Naming the Van

I have decided - and, after spending 48 hours traveling in her, my friend Amberlee will agree - that the name Bessie suits her as she is slow and plodding but easy to take care of and sturdy. I know, Bessie the Westy.... Some things just fit.

Thanks to all of you who gave your thoughts on this, the ideas were creative and elicited much laughter.

Ratchet stuck for awhile, the shape and look of Bessie adhering to one of my favorite Transformers, but the paint job necessary to fully embrace this name negated the desire.

Humbug was also a great choice, alas, VW has a bug, as so the choice seemed more fitting had I been driving a smaller, louder (though not by much) vehicle.

Crotchety Cruiser was a fan favorite though elicited images of purple haired women riding shotgun...

Godzilla was fitting, and perhaps the most introspective. Sadly, the only thing fear invoking about Bessie is her penchant for backfiring.

Gas'n'Go worked, especially with a slight adjustment to Gas'n'Pray in honor of a faulty fuel pump, but sounded a bit too much like a commercial.

Thanks to all.

I am writing

Knowing that it has been awhile since my last post I wanted to inform anyone still reading that I am indeed writing, though, at this juncture, all my musings are saved as drafts that I am now just finding the time to complete and edit.

My goal is to publish, by the end of next week, all of my entries up to date but I have found that my biggest hindrance has been my confounding pursuit to move forward - those ever present feelings of necessary exploits and embracing everything. These pervasive thoughts have been propelling me at a pace that has negated any true relaxation (save, of course, for those safe and comfortable moments back home around loved ones). I have, though, been chronicling in my mind all I have seen and experienced. But, as anyone who knows me will tell you, I possess a memory an elephant would be shameful of and know I need to embrace my early onset Alzheimer's and transcribe thoughts to computer.

I have thoroughly enjoyed all of your comments, please keep reading and giving me your feedback (right below each entry is the "comment" key - would love to hear any and all thoughts).

The ex - April 5

All of this below, as well as all of my writing in general, is my personal perspective on my life, how I have viewed and chosen to interpret what I have experienced. It is factual only in this context: that it is me experiencing it.

So much for karma....

Santa Barbara fading in the rear view I set a course for a point as far south as my weary brain would take me. Had I listened to logic my course would have never veered from the 10 but a damn Tom Petty refrain wouldn't let go of my mind and I exited towards Ventura with a curiosity about fate. Turns out fate and Tom don't always mix and all I found was myself lost - though maybe karma just works in odd ways.

This trip through Petty's lyrics directed me back to the 1, a path I would have avoided in favor of sick fixation on time, and I was soon back in my new found comfort zone of finding ocean side resting places. Sadly, the aforementioned fixation passed me by the perfect spot and I ended up pulling over to sleep not ten feet from the highway just north of Santa Monica.

The morning sun piercing through my curtains woke me from dreams of surfing on cars and I was off to visit my ex-girlfriend, who also happens to be my cousin - a note of clarification for all of you who are now sitting there with your mouths wide open in shock (please wipe those speckles of spit from off your monitor and reattach your jaw): I am adopted so there is no blood relation whatsoever, we rarely saw each other growing up - I can count the number of times on one hand - and, oddly enough, both of our parents (minus her father, who just thought it amusing) thought it was the grandest idea they had ever heard of (my biggest dilemma, where would the family sit at the wedding?).

As much as passion held us together during the good times, it wedged us apart during the aftermath, my anger not allowing me to forgive and her need to know not allowing her to let me be. Seeing her after all of these years should have been charged but the trials of my life's current course had minimized my emotional connection to all around me and we dropped straight into our normal conversation mode: long of wind and plentiful of interruption.

It seems that our relationship history (familial aside) boded for a harsh return to earth from the throngs of love: years prior I had stolen her from her current husband, a guy so nice that to do something so inherently evil almost made me think God Himself would come down and spite me - though, with the venom and hurt spawned from this relationship, maybe he did.

Our conversation was a long time overdue and through the course of a lengthy question and answer session we came to peace with the past but I couldn't help but feel like she was searching for more, her comments seemed to harbor more than just conversational goals. Logic tells me that it was just her penchant for shock and attention when it comes to conversations, both quirks of hers long forgotten during the years apart, but letting it slip from my mind proved difficult.

