Torment of the Art

Art is a terminal disease of the mind. One quietly suffers isolation to understand its meaning. The artist can never purge themselves of the suffering of the art. It changes how you see the world. It consumes all senses. The only way to lessen the suffering is to produce art. It is a natural reflex like breathing underwater. It is the ultimate contradiction of the mind that has to be expressed in physical form and once it is embodied in physical form it is immediately dismissed in search of a better solution. The need is primal and cannot be ignored. A body of work from an artist is nothing more than discarded remedies consumed in an attempt to cure the madness. It is a mathematical equation that can never be solved, but the attempt to solve it leaves a legacy of wrong answers. M. C. Escher identified the connection “By keenly confronting the enigmas that surround us, and by considering and analyzing the observations that I have made, I ended up in the domain of mathematics, Although I am absolutely without training in the exact sciences, I often seem to have more in common with mathematicians than with my fellow artists”
It is a restlessness that can never be comforted. Albert Einstein said “True art is characterized by an irresistible urge in the creative artist”.

There is a story that in hell you are standing forever in a cool river with a burning thirst and when ever you bend over to quench the thirst from the river, the water disappears. That is the torment of art. If you do not have the passion, you will never understand it. You may look at art and like it or even love it, but you will never understand the extent of the suffering that produces it. The art itself is only a pale representation of the attempted resolution of the principals in conflict. Auguste Rodin said “The artist must create a spark before he can make a fire and before art is born, the artist must be ready to be consumed by the fire of his own creation”.

Some artists work in such a depth to resolve conflict that their work may not be understood or relevant for generations. Some work may never be understood by anyone but the artist and at times the artist themselves may not understand. I believe William Faulkner was incorrect when he said “The aim of every artist is to arrest motion, which is life, by artificial means and hold it fixed so that a hundred years later, when a stranger looks at it, it moves again since it is life”. I don’t think the aim of any artist concerns themselves with what a strangler thinks, it’s the exercising of demons.

It cannot be explained to someone that is not of similar mind and most disturbing is that there are so few similar minds. It is a mortal struggle of opposites in search of balance. Norman Podhoretz noted “Creativity represents a miraculous coming together of the uninhibited energy of the child with its apparent opposite and enemy, the sense of order imposed on the disciplined adult intelligence”.

Artistic pursuit is a desolate existence in which every experience is poured into the crucible of creative expression. Any thought is rendered and stripped to the essence of an abstract ideal in order to understand its complex relationship of meanings. Then by the process of brute force a concept is extracted from the seething crucible to be hammered yielding an imperfect resolution to be immediately discarded. The failure is then minutely examined in to discover its flaws. For each object that survives the process there are hundreds that are destroyed along the way. The deeper an ideal is pursued the father the artist distances themselves from society. As the threshold of enlightenment is approached the beauty of the rapture is solely outside the understanding of anyone that has not struggled with the burden. Carl Rogers stated ‘The mainspring of creativity appears to be the same tendency which we discover so deeply as the curative force in psychotherapy, man's tendency to actualize himself, to become his potentialities. By this I mean the organic and human life, the urge to expand, extend, develop, mature - the tendency to express and activate all the capacities of the organism, or the self.”

Society has convinced itself it understands art, but that is an illusion wrapped in ignorance and empathy. Is looking at a picture from the highest peak of the Alps the same as you being there? Are you immersed in the frigid thin air? Does the air cut your lungs like a knife? Does the sunlight reflecting off the snow burns your eyes? Does the wind howl like a freight train in your ears? Does your body tremble and scream in pain from the journey? Is every one of your senses exploding in rapture being immersed totally in experience? A picture can not convey the years of training and preparation. It can not reveal the mental conditioning. Pablo Picasso said “The artist is a receptacle for emotions that come from all over the place: from the sky, from the earth, from a scrap of paper, from a passing shape”. Society may empathize and value the suffering of the artist but they can never fully understand what it attempts to personify.

Jules Feiffer observed “Artists can color the sky red because they know it's blue. Those of us who aren't artists must color things the way they really are or people might think we're stupid”. The most cruel and ironic contradiction is that society controls my ability to express and communicate my art in the public whelm. Artists are selected by commissions of well intended citizens that can not place my work in context of meaning. Many times it reminds me of attempting to convey calculus to second graders. What of value is derived from the discussion? The public process rejects risk and controversy in favor of consensus and neutrality. The result is a suffocating embrace of mediocrity that excludes genus. Oscar Wilde once said “The public is wonderfully tolerant. It forgives everything except genius”. What society accepts as art is for the most part nauseatingly bland and disconnected.

Society isolates art to prescriptive uninspired “points of interest”. Assuming that placing art in such a location will transform it with relevance and significance. Art is severed from context and integration with its surroundings. Art must be fused into every aspect of our existence. It can not be isolated from the physical reality of the world. Art must be ubiquitous as it touches every endeavor in life. Unfortunately we can only dream. The narrow uninformed minds of the architects, developers, urban planners, city officials and engineers that are responsible for the built environment will never shed themselves of standard convention and embrace risk. Just look at the cities these self appointed critics have created. Where does art exist in our cities? It’s located at the top of a brutal 30 story glass and steel monstrosity in attempt to disguise its inhumanity. It’s located pushed into a forgotten corner of a crushing vacant expanse of granite plaza which provides all the atmosphere of the moon. It’s located impaled on a column overlooking some blue gas corridor so people can marvel at it at 70 miles per hour as they attempt to escape the visual violence of our urban centers. The future for the artist does not appear to be positive.

