that.

You’re familiar with the Latin phrase veni, vidi, vici? “I came, I saw, I conquered"? Well, I come, I run, I go home. That is to say, I fly somewhere, book myself into a hotel, get up early the next morning, “run” (plod along at my own pace) by myself on local streets and/or trails for at least 60 minutes, celebrate my triumph afterward with coffee and maybe a bagel, sightsee a bit, and then, within a few days, fly back. There’s a bit more to it than that—lately I’ve been flying to border cities and adding two states each trip, for instance—but that’s the gist of it. There’s absolutely no fanfare, no big to-do. I leave no social imprint. Just a carbon footprint. (Sorry about that, environment.)

The goal evolved when I was around 50 and happened one day to add up all the states in which I’d run. I’ve always felt that a run must be of a duration of at least 60 consecutive minutes to “count.” Don’t ask me why. Anyway, I discovered, to my surprise, that I already had logged somewhere around 30 states at that point. And Alaska had been achieved years earlier, when Lynn and I had taken our belated-honeymoon cruise up that state’s Inside Passage and I’d clambered off the boat at Skagway, Ketchikan and Juneau to slay the Last Frontier three times over. So, I figured that running in all 50 states was achievable. I thought, “Why not?”

Lynn graciously went along with it—figuring, I guess, that this was a harmless enough pursuit, albeit one that promised to get a bit expensive before it was completed. She indulged my driving to Kentucky to add that state, acceded to our driving to New Hampshire and Vermont while visiting her mom in Rhode Island one year, and—this was particularly awesome—signed up for a Reiki workshop on Maui in 2013 partly so that I could tick Hawaii off my list.

Last year around this time—per an earlier blog post— I flew out to Fargo, North Dakota, which abuts Minnesota, and added both of those states while visiting such local points of interest as the tiny Roger Maris Museum, which is tucked into a shopping mall. This year I staked out Spokane, Washington, near that state’s border with Idaho, and booked hotel rooms in Spokane and in Coeur d’Alene, which is about 35 miles away.

I'll throw in a little travelogue shortly. But first, let me get back to the five-or-10-minutes-of-fame thing. My first two nights in Spokane, I was staying at the Hotel Ruby, which is a refurbished motor lodge with a cocktail lounge, lots of funky murals and a decidedly hipsterish vibe. It’s the kind of place where you’re not all that surprised to find a group of Native Americans checking in when you arrive, although it turned out they actually were Native Canadians, from Toronto. There was an indigenous peoples film festival going on in town that weekend, I discovered.

This would become significant. I passed a stylish, dude ranch version of a fisherman one day while running along the Spokane River. He turned out to be an independent filmmaker from Seattle who was there to document the indigenous peoples festival. He recognized me at the hotel a couple of days later—he was staying there, too—and engaged me in conversation. He was in his 40s. He had the requisite hipster eyeglasses and over-the-top enthusiasm for anything he deemed even remotely offbeat or fresh. When he learned that I was in Spokane on a 50-states running quest, his eyes lit up and his wheels began almost visibly turning. He was stoked—clearly seeing in this dorky mono-handed guy from the East a possible ticket to documentary cachet at Sundance or South By Southwest..

My excitement grew along with his. Although my running trips are so under the radar as to be utterly undetectable, I’ll confess that I’ve always kind of wanted to be “discovered,” or at least to get a little bit of local press, or something. I’ve thought more than once, for example, of trying to interest a local journalist or TV crew in my story when I finally reach my 50th state, wherever and whenever that comes. I mean, this whole pursuit is kind of an offbeat thing to do, right? Never mind that I’d have no proof whatsoever of what I was saying, meaning that the local journalist or reporter would be taking on faith a tale that’s only dubiously compelling in the first place, then deciding to devote several column inches or minutes of air time to it.

Soon came the inevitable moment when the indie filmmaker realized my story needed an angle in order to work. “Uh-oh,” I thought. This is when he started asking me what charities my efforts were supporting, which community projects I was engaging in while in town, what hashtag I’d engaged to crowd-source my adventures, and so on. His enthusiasm plummeted as he fully realized I was nothing more than a lone guy flying to distant states to do something obscure and random for himself and nobody else. In desperation, finally, he asked, in so many words, if I hadn’t at least set this goal as a restorative quest after having lost my right hand in some horrible way—like perhaps after having triggered an IED in Iraq, or having stepped on an old landmine while serving in the Peace Corps overseas.

When I uttered the deflating words “I was born that way,” it was as if I’d told him there is no God—or, maybe, that I liked only big-budget Hollywood action movies, or vastly preferred Bud Light to craft beers. I could see in his crestfallen face that the jig was up, that he was eying the exits. When I later told Lynn about this, she said I should have invoked Seinfeld and pitched my story as a wry documentary about nothing—the idea being that my non-story, about a nonentity traveling far and wide to do something a little offbeat but ultimately prosaic was, in fact, the real story. I doubt that would’ve worked, but I wish I’d at least tried it. The best I could think to do in the moment was ask the guy his name. Maybe, I reasoned, I could win him over yet with witty email banter that might enhance my Quirky Character cred.

Even that gambit failed. Rather than tell me his name, he took my business card and promised he’d contact me. Hey, guess what? He hasn’t.

I probably could track him down through the film festival people, but what would be the point of that? That ship has sailed. Or rather, that Mini Cooper has returned to Seattle, where its owner presumably is hanging out in a cigar bar somewhere.

None of which is to say that my trip was anything other than a success. In fact, by most measures it was outstanding. I ran in delightfully crisp fall conditions along a elevated trail in Spokane that afforded fantastic views of the river below, and I jogged beside beautiful Lake Coeur d’Alene in that charming Idaho town that’s known as Resort City. I reduced to an even dozen the number of states that remain un-run. I vastly enjoyed my walks through lush Manito Park and Botanical Gardens and historic Greenwood Cemetery in Spokane, my boat tour of Lake Coeur d’Alene, and my hike up nearby Tubbs Hill. I had a great, totally unexpected conversation about our mutual vegetarianism with a young bartender on the boat.

I love seeing new places and sharing texts and photos along the way with Lynn and certain friends. Even just staying in hotels remains a kick for me after all these years. I like getting ice from the ice machine, dialing the front desk for a wake-up call, scooping up the complimentary note pad for future use at home. I’m interested in getting the lay of the land through the local TV and radio news.

Maybe I should have availed myself of legal marijuana once I realized that Washington state has it. And perhaps I should have capitalized on the relatively short distance across Idaho’s northern panhandle and tried to shoehorn in a Montana run, too. But those are minor things. It really was a great time.

Even if it didn’t bring me the acclaim that I fleetingly envisioned for myself.