Day 8 - A Concussion, A 12 Step Program for Plastic People, and A Badly Timed Walk in the Woods

This morning, as I sipped my coffee and considered the day that lay ahead, my wife, Kerri called to say that our daughter, Tori was on her way home from school. She had hit her head on a ride at the county fair a few nights ago and she had been spending an inordinate amount of time sleeping since then.
She was off to the emergency room. For some reason, that is her doctor's office's regular protocol - the doctors don't even bother to have you come in; they send to directly to the ER.
Worry shrouded the rest of my day as I waited for the call from Kerri with results.

I spent some time working on a few drawings and then headed off to the Rey Center where I had agreed to talk with a few kids from the school about what I had been doing during my residency (primarily hanging around in gazebos with my sketchbook and trying, heroically, to drink all the wine that people keep giving me).

It seemed judicious to focus on the sketching and downplay the wine a bit. I was looking for a seat downtown about a half hour before my talk was to start and noticed immediately that the mysterious letter in a bottle was still afloat on the raft in the pond.

It was just to chilly to go in there after it. I will get it, though. Perhaps it's a map to a lost treasure!

I considered stealing one of the boats in order to row out, but some genius had locked up all the oars.

I sighed and headed toward a seat so I could draw a bit before my talk and I came across this poor girl, sprawled out across a chair in the middle of town. She had evidently had a rough night and was sleeping it off.

It's sad, really. Poor Barbie just can't party like she used to.

I tip-toed off and settled in to work at my favorite table downtown. The one that isn't infested with hung-over party girls.

Another grueling day at the office.

I had hardly had time to get comfy and eat my pear when it was time to head up and talk to the kids from the school, who were on a field-trip to The Rey Center to learn about art from a cultured, suave, cosmopolitan artist.  Maryellen.

They were also being forced to listen to me, but still, it was probably better than a math test. I had just seen these kids a few days before and had unloaded all my best material on them then. While I had no idea what I was going to talk about today, I did have one trick up my sleeve.

I showed them a top-secret project I've been working on that is alarmingly fart-oriented. It is excessive, even to me.

When in doubt, show a drawing of somebody farting. Better still, show a half dozen drawings of people farting. Use the word "fart" copiously and gratuitously. Trust me.

I used the word "fart" about a dozen times and, sensing hostility arising in the teachers and administrators in attendance, thanked them all and turned their attention to Maryellen who would actually teach them something meaningful and, presumably, fart-free.

I slunk back into the town square to draw a bit more, but the sky looked threatening, so I opted to grab some lunch.

Clouds = Lunch

I considered grabbing a sandwich here, but when I went in and asked if the had a take-out menu, the guy said, "Nope."

You might consider a different sign, Mr. Potbelly.

 I headed home for some leftover pizza and a quart of wine.

When I arrived home, I tossed the pizza in the oven and cranked up my thrash metal on the stereo. I was sitting there, contemplating the infinite when a lady's head poked over the railing of the stairs in my living room and mouthed, "HELLO?"

I assume that she actually shouted, "HELLO?" but the leather-lunged gusto of the screaming vocalist blaring through the speakers effectively drowned her out.

I've been here for 8 days thus far and have yet to have a female head poke itself into my living quarters. I may have jumped and squealed a bit.

I snapped off the music and the head shouted "...TO CLEAN THE HOUSE!"

Of course. Chris and Len had asked someone to come in a clean the place. I knew that. I'm not used to having cleaning people come in, but I could get used to it.

Look what she did to the toilet paper!

It's pointy! Like a fancy hotel! I felt so important. Thanks!

 After lunch, I headed back down to the town common to do a bit more drawing and to search for one gazebo that I had still failed to locate. All I had seen of it were elusive flashes of white through the trees as I biked past.

As I walked over to my favorite chair and table to draw, I passed this tableau, set up under the large tent in the center of the square:

Barbie has, apparently, organized a 12-step meeting in the center of town. It's sad that so few of her friends chose to attend.