John Fitzgerald Kennedy forecasted “Above all, we are coming to understand that the arts incarnate the creativity of a free people. When the creative impulse cannot flourish, when it cannot freely select its methods and objects, when it is deprived of spontaneity, then society severs the root of art.” Society has indeed severed the root of art. All the artist can do is to suffer the torment of art in isolation as is their destiny.

In the Eyes of a Child

Innocence is never as pure as through the eyes of a child. It is always a rare opportunity to share in the unfettered pure emotions with a child. As adults we have been conditioned to channel and control, temper and blunt, constrain and dampen our emotions. It’s considered a sign of immaturity to be overly expressive and gleeful. Society binds us by rules, etiquette, tradition, mores, civility, courtesy, customs, propriety, and social graces. Slowly we develop ways to limit and curtail our emotions. We become disconnected to the full enjoyment of emotion in our constant state of suppression. As an adult, it is difficult to experience the simple joys of life, unless you look through the eyes of a child.

Somehow my life has passed without children. Nature provides balance in all things and by some strange circumstance I have been blessed with grandchildren. Remaining close to a former daughter-in-law long after a divorce from the family, her next marriage produced three sons that are now in every sense of the word my grandchildren. Like a jigsaw puzzle, life fits together seemly unconnected pieces and creates a rich, beautiful tapestry of hidden meaning.

Yesterday stripped away every constraint of decorum as I spent the day as a child with the eldest son Brennen, who is nine years old. We did something together that is one of my most cherished memories with my father as a child. This was Brennen’s first professional sporting event. We went to Arrowhead Stadium and watched the Chiefs play the Chargers on Christmas Eve. To Brennen this was the equivalent of………..well there was no equivalent. For days he would break into a beaming grin and fidget with uncontrolled excitement whenever we talked about attending the game. The days leading up to the game slowly crawled by with anticipation building to a fevered pitch as we prepared to leave for the stadium.

No one could have chosen a more miserable day to watch a football game. It was a grey cold windy day with driving rain and temperatures hovering near 32 degrees. As we arrived at the stadium parking lot, I was worried if Brennen was prepared for such a brutal climatic experience. I considered the widescreen television in front of the roaring fireplace at the house, but dismissed the retreat as I glanced over at Brennen, who was smiling oblivious to the pounding rain on the windshield. The recklessness of my long lost child began to emerge. “We’re men! Nothing is going to stop us from cheering for our heroes. Football is a tough sport and our team needs fans that are equally tough.” With a temporary loss of sanity we parked the car and left the cozy confines of our warm chariot. The march to the coliseum began.

Arriving two hours before kick-off in order to partake in some ritual tailgating, I was given some vague instructions on where to find the tailgate party. I was given a phone number to call in case we had a problem finding the temporary shelter from the cold. As we emerged from the car I considered us well prepared to endure the dismal conditions of the day. The two of us looked like giant puffballs with the countless layers of clothing, sweaters, gloves, hats, thermal underwear, ponchos and jackets. Our puffball appearance was exaggerated by the bright yellow ponchos we selected to show team spirit. My carefully crafted plan for survival has one fundamental flaw. As I walked across the parking lot, the driving rain hit the poncho and cascaded down the front of me only to land on the top of my sneakers. A combination of the half inch of water on the parking lot surface and torrents of water sheeting from my poncho completely soaked my feet within the first fifty feet of our journey. I looked down at Brennen’s sneakers and he wasn’t fairing any better than me.

The long walk from the car to the tailgating area severely tested my will. My feet were already cold and wet. The wind was whipping our ponchos up over our heads allowing driving cold rain to pelt our undergarments. The cold wind was knifing through my clothing making me shiver. I quietly wondered if this test of manhood was a good idea. Brennen and I proceeded to attempt to locate the tailgating party without success. I called the cell phone but no one answered. All the visible tailgaters were hunkered down hiding from the rain and wind. Some were sitting in the trunk of their cars with plastic sheeting covering them. Others were huddled between cars staring at a few burning embers of charcoal. It reminded me of some refugee camp high in the mountains. There was no cheering and celebration. This did not seem like the place of joy associated with every other tailgate experience. Everybody was so completely bundled with clothing that recognizing a face was impossible.

We turned the final corner of tailgater section moving toward the stadium and stumbled across a huge man of three hundred or more pounds standing under a summer awning like it was a sweltering summer day. His face was painted red and a long wet chief’s flag was hung from his shoulders like a superhero cape. He stood erect without hat, gloves or shirt. To his bare torso was welded a massive belly that was painted and decorated with chief logos. Across his chest and down his side like graffiti was penned “Belly Boy”. Brennen was the first to notice this aberration in the cold. Brennen pulled at my arm and pointed, not knowing what to think. I looked up, smiled and said that’s “Belly Boy” one of the chief’s most fanatical and devoted fans. He shows up for every home game and can usually be seen on television jumping up and down screaming for the viewing audience. For a moment I thought someone needs to tell this guy that it is 32 degrees and his medications just aren’t working. We were on a mission of survival; I had little time to save others. As we passed Belly Boy, he looked at Brennen smiling like some ancient warrior and bellowed the war cry “Chiefs!!!” It must have reminded Brennen of the old legendary highlander warriors of “braveheart”.