And so, both at peace and confused, I left, a short jaunt to a waiting barbecue in San Diego my goal. Unfortunately, this being LA, a quick stop off in Pasadena to see my aunt and uncle and typical LA traffic made this an impossibility.

The beauty of a city overpriced - April 3 and 4

To drive along the coast at night is to miss the point; the curving, windy roads sapping the journey's joy for anyone not driving a car geared towards performance over practicality. Since the statement my van makes is far from anything race inspired, as dusk started to fall and the ocean views faded from sight, I began the search for my night's resting spot. Though the 1 provides ample stops my neurotic quest for lessening the distance between me and my end goal of San Diego would not let me release my foot's weight from its firm plant on the accelerator and I continued south, and unknown need guiding me.

I finally pulled over and out of divine intervention or blind luck, the open area I had come upon was straight out of a Jamie Williams Grossman painting. It seems that the earlier lamentations over missed opportunities had given way to fortuitous karma. Perched high on a cliff the grove of trees overlooked moon drenched waves, their white crests glistening in a symphony of silvery light as they crashed endlessly into the shore. This spot had been well thought out by some weary traveler or forward thinking highway patrolman as the middle three trees in the grove had been cut down to provide not only a window to the ocean below but the naturally contoured chairs perfect for the hours of reflection its beauty elicited.

Spending the night high above the ocean I was struck with the realization that things sometimes work out as they are meant to and that to spend my days focused on these moments is far more productive than focusing on their counterparts. My only true lamentation from this night was that I did not have a camera capable of capturing the pictures that my eyes could see as the white froth bouncing off the moonlight endlessly was captivating, brilliant in contrast of black on white and clean in beauty.

I woke to the sounds of other travelers intent on witnessing the same beauty that was etched into my dreams and pulled my chocks for a quick jaunt to Santa Barbara. The forests of green gave way to mansions of white as I turned onto Cabrillo Street around 12:30 excited to see Cas again, nervous that the years between visits would have lessened the bond but comfortable knowing that the ease of conversation had never worn off.

As it is with those few close friends in our lives with whom time's significance ceases, upon seeing her the years collapsed into days. Dressed in the stark blue designer jeans and silver striped Yves St. Laurent shirt of a woman who has found her way and place in a setting of wealth, she hugged me warmly, her nervous energy quickly replaced with a sigh of relief as she realized I cared more about relaxing than status. Sinking into her couch, her tired eyes giving away her late night out, we talked of the world and our place in it, from finding your niche to loves come and gone. We talked as we sat and planned a day of fitness for both mind and body, the goal a hike the top of Inspiration Ridge, a vantage point high above the beauty and pretentiousness of Santa Barbara.

With Cas the one constant you could expect was a desire to be loved, a personality befitting a Scorpio and a love of change guiding her through couplings long and short. Our afternoon was spent talking about our current relationships, hers to a 31 year old horse vet who's cowboy sensibility and roping ability had captured her heart - as within months she was talking of love, looking and thinking about a future with man she hardly knew, her true desire for love and stability answered for the time being - and mine to a girl who's youth and beauty was sure to give me fits but who's mind and penchant for challenging my self-depreciation provided my own thoughts of future.

The day had been perfect, a physical and mental reprieve from the daily grind of driving, and the hike and conversations provided much needed exercise for my soul. I left that evening with another smile on my face, friends again reminding me of the importance of connection and drove along the coast for what would hopefully be another karmaic intervention.

The City - April 2 and 3

One of the most interesting aspects of the trip has been the inclusion into the little group of VW enthusiasts roaming the country in their own Westys. With every passing of a Vanagon or Microbus a subtle little wave is exchanged, a hang loose sign or the nod of a head signifying a commonality of not only van but also of life's perspective. These signals are much like a biker's wave, though significantly less cool as the relaxed atmosphere surrounding our vehicles allows a more enthusiastic outpouring of emotion than seen out of the common Harley rider.