I swear I'm not making this up. I found her just like this. The poor dear needs help and I'm glad she's getting it.

I tip-toed past her sad meeting of one, overly-conscious of the wine on my breath, and found a seat on the dock alongside the pond. There, I found even more evidence of Barbie's wild night.

There, in the corner of the table.

Barbie's boot, abandoned like some plastic tribute to Cinderella during her bacchanal the previous night.

I also found this.

It looks like a teeny, tiny box of cereal, but it says Barbie on it. What would be in a box like this? Barbie Flakes? Barbie-Os? Some things are better if the remain a mystery.

I quietly returned Barbie's items to her as she sat at her lonely meeting of one, atoning for her excesses of the night before.

It seemed best to give her some time alone in the square, so I slipped off to search for the mysterious final gazebo that had eluded me like Ahab's whale.

Only less whaley.

And it wasn't actually moving.

And I wasn't at sea.

Or named Ahab.

And probably wouldn't die, strapped to the gazebo.

At least, I hoped not. The death I envision for myself involves more whipped cream and less whale.

I wandered along the serpentine paths that wrap around the town pond, setting off into a desperate wilderness.

The trail was very poorly marked and difficult to follow, but still I ventured onward, heedless of the dangers that surely awaited me.

I soon arrived at a distant outpost of civilization. A soccer field with at least 3 signs warning me not to cross the field. The field, apparently, is just for show.

The fence, while somewhat inadequate, kept me from crossing the field. Perhaps it is riddled with land mines. Unsure of what to do, I turned and headed back into the wilderness to find the white gazebo.

 I bushwhacked along the tortuous trail for upwards of a minute before I finally spotted my quarry - The Great White Gazebo.

The Gazebo is really less a gazebo than an altar of some sort.

It's kind of blocking my view of the mountain.

But, as with so many things in the valley, it does have a place to put your glass of wine.

Set somewhat apart from the main altar is a second, slightly less fancy altar. Perhaps it is for couple who wanted to get married on the first altar, but found it was already booked that day. They can get married here and spent the ceremony stealing jealous glances at the happy couple who got the fancy altar with the wine holder.

 Tired from my dangerous hike through the wilderness, I headed back homeward only to be beckoned once again into the wild.

I had been hearing throughout my stay about The Cascades, a delightful sounding series of waterfalls out in the woods.

Sorely misjudging how long the hike would be, I set off into the woods armed with my camera and nothing else, including, evidently, my common sense.

It was a beautiful hike, for sure. People who told me about it said that it took about an hour. I assumed, wrongly, that that meant round-trip. It was an hour out to the Cascades and the sun was slowly beginning its descent.

I opted to press onward, thrilled with the natural beauty of the area. Once at the top of the cascades, I was treated to some man-made beauty.

Free filthy towels!

And underpants!

And more underpants!

Seeing the underpants strewn about, I had a better idea of where Barbie may have been partying the previous night. She's lucky she didn't freeze to death.

Ancient ruins.

A random caution sign posted along a road. While taking this picture and wondering what I was supposed to be cautious of, I pictured a cartoon where a character is reading a danger sign and a weight marked "500 tons" drops out of the sky. I moved on quickly, keeping one eye toward the darkening sky.

Just as I started to get really nervous about the dwindling daylight, I saw this.

Sadly, it was not running and I was forced to actually walk down the hill.

The view from the top was pretty spectacular.

Goodbye sun, hello bears!

I slipped down the hill and found myself in a strange field dotted with locked steel doors, obviously where Waterville Valley locks the undead who would otherwise ravage the valley in search of tasty brains.

Zombie-proof doors.

Good luck getting out of there, you dumb zombies.

They even provided an access spot to keep the zombies fresh and clean. Good for you, Waterville Valley! I admire your progressive treatment of the evil undead.