Failure to locate the tailgate party drove us into the stadium seeking shelter long before kick-off. It was upon entering the shelter of the stadium Brennen came to life. We walk down the concrete ramp to the field level concourse. Rounding the concourse, only small tantalizing glimpse of the stadium field would be revealed. I decided it was time to give Brennen a full view of the game field. We ducted into an aisle leading down to the field level seating. As the narrow corridor gave way to the stadium bowl the field emerged into full view. Brennen gasped at the sight. He eyes were the size of pie pans. We had entered at a place as glorious as heaven. The pure green hue of the field was brilliantly contrasted the cold gray colorless sky. The field glowed under the lights. I vividly recalled a similar memory deeply burned in my mind as I walked out from behind my father to see the expanse of Shea Stadium and Joe Namath tossing balls to Emerson Boozer during the pre-game activities so many, many years ago.

I asked Brennen if he wanted to take a peek at our seats before the game started. He was speechless trying to comprehend the sacred ground we were walking on. We walked down the aisle out from under the sheltering upper deck into the driving rain. With each step we took Brennen’s smile grew larger and larger. We past rows 36 and 32. We past rows 27 and 21. The field grew closer and closer. We past rows 16 and 10. Approaching the railing that prevents someone from walking down onto the field, I turned and pointed to seats 4 and 5 in row 8. Brennen could contain himself, like he had grabbed onto an electric cable he jumped up and down, squealing with excitement. “Are these really our seats? I can almost touch the field!” I looked at him and said “This is the most important game of the season. This is for the chance for the Chiefs to go to the playoffs and I thought the chiefs needed their biggest fan sitting close to help them win the game.” He smiled and looked over the field with a new sense of responsibility. I asked “Do you think you can help them today?” He bellowed “Oh Yeah”.

Standing in a near empty stadium, Brennen became pensive and said “The field looks so small.” I could not contain my smile understanding what had just happened. The world had just got a lot smaller and his life was forever changed. Things of importance and reverence grow out of proportion in the mind of a child. The gridiron where heroes battle in mortal supremacy in a child’s mind is the size of twenty football fields. This small field could not contain all the visions of greatness. Jokingly I said “I bet if some of those 300 pound linebackers were chasing you that field would seem a lot bigger.” He nodded in agreement. We shared a moment of magic standing silently staring out of over the field. The curtain of rain falling from the sky, the cold swirling wind, the soaking wet feet faded into the background. It was no longer cold. We were two kids enjoying a new playground while ignoring the elements.

We retreated to the shelter of the concourse to indulge in our first ball park hotdog together. As we stood in line we debated the merits of the brat verse the hotdog. At the front of the line our decision was clear; one brat with mustard and sauerkraut, one hotdog with ketchup and two hot chocolates. Pushing our way through the crowd that was beginning to swell we unwrapped our dogs at the condiment counter. The king’s ransom we plunked down on the counter secured us the common ballpark fare. The brat was overcooked and wrinkled with long black char marks where it had been burned by the grill. The bun was compressed and glued like gum around the outside of the brat. I had to peel and pull the bun back from the brat in order to have a place to apply mustard.

Huddled against an open area of wall in the concourse we devoured the meal like hungry animals that had not eaten in months. Brennen was dancing and twirling, moving in uncontrolled rapture as he savored every bite of the hotdog. I noticed his fingers were covered in ketchup as I handed him a napkin. In absolute disbelief he looked at me a said “That was the best hotdog I have ever eaten in my life.” I accepted the statement as truth assuming that he had eaten his fair share of hotdogs. I thought about it for a second and replied “Yeah, that was a pretty darn good brat” and grabbed another napkin to remove the mustard from my fingers. Taking a sip of the hot chocolate I considered the fact that food enjoyment is deeply connected to the experience. In any other circumstance I would have rejected the hotdog purely on visual evident and asked to speak to the chef. This day was different; this was quite possibly the finest food we could ever imagine.

It was time to head back to our seats and watch the pre-game activities. Walking from the dark and damp concourse we emerged as the grounds crew began removing tarp from the field. Never having seen this before on television, Brennen asked what they were doing. We spent some time discussing field maintenance and the NFL rule that required a tarp if it was forecast to rain 24 hours before a game. Standing in the pouring rain Brennen agreed today would qualify for the NFL rule. I asked him if he was sure. He just smiled.

As the last section of the tarp was rolled up exposing the grass surface, players began to venture out from the locker room to stretch and warm up. We looked around; the stadium was slowly beginning to fill. The first players to warm up were the kickers and punters. We watched the Chief’s punter drive the ball 45 yards a few times. Brennen looked at me and said “My dad can kick the ball farther than that. He can kick it from three houses away.” The greatness of a father can never be diminished in the eyes of his son. I leaned over and replied “Well maybe if we see Coach Vermeil we might mention that to him. I’ve heard he is always looking for a good punter.”

The Charger’s kicker began to practice 50 yards field goals near us. The swelling crowd began reacting to the kicker. Each missed field goal was greeted with a round of heckling. As the heckling grew louder Brennen’s face exhibited confusion, not quite sure if this was proper behavior. I tapped him on the shoulder and said “You know we came here to help the Chiefs.” As the kicker missed the next field goal, I cupped my hands around my mouth a yelled “Yeah that’s what we need during the game!” Brennen broke into laughter and stamped his feet in glee. I looked over at him and said “I’m not sure I can do this all by myself.” The next kick was good at which Brennen let out a heady “Booooo”. It was my time to laugh. We spent the next fifteen minutes cheering and booing each field goal attempt.