One of the most humorous parts of the trip has been witnessing the shock and amazement on other driver's faces when they realize they have just been passed by a VW van, a van that is significantly older than many of them no less. Their anger turns to shock - or perhaps embarrassment - as they realize that it is a Vanagon chugging past but the negative emotions quickly fade to amusement with my wave and smile, the obvious joy of being free spreading from my face to theirs.

When driving a road known as the Pacific Coast Highway one would expect to see the ocean out of the passenger side window for the majority of the trip, but the 101's nickname is a bit of a misnomer as the road often winds itself far inland through farms of cattle and artichoke and forests of towering redwoods and beautiful cedar. To gain the true ocean experience a traveler has to connect with the 1 just a few miles north of Ft. Bragg. Here the path is a true coastal traverse, amazing landscapes of ocean crashing into rock in a timeless battle of the solid versus the perpetual.

Entering into San Francisco I cannot help but be amazed at the beauty of the Golden Gate bridge though this awe quickly vanishes with the realization that beauty comes at a price and I have to fish around for my wallet. Having to pay $6 for a 5 minute crossing over a bridge that has already paid for itself many times over feels like being robbed, but the theory of supply and demand is a powerful one and a guaranteed money maker is hard not to take advantage of.

As legendary as the hills of The City are, nothing could have prepared my poor van for their inclines. As my van struggled up any and all hills I couldn't help but feel for all of the pedestrians roaming the streets, their peaceful, sunny afternoon stroll interrupted rudely by the blasts of noise exploding from my muffler as my van struggled along in first gear up the hills. But, as one would expect out of the inhabitants of a such an open and welcoming city, all seemed to laugh it off, as if this sight was worth the story they could now tell over the dinner table later that night.

The two nights spent in The City were a perfect mix of food and friends, the two lovebirds hosting this traveler with an openness and joy that one can only find from true friends. Though we never really made our way out into The City - much to the chagrin of some of my friends - the nights spent chatting about life and happiness far surpassed any expensive cocktail and feigned looks of importance.

I left Kelly and Lewis that afternoon, the knowledge that two nights of my company is more than enough, especially in a space so well suited for two so obviously in love and who have yet to tie the knot. With the wind howling and ten foot swells crashing violently onto the shore I turned my direction south, Santa Barbara and another good friend my destination.

Blurs in the road - April 1 and 2

The next two days were a bit of a blur, the road and landmarks all fading into similarity. I have started to notice that the intent of this trip - to stop and smell the roses - has given way to a very noticed schedule as my pace and focus have been on arrival at destination rather than journey. I have already experienced too many missed photo opportunities, shunned in favor of an unneeded internal clock, and have decided to attempt to commit myself to a journey guided by patience rather than practicality.

With this in mind I stopped off at a little spot just south of Prospect, OR called Mill Creek Falls. Within a half mile hike down a beautiful forest lined path, the crashing sounds of water flowing heavily over rock in the distance, I was at a large rock quarry. An earlier sign warning of "possible large quantity water run off, find high ground" gave me momentary pause, but I hustled into the heart of the gigantic, rain slickened boulders to photograph the bustling river from the highest vantage point. Climbing out to these precarious spots, their reach obtained only through multiple jumps over rapidly flowing river, was something I definitely enjoyed - the necessary athleticism and breathtaking scenery eliciting an excitement noticeably missing in years past.

Returning to the van I continued further south and noticed the road to Table rock, one of Oregon's most enjoyed hikes, intersecting with my southerly path. Again I decided to let time be my friend rather than judge - though the recesses of my brain were calculating distance and time, a dinner reservation etched in the back of my brain - and turned sharply to follow. Along this drive I viewed unbelievably flat rocks perched high atop hills; a 45 minute hike of switchbacks brought me to their peak, an opening of surreal beauty and physical bewilderment. The shelf of rock, flat as any Kansas cornfield, was one mile long by quarter mile wide and looked to extend further around a corner, a desired adventure disallowed due to my unfortunate timetable.