I wandered off and soon came to the top of the giant ski-jump that has so intrigued me over the past week.

This is what it looks like from above.

Those kids are CRAZY!

I shook my head in wonder at those crazy kids and was just about back home when Kerri called to report that Tori had been checked out and she does, indeed have a concussion. She'll be home from school for a few days and should be fine. It may even be a blessing, as the zombies locked under the hill in Waterville Valley might not be interested in her bruised brain should they escape.

Home and Gone Again

In case any of you have been losing sleep over the fact that I appear to be perpetually still in New Jersey; fear not. I returned home safely last week.

Sadly, that fate was not shared by my pillow and some of my clothes.
While I was in New Jersey, I got an email from my lovely wife explaining that my lovely son had been taken to the lovely hospital for lung x-rays. He had a lovely case of pneumonia.

This, I freely admit, upset me a bit.

I woke up very early the next day (like 3:30 early) and decided to just hit the road and get home. It seemed a wiser option than sitting in my hotel room, staring at the ceiling and listening to the roar of the traffic racing by.

I staggered blearily around my hotel room, showered, packed up my stuff and ran a large armload of my belongings out to my car. While there, I saw something shiny and got distracted.
"Ooooh coffee!"

I wandered over to the Dunkin Donuts, conveniently located in the scenic parking lot of my hotel, and entered its sacred coffee-infused walls. The clerk behind the counter was Indian and didn't seem to have a firm grasp on conversational English yet.

"Do you have vanilla coffee made?" I asked, seeking a whimsical, flavor-filled change in my coffee drinking experiences.

The clerk looked at me, obviously not understanding the question.

"Baniya?" he asked.

"Vanilla," I nodded, "Yes, do you have any vanilla coffee?"

He stared for a moment longer and then his face broke out into a radiant smile.

"Ahhh!" he said, "Medium french baniya, cream sugar!"

"That's it!" I cried, marveling at his psychic ability to penetrate my unkempt exterior and discern my innermost desires.

He handed me my coffee and I made my way back toward my car, marveling at the fact that he had learned English based entirely on the Dunkin Donuts menu items and how the majority of customers preferred them.

I was impressed. Thrust into the streets of Calcutta or Agra or Bombay, I doubted that I would have fared as well as he had.

I hopped into my car and sped off into the night, completely forgetting about the second load of belongings that sat in my hotel room, gathering up toxic levels of hotel carpet stink that I'm certain will render my pillow unusable for several washings.

I arrived home to find Alex doing better. My joy at that news was tempered slightly by the fact that I only then realized that I had forgotten all my stuff in New Jersey.

A quick call to the hotel confirmed that they would be delighted to do absolutely nothing to help me get my stuff back.

"Uhhh, I'd have to talk to the manager about sending it back to you, but I don't really think that's gonna happen."

Thanks Motel 6!

I sent a rather panicky and completely humiliating email to Cindy, the lady who had arranged my visit to New Jersey, asking her if she could possibly go to the hotel and grab my pillow–the one with the dirty socks and undies stuffed in the pillow case–and mail it up to me.

She agreed to undertake this odious task and I will forever be in her debt.

For the past week, I have been visiting schools from Massachusetts to the White Mountains. It's been fun, but exhausting. Every school is different and I never know what to expect when I arrive. This keeps me on my toes and in a perpetual state of near paranoid alertness.

At Fuller Meadow School, I was treated to delicious lunches (Candi, the coordinator, had read my blog entry asking that I not be served Sloppy Joes and Tater Tots) and, as if that weren't enough, she sent me home with two half gallons of delicious ice cream from the ice cream stand across the street.

My trip to Campton Elementary, way up north in New Hampshire began with a presentation to the 7th and 8th graders who, I was warned, might try to kill me and eat me.