The level of activity on the field was building. Both teams were out on the field running drills. The Chargers offensive line began blocking drills in the end zone near us. I suggested we move down to the railing to get a better view. Nervously Brennen followed me down the eight rows until we were only about fifteen feet from the players. The linemen huddled in a group were massive with arms and legs the size of tree trunks. The sounds of snorting and grunting reminded me of mystical gigantic gladiators as they pushed and wrestled each other. I glanced at Brennen’s face and he appeared horrified at the size and strength of the warriors before him. It was the same wide eyed blank expression as when you open a door and find a naked person behind it.

A large grey haired gruff offensive line coach was barking at the linemen and any of the fans than looked at him wrong. He was the type of person you would expect to find guarding a dungeon door. He made it a point to walk near where we were standing and screamed at the groundskeeper that he needed to remove the standing water from the sideline. The groundskeeper yelled back and flipped him off. He turned a let out an evil bellowing laugh as he walked away. The tension was building. It became more and more apparent that this was going to be a clash of titans, a clash of good and evil. All of this was occurring under a cold miserable downpour.

As the minutes counted down the field continued to fill with television crews, sound crews, sideline announcers and broadcasters. Then the sideline crews, ball boys and referees drifted onto the field. Each team brought out the trainers, the medical staff, the coaches and the front office. It was like two large armies were assembling for battle. Still the field continued to fill. The color guard, sports photographers, band members, flag twirlers, mascots and security guards filed in from every opening in the field wall. The stadium behind us began to come to life as we heard a low distinctive roar start to emerge from the upper decks. Mesmerized by the intensity of activity Brennen and I scanned the stadium only to find it was filling to capacity with a sea of red.

One of the last activities is the cheerleaders entering the field. Dressed tight red pants and white hooded ski jackets, they slowly worked the crowd adjacent to the stadium wall. They walked up to the fans smiling as they introduced themselves. I looked at Brennen and said “Dude, this is your chance to say something and I’ll get a photo of you and a dozen cheerleaders.” He looked at me like I just asked him to shoot the president and shook his head no. “You’re going to regret this if you don’t go get their attention.” The answer was the same an emphatic no. I thought to myself that I should have taught him how to use my camera before we came. You never know when you might need of photo of yourself with twelve cheerleaders. I guess there is only so much a nine year old can endure before being overwhelmed. I decided not to press the issue as the rain continued to fall from the sky.

Without warning the giant video scoreboard came to life announcing the epic battle than was about to begin. Just like the players, the fans were warming up. The huge video scoreboard was coaching the crowd. Like a well rehearsed play the fans would roar at the urging of a fabled past warrior who’s face was displayed on the scoreboard looking down over the field. I let Brennen know that it was part of our job to roar with the crowd. As the frenzy built the scoreboard would flash “The Loudest Stadium in the NFL” over and over. Time was winding down as the two teams left the field for the final coaching instructions in the locker rooms.

Santa appeared on the screen extolling the fact that he always wears Chief’s red. This drove the Christmas Eve crowd into a fevered pitch. Then all of a sudden the final piece of the puzzle was set into place. As if by magic Belly Boy walks down our aisle and sits three rows in front of us. Just like in the movies where the contest could not begin until the king was seated. On this cold rainy day, Belly Boy was about as close to Chief’s royalty as we were going to get. Belly Boy was still without the comforts of clothing from the waist up as he stood with the rain pelting his screaming face. Brennen danced in circles knowing Belly Boy was in our section helping us cheer. Brennen must have caught Belly Boy’s eye as he was walking down the aisle, because he turned, faced us and posed like a superhero. In fine Celtic warrior tradition Brennen knew exactly what to do. He cupped his hands to his mouth and bellowed as louder as he could the ancient cry of “Chiefs”. Belly Boy curled his lip in a snarl and bellowed back “YEEAAHH”. A wave of fatherhood swept over me as I took pride in the fact I taught Brennen how to scream at a half naked fat man with a red painted face who was standing in the driving rain. I made a mental note that on the way home I should discuss with Brennen that his newly acquired skill of screaming at menacing madmen is best reserved for sporting events.

The video screen began showing glorious heroes from the past. Marcus Allen doves over the goal line while the crowd cheered. Len Dawson tosses a touchdown then held up a super bowl trophy the crowd cheered again. In a muddy uniform, Buck Buchanan drilled some helpless quarterback and the crowd roared the loudest. The crowd was ready, the practice session was over. The “twelfth” man was suited up with his game face on when out of the tunnel raced a wave of blue and gold. The Chargers team thundered across the field like a herd of buffalo. The crowd immediately erupted with a deafening roar of disappointment. Brennen clapped his hands over his ears as the essence of evil took control of the field. The Chargers ran to the sidelines, huddled around their general and began to chant occasionally turning to sneer and flex their muscles at the roaring crowd. At the center of the huddle was Coach Schottenheimer who spent ten years as the beloved head coach of the Chiefs, but had now gone to the dark side. Once was light, is now darkness. The stage was set. Evil now occupied holy ground.