Perched on the edge of the cliff, looking out over endless miles of Southern Oregon farm and mountain, I was struck with a sense of awe that only true beauty can elicit.
Sadly, that timer in the back of my head dinged and I was forced to fly back down the trail, the trip infinitely shorter due to the use of shortcuts unseen on the uphill climb and a downhill sprint, and I was connected with my van in record time. Hopping in I was off to Grants Pass for a dinner of chicken teriyaki and sushi with my half-sister Brin who was as sweet and polite as promised.

A dinner's discussion of parenting habits, the musings of two childless people who profess to have knowledge about problems never before truly experienced, connecting and bonding - it seems we share opinions about the complex of being "cool" and the lack of parents who truly reprimand their children.

With a full belly and an excitement about a newfound connection I aimed my van southwest towards the coast of California. And though the perfect resting spot along the shoreline was passed due to an ignorance of uniqueness, I was still able to spend the night listening to the far off sounds of waves crashing endlessly on the beach.

The next day's drive took me further into the heart of California, my final destination a city I quickly learned cannot go by San Fran or Frisco, rather necessitated the connection of both, The City.

Blizzard like conditions - Mar 31

I woke this morning to a thumping sound emanating from outside my van, its foreign sound confusing my slumbering brain. Peeking through my side curtains I was surprised to see a park ranger staring back at me, his army green jacket and hat covered in a light dusting of snow.

Through the course of the short conversation I learned that camping overnight in the top parking lot was prohibited, a fact that must have been thought so obvious as to not warrant a posting, as this information was not noticeable anywhere along my drive in. The ranger's serious face masked his nice guy demeanor and, instead of reprimanding and ticketing me, he told me that if I removed my chocks and made the van less camper like I could stay.

Thanking him, I fully intended to rise out of bed and set to work, but my fuzzy brain lulled me back to sleep the minute I heard his white Chevy pickup roar by. Through broken sleep, my conscience rousing me every time a car rolled by, I managed another few hours of sleep in spite of the guilt.

I finally crawled out of bed around 11, my destination Grants Pass and a dinner date with Brin, the youngest daughter of my birth mother's clan, and stepped outside to a surprise: yesterday's warmth and sun had given way to a small blizzard. Raging ceaselessly the weather had deposited an inch of ice and snow on my van and coated my windshield in ice; though thankfully the howling 30 mile an hour winds had kept any true accumulation from forming on my van or the roads.

Just the night before I had joked that I wouldn't mind being snowed in but that reality had never actually dawned on me. With an ounce of trepidation I turned the ignition, my worry being that my van wouldn't start. Surprisingly, it immediately fired up, the new fuel pump doing its job nicely, and I set about to make the van drivable by de-icing the windows. Freezing, I hustled around the vehicle to scrape the night's deposits of snow and ice and remove the chocks from my back wheels. Returning to the rig, I readied the van's interior for travel by throwing all of my displaced gear back into its travel spot and took down all of the curtains.

Settling into the driver's seat, ready to leave, I shifted the van into first and set about my way, only nothing happened. It seems that in my hustle to leave I had not even noticed that the van's engine had died. It turns out that there was just enough fuel left in the cylinder to start the engine but the outside's 26 degree temperature had now frozen the fuel lines. Off to an auspicious debut - two of four mornings ending in engine failure of some sort - I hoped this wasn't an ominous sign.

I spent the next 10 minutes fooling around with the ignition, trying every little trick I could recall, my limited life experience supplemented with anything I could recollect from movies or old McGyver episodes. After countless attempts all I gained was a flooded engine and I sat back to wait, my patience and belief wearing thin. A minute later I let the ignition click a few times then slammed down the accelerator and the engine caught life. Revving it heavily to keep the fuel flowing I hurried towards the exit.

Save for a morning of surprise and another dinner of ham sandwiches - my planned dinner feast of jumbalaya and double smoked sausage rescheduled due to my inattentiveness to propane level - my first night alone had been a huge success. The night's slumber and the triumph over another ordeal gave me strength. With the knowledge that I would experience many similar nights in the next few months, I drove back down the windy road towards the sun of California, the beauty and snow of Crater Lake fading slowly behind me.