Adults, as a rule, are terrified of 7th and 8th graders. Mostly with good reason, I imagine. But my visit with them was delightful. They were fun and enthusiastic and did not throw rocks at me or try to eat me. What's funny is that I gave almost exactly the same presentation that I normally do for 4th graders. It went very well, as did the rest of the day.

The only slight glitch in the day was the last presentation I gave to the Kindergarten, first, and second grades. It appeared that some poor child was suffering from some sort of gastro-intestinal distress and kept farting throughout my presentation. The child had the uncanny ability to time his farts to whenever I paused for dramatic effect.

"And then..." I paused, savoring the magical moment of silence. And when I opened my mouth to continue...

"FFAAAAAAARRRRRRRT!"

It was very amusing for everyone.

Tomorrow I head off to Portland, Maine for three days of school visits. I'm looking forward to this trip a lot because my good friend Amy lives up there and she claims to possess knowledge of the whereabouts of an excellent Thai restaurant.

And I know that, as I have yet to get my pillow back from New Jersey, there is no way I can leave it at the hotel this time.

No. I'm not on Facebook.

I'm not on Facebook and somehow I still manage to wake up and face each day, carry through, and do what needs to be done. I know. I know. It seems impossible, but it can be done.
Somehow, in the face of my extreme deprivation of not having a Facebook page, I am alive. I will go further and suggest that I am actually thriving.
Friends are constantly imploring me to get a Facebook page so we can stay in touch.
"We are talking right now," I will point out helpfully.
"But other people you know could find you easily," the friend will argue, making a swift tactical shift in his efforts to crumble my Facebook defenses.
"If you do a quick Google search for my name, I am the first choice. I have a web site and a blog, both of which tell people how to contact me. Easily. Plus, I'm in the phone book." I counter brilliantly.
I will then try to shift the conversation in another direction, often employing some shock and awe method designed to confuse the friend and get him thinking in some other direction.
"Hey," I will say to the friend, "Want to go visit my duck?"
"You have a duck?" the friend will say.
"Yeah. Its name is Duck. It's a brilliant name because it's descriptive, simple, and easy to remember."
"You could show people a picture of your duck on a Facebook page," the friend will say.
"Or we could just step outside and see the actual, real-life duck," I will say.
"And then you could tell people about it on your Facebook page," the friend will suggest.
This leads me to my biggest problem with Facebook: The idea that people now seem to think everything they do is worthy of announcing to the world.

No, the irony of me posting this point on a blog is not lost on me, but this is MY blog, smarty-pants.

My wife is on Facebook. So are all my friends.
So is my mother.

I've seen the updates people make:
"I'm washing the dishes!"
"It's cold out. I'm putting on a sweater."
"Mummie wuvs her wittew puppies, yesss she does..."
"I'm bored."

Frankly–and I'm sorry here, my friends–I just don't care.
I love you all, but I don't feel the need to get a written notice every time you clip your toenails or eat a cookie or break wind.

And the little things my wife gets like this:

"Some random person who went to the same elementary school as you challenges you to a squirt gun fight."

Huh?

Or the slightly more disturbing:

"Someone you took a class with in college once, but don't really remember, sent you a hug."

Keep your creepy cyber-hugs. Send me a dollar or a cookie or a gift certificate for my favorite pizza place.


Compounding the desperate situation in which I find myself–being the last human on the face of the planet not on Facebook–I further ostracize myself from members of my species by:
1. Not owning a cell phone.
2. Not watching television.
3. Never, NEVER, NEVER shopping at Wal-Mart


"But... HOW do you survive?"  my friends ask as they check the messages on their cell phone one more time, just in case someone more interesting has tried to contact them in the 8 seconds since they last checked.

I do other things. I write. I paint. I read. I draw. I bike and hike and talk.

So, if you want to be my friend, don't bother trying to add me on Facebook or sending me a cyber gift or a cyber hug or a stupid smiling kitten picture. Send me an email or a letter. Draw me a picture. Take me out for a pizza. Come visit my duck.
Just turn your cell phone off first.