Cheerleaders danced into two long lines at the center of the field acting like damsels in distress waiting to be rescued by the local heroes. As the crowd began stomping their feet, the stadium began to quake and shudder. The most deafening roar yet filled the air as our heroes took the field. For a brief second I thought Brennen was going to faint, but he recovered quickly scanning the mass of players for his favorite leaders. “There’s Trent Green!!!” he squealed. One by one the important players were identified with delight. “Tony Gonzalez!!! Tony came to my school and his handprint was so big that it didn’t fit on a piece of paper.” All heroes are larger than life. Good took its place across from evil as the two teams wearily eyed each other amidst the roar and the rain. Brennen was so caught up in the moment that his arms and legs began running themselves as they flailed uncontrolled. He was to busy to be concerned that he looked like a chicken that had just lost its head. Brennen’s enthusiasm was contagious, I developed a case of the “jimmie” legs as I began to twist and squirm uncontrollably.

On cue the video screen went silent. The players parted once again revealing the green field again as a military color guard marched toward the center. A picture of a former coach flashed on the giant screen as the loudspeakers announced a tragedy is his family and requested for a moment of silence. As if a switch was turned off the stadium was went absolutely silent. I craned my ears to hear a murmur of even the smallest sound, but there was none. Even the rain respected the request and did not make a sound. The announcer waited a few seconds and thanked the crowd as the color guard prepared for the national anthem.

A well known local soul singer stepped from behind the home team crowd and began singing. Her beautiful voice echoed from the stadium walls as the crowd hummed softly in the background. As she sang “rockets red glare, bombs bursting air”, fireworks erupted from the field filling the sky with brilliant colors and thick white smoke. The sudden explosions startled Brennen, smiling he must have thought all this and the Fourth of July too. The singing of the national anthem always concludes with a stadium tradition which you never get to hear on television any more. Broadcasting the national anthem is just one more unfortunate victim of the insidious creep to continuous commercials without any program content. As the singer finished the last line “the land of the free and the home of the…..” The crowd roared “CHIEFS!!” Brennen laughed not knowing what to think. The stadium again began to rock and quake as the roar steadily grew again.

The team captions strode out to the middle of the field for the coin toss. The smoke from the fireworks blanketed the field in a misty fog. It was as if we were transported to the highlands of Scotland. The Chiefs won the toss and Chargers chose to defend the goal line closest to us. Let the battle begin.

It was immediately apparent from the first play that the field was going to be a major factor because of the heavy rain. Clumps of sod exploded into the air while players skated and fell. The green grass of the pre-game quickly gave way to a sea of mud. It was also apparent that this was going to be a classic game to remember. It was deep in December and both teams desperately needed a win to keep any hope of the playoffs alive. The hitting was ferocious with bodies flying through the air like rag dolls. It was a human demolition derby between super human athletes who trained their entire life for this single moment in time. This is what people come to see. This is how the game was meant to be played, in the cold, in the rain, in the mud with reckless abandon to personal harm. There is no tomorrow if your team loses, there is only next year. This is the time that legends are born. Between the two teams we were watching eleven pro bowlers and quite possibly eight to ten future hall of fame inductees display their talents. There is nothing simpler for a child to understand than the mortal struggle of good and evil, heroes and villains, winning and losing.

For a moment, I imagined Brennen bringing his eldest son to his first Chief’s game and pointing to the ring of honor high on the stadium’s upper deck. “I remember watching Tony Gonzalez, Willie Roaf and Will Shields play for a playoff spot one brutally cold December day.” I imagined the same awe as when I point to Joe Namath’s number in another sacred arena in a land far away. “Did you really see Joe Namath play?” We are bound by folk lore. Ours is an oral tradition handed down from one fan to another.

The game continued as the two team bludgeoned each other in a test of wills. Brennen was catching on fast as he had learned the tomahawk chop, the dreaded D-FENCE and all the proper cheers for each Chief Player. He was dutifully helping the team on to victory. The Chiefs ground game began to gain traction amidst to piles of turf and mud. They started driving down the field towards us. This drive was all about running back Larry Johnson. Trent Green tossed a little swing pass to Larry to the right for 5 yards. Then the massive offensive line blasted a hole in the Chargers defense and Larry rushed up the middle for 21 yards. The team continued marching toward us. Johnson rushed up the middle for 2 yards and Trent threw an incomplete pass to the right. Then in clear view of the adoring crowd from the fifteen yard line Tony Gonzalez when into motion, turned up field and leveled the outside linebacker with a crushing block allowing Larry to rush into the Chargers open back field an 11 yard gain. The roar was deafening while the sky opened up and drenched the field.

Taking advantage of the situation I leaned over to Brennen and said “Theses are a bunch of soft sunny California football players. They can’t take the weather. They are going to melt like little sugar cookies.” Brennen slapped his knees in glee and yelled at the players in end zone “You’re going to melt! You’re going to melt!” The Chiefs broke the huddle and lined up in front of us at the four yard line. Every one in the stadium including the Chargers knew exactly what was about to take place. The roar of the crowd simmered down as to not disrupt the offence. The ball was snapped and both ten times pro bowlers Willie Roaf and Will Shields took a step back headed to the left side like wreaking balls looking for something to destroy. For years the Chiefs have devastated opponents’ defenses with number 77 and 68 plowing gapping holes in their right side. Today would be no different. As the combined 640 pounds hit the goal line the sounds of helmets cracking, grunts, groans and pads exploding rose above the roar of the crowd. Like two freight trains running into a group of speeding semi-tractor trailers the display was awesome. Like staring at a car wreck knowing it was going to be ugly but unable to avert your eyes, we stared in horror. The Chargers line yielded as Trent handed the ball to number 27. Larry appeared upset that he was late to the party and leaned his body forward exposing his shoulder to the crumbling Chargers right side. There was another explosion as bodies spun in the air.