March 30 - Crater Lake

The drive to Crater Lake was rife with typical Central Oregon scenery, brush and groves of lodge pole pine rising out of the dry land. Crater Lake has a North and a South entrance but the year's late winter rendered the north entrance impassable, perilous conditions the creation of a heavy mix of snow and ice covering the road. The added 30 miles around the east end of the park was beautiful; the surrounding mountains were still covered in snow, forests of huge pines adding a splash of green to a canvas of white.

A mechanic's poor diagnosis aside, my van had championed it's way over the distance traveled thus far but the probability of snow again raised in me questions about the van's abilities. I felt like a child with a new toy, wanting so desperately to play hard, while at the same time not wanting to break it on the first day. Knowing that the tires were all-weather and close to new calmed me but I was still worried that the van would operate like a senior citizen on roller skates, wobbly and old.

Peaked at 14 feet, walls of snow created a channel of white and outlined an easy path to the summit. The pavement was barren and dry save for a few small patches of snow and ice dotting the gray concrete and over the uphill, three mile climb the van kept plugging along, the engine's whine seemingly demanding third gear but the 67 horses faltering if I shifted any higher than second.

I had no visual cue of the distance traveled as the windy and snow lined road directed all of my attention to snow drift avoidance. After a 20 minute drive I rounded yet another corner and was surprised to see a two story, A-framed gift shop rising out of the snow, its exterior encased in 20 foot snow drifts. The skyline's vast emptiness to my left, the product of a once great mountain's collapse, signified that I was close. I searched the empty lot for the perfect spot to park for the night, one that buffered me from the wind as well as allowed access to the crater's edge.

I pulled alongside the walls of snow and climbed out to secure the van by wedging orange plastic chocks under the back tires - a purchase necessitated from a faulty e-brake's diagnosis earlier in the day. Climbing up and over the wall of snow I stood up to see the lake spread out before me, a beautiful 10 mile circle of opaque blue shimmering up from the crater.

I ventured to the precipice for a better view, my mind on the scene's beauty rather than the 800 foot drop not two feet from my vantage point. A sense of impending doom caused me to finally look down at the ice shelf and I noticed that there was nothing inhibiting my path to the water far below but a sharp drop of snow and ice. I decided a vantage point of more stable ground would be my best course of action and found a patch of trees nestled in a plateau of snow to my right and traversed there to gaze in wonder at the landscape before me.

It is difficult to put put into words the power of beauty but it is a feeling we have all experienced at those moments our sense of self becomes lost amidst something larger. I hope this is a feeling oft felt along this journey of mine, when the world's beauty speaks more to soul than mind. I have found beauty in Crater Lake and will soon be off to witness more of this country's landscape and scenery, the hopes of similar experience guiding my way.

Name my van

Little contest of sorts (though, contest would denote prize and I am poor, so maybe favor is a more appropriate title). I know how to make it a contest: the winner will get his or her name immortalized in the ramblings of an oft read (and by oft I mean my own eyes) blog. Immortalized I tell you.

What would you name my van? I am thinking Rattle and Hum - not due to some affinity for U2 rather these are the noises most often associated with my daily drives.

Young's Ole Volks Home

I was supposed to be up at 8 this morning in an attempt to find a fuel pump, but have found that a five a.m. bed time coupled with the relaxed atmosphere created by never setting an alarm makes this a near impossibility. Finally stopping myself from hitting snooze at 10:30 I groggily made some calls around town and found a place called Young's Ole Volks Home that sounded promising.

Making a quick call I was soon chatting with seemingly Young's whole work force until I was connected with Jerry, the resident expert on Vanagons and the proud owner of an '81 Westy himself. He wanted me to drop the van off later in the day but I explained my situation and we agreed on a quick stop around 11:15 that should allow me to be back on the road by noon.

Retracing my drive from yesterday I realized I had just missed the shop in my searches as its address was misleading; it turns out the shop was not directly off of Third and instead was tucked away in a grove of trees up the hill a block. The lumbering drive up the gravel road showed promise, an abundance of old VW Jettas and Bugs and Vanagons lining the driveway. I Walked in and met Jerry, a short, skinny guy of about 50 whose pony tailed gray hair tucked awkwardly under his backwards white baseball cap reminded me of an aging rock star. His appearance belied his kindness and his eyes gave away his excitement upon sight of my Westy.