As the referee’s hands were raised over his head signaling touchdown pandemonium erupted. Brennen and I slapped each other and howled like dogs at the moon. Attempting to communicate in this wall of sound was impossible. The Chiefs players ran over and lifted Larry high above their heads. Posing like a statue of conquering hero in a park he was he was now eye level with us a mere twenty feet away. I looked at the scene around me and thought “Now that’s a first touchdown to remember”. If I had sat down to write the perfect first touchdown for Brennen to witness, it still would have not compared to the drama and excitement of what just happened. One successful extra point later and the score was 7-0.

Every epic struggle between good and evil is filled with obstacles and challenges. The outcome can never be certain. Native American culture believed you could only become a great warrior by testing yourself with great enemies. The greater your enemy was the greater your reward upon defeating him. The Chargers offence turned around, tightened their chin straps and marched back on to the field to answer the touchdown. The Chargers took the ball and hammered out a long gusty 75 yard drive that culminated in Drew Brees passing to Antonio Gates for an 18 yard touchdown. Score was now tied at 7.

Not to be out done the Chiefs took the field again drove 67 yards in eight hard fought plays before Trent Green found Sammie Parker streaking to the right for a 42 yard touchdown at the start of the second quarter. Chiefs were now leading 14-7. The game slowly digressed into a good old fashion back alley bare knuckle brawl in the slop and the rain. Mud began to obscure the numbers on the players’ uniforms. The field resembled a plowed field with the rain punishing everyone in sight. You could see the frustration growing on the Chargers bench.

After a series of Chargers penalties and a poor punt the Chiefs got good field position at the KC 43 with 4:45 left before half. The Chiefs drove the ball to the Chargers 28 with a series of short runs, short passes and a penalty. At the two minute warning Trent Green tossed a little swing pass to Larry Johnson on the right flat. After the catch Larry added a clip to his career highlight reel with an incredible tackle breaking spinning power move while pirouetting his feet inches from sideline for a 28 yard touchdown. An awesome display of athletic ability we will remember for years to come. After the game in the locker room Willie Roaf said "That's one of the best plays I've seen a running back make in my career," One missed extra point and the halftime score was 20-7.

We ran back to the concession line as the halftime gun sounded. The girl behind the counter recognized the two yellow puffballs from earlier and said “Back again?” Brennen nodded. I held out another twenty dollar bill and said “Give us two of the same minus the two hot chocolates. Twelve pounds of raw sugar is plenty for one day.” She smiled and reached into a stainless steel box to retrieve another pair of pitiful hotdogs in crumpled silver wrappers. Upon inspection nothing much had changed, they were still the same burnt wrinkled tube of beef parts surrounded by a gluey mess that was once somewhat resembled a bun or at least I hoped so. We rushed to the condiment counter and lathered them up with ketchup and mustard. In almost an exact taped replay of the first meal, Brennen danced as we wolfed the food down in silence. While we were once again cleaning the ketchup and mustard from our fingers, I asked Brennen “What to you think?” He looked around for what seemed like a long time tapping his fingers to his lips. “Well, I think it was the second best hotdog I’ve eaten in my life”. Showing disbelief in my face I replied “Wow, #1 and #2 world’s best hotdog in one day. That’s got to be something special?” He nodded like it was all in a day’s work. Content with the results of our experiment the two yellow puffballs headed back into the rain.

At the start of the second half the rain lessened slightly allowing colder bitter air to pour into the stadium bowl to attack us. We pulled out all our spare clothing and prepared for a frigid second half. The two teams settled into a protracted defensive battle hammering each other’s offence, under a cold frosty twilight. Both teams were playing great defense. Near the end of the third quarter I looked at the two teams on the field and everyone was caked and covered from head to toe with mud, except one huge lineman. I elbowed Brennen. “Look Willie Roaf’s uniform is completely clean. The Charger’s entire team has been able to knock Willie off his feet!” Brennen marveled at the gleaming white mountain at the center of the Chief’s offensive line towering over the other soiled tattered players. Another legend was born. We began looking around making fun of the dirty uniforms of the sugar cookie California boys. “Brennen, look at #93. I think he got stuck under Larry Johnson’s shoe and was drug around the field on his back.” Brennen quipped back “I can’t see the number three anymore. I think it got knocked off his shirt.”

As the second half proceeded the records began to fall one after another. Tony Gonzalez tied the chief’s record for most consecutive games catching a pass at 83. Larry Johnson kept up his amazing eighth straight record breaking 100-yard rushing game, constantly digging his heels into the wet, slippery turf for extra yardage, dragging tacklers with him. Chiefs were close to running their December home winning streak to 18. Time after time we were reminded of the reasons memories of this game would be cherished.

We idled away the fourth quarter playing games with the crowd. When the Chargers offense approached the line I taught Brennen how to beat the back of the seat in front of him like a bass drum. Brennen began to lead the D-FENSE chants driving section 106 into screaming obedience. Even Belly Boy turned away from the game to watch the new kid on the block show his stuff. With a huge grin and beaming rain streaked red face, Belly Boy gave us the thumbs up. We had made it. We were part of the tribe. No one could snatch this victory from us. Two high-fives as the final gun sounded. The Chief’s playoff hopes were still alive. As we were walking up the aisle toward the concourse we heard from the announcer that another epic battle in a city called Pittsburgh in a land far away was not going well for the Chiefs. I didn’t matter much that Pittsburgh could dash the Chief’s playoff hopes. We came to do what we could today and we did it. It was a thing of beauty. It would have to be someone else’s problem that the Cleveland Browns were getting the snot beat out of them a thousand miles away.

The rain stopped as we left the stadium, no longer needed to punish the sugar cookie boys. In a slow deliberate march to yellow puffballs drug themselves across the vast wet parking lot. I patted Brennen on the head. “You know that the Chiefs are undefeated at Arrowhead, when you are there cheering them on”. He digested the meaning of the comment, smiled and raised his hand for another high-five. “Bet we would have beaten those sugar cookie boys 50-7 if your dad was punting. You need to remind to write a letter to Coach Vermeil when we get home.” From behind us we heard a now familiar bellow “Chiefs”. We both knew it was Belly Boy. He was jumping around still naked from the waist up reminding me of the crazy duck in the cartoon that goes insane and ricochets off rocks as he disappears into the sunset.

It wasn’t until that exact moment when it all made sense. I had mistaken Belly Boy as an uninhibited slightly deranged but relatively harmless frantic. His manners were likeable, his general demeanor was caring. The only aberration was his attire or lack of it. I had mistaken him completely. He processed something of great value. Something I had only regained today, the ability to see the world through the eyes of a child. It was a protected world where grown men can decorate themselves and spend three hours playing like a children. It was a place to be an actor in an epic battle between good and evil. It was a place to shed the confines and constraints of society allowing pure emotion to flow through you unfettered like a mountain stream. Lost in the crowd I had felt it too. For Brennen his emotions were never constrained. Emotions rocketed through him like electricity. He had just spent the day as close to heaven as humanly possible. His emotions were visible a hundred feet away as he pranced as light as a feather back to the car.

Arm in arm we walked toward the car. “Think you want to do this again?” With a big hug he said “Oh Yeah”. A few steps later he tugged on my arm. “What about you? Think you want to do this again”. I smiled and nodded realizing that the question sounded just as stupid to him as it did to me. The answer was evident in my hoarse voice, hands that were still tingling from pounding on the seats and feet that were sore from stomping on the ground for three hours. The great Indian Chief Sitting Bull would say “Today is a good day to die.” I better understand what he meant. Life is lived in the present. Life is lived every day to the fullest. Life is lived with every fiber of emotion in harmony with the elements. Life is not afraid of death, because life will never regret the past. I put my arm around Brennen’s shoulder and wondered how to I teach him what I learned today. How can he preserve his ability to be a child and enjoy every day like it was his last. Tired and exhausted I decided the question was much too difficult to be answered today. I decided it was simply time for two wet yellow puffballs to make it home satisfied that they made the sugar cookie boys melt and saved the world from evil.

Blurred Vision

My eyes are burning. There is a dull throbbing in the back of my head. The base of my neck is stiff. The suit I’m wearing is wrinkled and disheveled. I feel like my clothes are someone else’s. They don’t fit any more. I’ve dropped 2-1/2 pounds which is probably a good thing. For breakfast, I waited 35 minutes for a stale cold egg and cheese sandwich in the Memphis Airport. I missed lunch and grabbed a buffalo chicken sandwich for dinner on the run. All four flights today were full. The last two legs were flown in heavy chop which for the ancient DC 9 was like sitting on a cement mixer.

I’m reaching the end of what I call a “grinder”. In the past four days I’ve been on eight separate flights on three airlines to four cities. The stretch included two power meetings, one with the president of a hundred million dollar company and the second was with the upper administration of a NCAA division I university. Between those intense presentations, I attended an awards celebration of 300 people for a project we completed last year and visited a construction site. Three days in a row of getting up at 4:00 am and returning to the house at 10:30 pm. It reminds me of Roy Scheider in All That Jazz “Its Showtime”. The redeeming element is that there is only one more trip to New York tomorrow morning to conclude this grinder.

I wanted to capture the numbness and weariness as you hit the wall. Some sleep and a hot shower tend to restore the senses and the emotional cost of the grinder is forgotten. There is a feeling of suspended time sitting and waiting for the descent, for the boarding, for the unloading, for the entire process. With vision too blurred to read and a mind too numb to think, I stare without focusing out the darkened window of the plane. I try to think about a more pleasant existence. I spend the time reliving a special dinner with a friend or visualize walking in a garden. Lost in a memory the moment passes less painfully. I assume it is a similar response prisoner’s use to mentally escape torture. Without warning the bell rings and I am allowed to leave my seat. It’s over; I can go home and rest. I know I’ve got another full day of waiting tomorrow.

Tyler Durden: “We just had a near-life experience”

Reality comes home to visit when you least expect it. Thursday night at 11:45, I logged on to my computer to print a boarding pass and was frozen by a new screen on Southwest Airline’s website. The “Incident” page appeared indicating that Midway Airport was shut down until further notice. I was scheduled to travel to Midway on Southwest at 7:00 am in the morning. I sat back and considered what I had just read.

Southwest is one of my most frequent carriers. Last year alone I traveled 87 segments on Southwest, 35 of those to Midway. In the past 10 years can only guess I’ve traveled over 500 segments on Southwest. Midway is a second home to me. In the rainy summer of 2003, I was spending 6 hours a week in delays alone in Midway. My knowledge of Midway probably exceeds many of the employees that work there.