He asked me to drive it into his shop where he lifted it up on twin ten ton hydraulic jacks. Once the van was off the ground I started to make my way to the waiting room, as this was my typical experience when dealing with auto shops, but I didn't make it more than two steps before Jerry started asking me a number of questions; it seems he was going to let me sit in on the whole operation.

To say that Jerry had ADD would be unfair since I have known the man for less than ten minutes, but with the abundance of phone calls answered and perpetual questions zinged at him from his shop assistant - a shorter, pudgy 40 year old named Chris whose sole job it seemed was to hang out and follow Jerry - I was impressed that Jerry was able to keep his focus. Jerry was a joy to watch, a comedic display of knowledge and folly wrapped into one. His genial nature ever present, Jerry spent the repair session asking me questions and testing me on my knowledge.

To sit in and watch a repair first hand with a guy who was more than willing to teach and to share was invaluable, I was able to learn more in that hour than I could have taught myself in a month. It was funny to watch this little man in action, his actions were sporadic but calculated. Though obviously gifted, his 20 plus years of repair work did not keep him from bumping his head on my back tire on the way out from under my rig. His reaction was priceless, you could sense that this was something that hurt like hell yet something he has done so often he half expected to be impervious to the pain.

Getting to a fuel tank is a thankless job, easy to accomplish but downright dirty. No matter how good of a mechanic you are, spilling gas on yourself is a guarantee. It seems 28 years of use had deposited a large amount of sediment in my gas tank, something confirmed when we disconnecting the fuel filter and found it backed up even though it was less than a week old. Switching out the fuel filter we then disconnected the pump and cleaned it out, the idea being that since it was workable enough to transport me here it would provide me with a spare should I need one in a pinch.

Connecting the new pump and filter Jerry and I went over all of the basics of the fuel line, from pump to engine, in case something should happen down the road. Lowering the van down, Jerry took the time to show me how to set points in the distributor, change and locate all the filters, belts, and hoses and even went so far as to show me the hydraulic and brake operations - it seems that finding a mechanic who has a true appreciation and love for the vehicles he is working on is an unbelievable bonus. Perhaps the biggest bonus was learning that the Germans, in their infinite engineering prowess, purposefully geared the engine to rev high. I now know what the three sets of red dots on the speedometer are for - a target line for shifting, the van's higher revs optimizing gas mileage.

In awe of this man and his generosity I left Young's with a new fuel pump, an infinite amount of new knowledge and an appreciation of sharing. The van drives beautifully and I turned south onto 97, my van's compass finally aimed towards my first night of solitude.

The trip to Bend

For 67 horsepower the 28 year old van certainly holds its own and has surprised me at every turn with its durability, space and overall shape. Driving it over the pass towards Bend I was impressed with how well it kept up with traffic, especially considering the amount of added weight currently stuffed into its numerous storage nooks. I will admit that a couple of times the uphill portions and the engine's lugging raised an ounce of concern but downshifting and letting the engine run high seems to solve any slowing and Johnny Cash at level 20 easily drowns out both my horrific voice as well as the engine's whine.

Though I have driven over the pass many times I realize that I have not taken enough time to actually notice how beautiful Oregon actually is. Instead, on my previous trips, I have fallen prey to the constraints of time and the job of driving and have missed out on the wonderment of nature's beauty. It is nice that during this trip I am able to view the world as we all did while children, the lack of all responsibility allowing a present based focus. It is my hope that upon return to life's responsibilities I do not forget this realization that slowing down to enjoy the view adds only a nominal amount of time that is easily offset by the incalculable amount of memories.

What makes Oregon so beautiful goes beyond just all of the trees. The late winter's snow melt rolling its way down the hillsides created numerous waterfalls, the white and blue liquid crashing over rocks and tumbling down along the side of the road. A few early flowers were trying to blossom and, even though their early attempts at birth would be nipped short by the late winter predicted by Puxatony Phil, the splashes of color bursting alongside the roads brought a vibrancy to the drive.

The drive itself over the pass was uneventful, a bit of typical early spring drizzle forcing me to use my windshield wipers periodically. At the summit I encountered an inch or so of snow but the van handled it well, the added weight helping to keep it glued to the road. Off the mountain was a little different as the drive into Tumalo provided a couple of scenes for ponderment.

Right before town I passed a dead steer on the side of the road, its legs outstretched in a comical scene of rigor mortis; I half expected to see a tongue hanging in a cartoonish mockery of death. As I was contemplating this cycle of life and lost income for some poor rancher I gazed to my right just in time to witness an '06 Subaru Outback that had run itself up the front porch of a local cafe. I couldn't tell if the driver had been influenced or distracted by an unfortunate steer or if they just couldn't turn the wheel sharply enough to make the parking lot. Either way seeing a dead steer and a car halfway through a building in the course of a minute made me wonder what may be in store for me the rest of the journey.

A couple of minutes later I arrived at the local Albertsons, my buddy AJ waiting for me in his over-sized Nissan Tundra. His truck is big enough to make one wonder if he is compensating for something, the large white body jacked up on 33" mudders, but the choice of vehicles seems to be more a mark of his country boy values than anything else as his relationships are lengendary.

AJ is a great guy, genuine and down to earth and generous with his time and possessions. It is interesting because he and I are struggling with the same questions of life's purpose, though the crux of his angst is is driven more from a pervasive doubt about his self worth, his trust fund childhood and lack of necessary work causing his questions of value.

We played "Gears of War 2" late into the night with my roommate Brian and our friend from Missouri, Jive Turkey, my abilities in the field of killing surprised us all as I actually did quite well, taking top scores many a round. The irony of me choosing to play now but never join in at home was not lost on me and I actually had quite a bit of fun playing. I guess the month and a half of self-imposed exile around Christmas while grieving the failure of yet another relationship in which I finished seven video games actually had some purpose other than numbing of the mind.

I spent that night sleeping on a bean bag type bed - I say type because the stuffing was actually two chunks of foam that started off as foot by foot blocks that, properly kneaded, could be spread out to a ten by six foot bed. The foam's consistency reminded me of a childhood pool toy that you tried to hold on to but would slip out of your hands with each grasp. I feel asleep knowing that tomorrow night I would
actually be sleeping in my van.

The next morning we left AJ's house, his gigantic bumper never far from view. AJ had to travel to Creswell to clean the hard drives of two of his computers so he could sell them on eBay and I was anticipating the short trip out to Crater Lake. Taking a right AJ headed off to Pita Pit for breakfast and I continued straight to the next stop light in order to take a right turn south for my trip away from the expansive population of Bend.

As I was sitting waiting on the light my car stalled. Thinking nothing of it initially I tried to turn the engine over. Nothing. I tried again and the engine tried, coughed and sputtered but wouldn't catch.

Cursing the mechanics at Independent Auto Werks I got out to push, thankfully being assisted by a nice guy working the corner with a sandwich board, his nice guy demeanor assisted by the reprieve doing something other than yelling at traffic offered. I called my guru, John and we decided that the fuel pump (the simple little part the accursed guys at Independent were supposed to switch out) was the culprit. I tapped on it a few times and got the engine to turn over again.

Thankfully Katie is as much help away as she is near and found me the numbers of some local VW mechanics. Driving around town I found that all were closed on Sunday. Typical. As fate would have it my other buddy Shilo, the guy I initially was headed to Bend to see but who had decided last minute to catch the baseball Civil War, was just pulling into his driveway.

I headed over to his house and we spent the afternoon hanging out and chatting about life. Being that Shilo is a self-professed geek, we bee-lined it to Best Buy to catch me up on a world of technology that is slowly passing me by. I am beginning to understand the geriatric population fears the cell phone, the unknown causing a panic felt only in times of extreme ignorance.

Age and a 5:30 wake up call shuffled Shilo off to bed at 9:30 and me back over to AJ's, his computer task finished. I fell asleep at 5 am, thoughts of fuel pumps and lost days of travel swirling in my mind but thankful for the assistance and enjoyment friends present. Hopefully the morning will bring with it a fixed car and a southerly direction.