Southwest has adopted a simple business policy that has served them well over the years. They only fly one aircraft, the Boeing 737. Every pilot, every mechanic, every ground crew and every flight attendant knows only one plane; and they know it in detail. As a result Southwest in 35 years of flying never had a fatality, until Thursday.

Southwest described the Incident. Last night, Flight 1248 was involved in an incident at Chicago Midway Airport at approximately 7:15 p.m. CST while the aircraft, a Boeing 737-700, was landing. The aircraft veered off the runway and through the blast fence at the northwest corner of the runway -- stopping at the intersection of Central and 55th Avenues. The weather conditions at the time could be described as one-quarter to one-half mile visibility with snow. The flight, which was on arrival from Baltimore/Washington International Airport, was scheduled to continue on to Las Vegas and Salt Lake City.

CBS News correspondent Bob Orr reported. Investigators on Friday studied the crash scene where a Southwest Airlines jet trying to land amid heavy snow plowed off a Midway International Airport runway and into a street, killing a 6-year-old boy in a car. The crash is the first fatal accident in the 35-year history of Southwest Airlines.

Southwest Airlines is currently the dominant carrier at Midway, controlling 25 of the airport's 43 gates and with 196 departures daily. “Originally named Chicago Air Park, Midway Airport was built on 320 acres in 1923 and consisted of a single cinder runway that primarily served airmail services. During its first full year of operation in 1928, the airfield was home to twelve hangars and four runways, lit for night operations. Air traffic control was handled by flagmen, who would be positioned at the end of the runways, where they were responsible that year for controlling 14,498 flight operations carrying 41,660 passengers. The airport was officially renamed on July 8, 1949, to "Chicago Midway Airport" in honor of the World War II Battle of Midway. Midway reached a height of 10 million passengers in 1959. By 1961, however, the airport faced a 60% drop in passenger traffic, largely due to the opening of O'Hare in 1955”.


Because Midway is surrounded by buildings and other development, the landing thresholds of the runways are displaced to provide a proper obstacle clearance. While adequate and legal for the purposes used, these runways leave little margin for error. Both the FAA and the airlines assure safety by limiting loads and adhering to adjusted weather minimums. The recent Incident has once again raised questions about the safety of MDW's short runways for use by medium-haul commercial airliners, which are heavier than regional jets. Whereas larger airports utilize a buffer zone for overruns, the end of the runway used by the Southwest 737 is adjacent to a fence separating airport property from neighboring streets.

I woke up early Friday to find the airport open. I printed my boarding pass and drove to the airport to travel to Midway not less than 12 hours from the Incident. While waiting in line to board someone asked me if I was nervous? No not really today is the safest day of the year to travel to Midway on Southwest. Today everything is by the book. We boarded the plane and sat at the gate. The first report was that Midway was shut down because of a low cloud ceiling. Our delay was estimated at 90 minutes. The second report was that midway opened but now was under flow control. Flow control in used to space plane landings and departures three minutes apart. This is typical when weather is a problem and visibility is obscured. Our second delay added another 90 minutes. After three hours of sitting in the plane, we departed for Midway.

The flight was smooth and generally uneventful, however as we approached Midway it was odd that the sky was crystal blue without a cloud for miles. Why does the airline assume that I am not intelligent enough to be told the truth? Where was no weather issue at Midway! Where was no ceiling at all? I tend to mistrust anyone who is fearful of telling me a simple truth. I understand that there was a recent Incident and the airport needed additional time to pick up strewn parts. Or whatever the reason just tell me the truth, I’ll decide if it bothers me.

As we landed the downed plane was hidden in the far corner of the opposite runway. A handful of emergency vehicles surrounded the plane which was still in the middle of the adjacent street. I’m not sure if anyone else on our plane noticed the scurry of activity. I disembarked from gate B23 and walked to CTA orange line train to the city.

The following day, went back to Midway at 1:45 to catch my 3:30 flight home. All of a sudden it started snowing again. By the time I got to the gate the 3:30 flight was cancelled. As the snow became thick, the next flight at 5:30 was delayed until 8:45. Midway began to resemble the weather conditions when the Thursday Incident occurred. As soon as this happened Southwest began to cancel every flight from Midway. Phoenix, Tampa, Orlando, Providence, it did not matter the destination. My last flight was cancelled at 6:30. I shook my head and figured there was worst places in the world to be stranded other than Chicago on a Saturday night. I got a good room rate at the Fairmount downtown and headed for the famous Palm Steakhouse to idle away the evening.

I realized while eating a steak and drinking a martini that Southwest was just having a bad day. I’ve seen them fly in weather many times more severe than the ½ inch snow that shut down operations Saturday. Southwest was in the center of the media crosshairs. They just could not afford another Incident and panicked. For as far as Southwest and I go back, they can have a bad day now and then. I’ll be content to have a nice meal and a warm bed. Sunday I headed to the airport again for my trip home. Things were back to normal, the flight departed on time. Everyone is entitled to a bad day, even Southwest. I’ll be back! After a day in the office I’m heading out to Midway again in the morning. Some things never change.

Do Not Confuse Coincidence with Fate

A few days ago I hear a phase that has me perplexed. Someone said “Do not confuse coincidence with fate”. It was a phase filled with meaning and deeper context. I’m convinced these simple six words contain the answer to many timeless riddles of existence. For days I’ve allowed the words to be analyzed by my subconscious mind in an attempt to render them down like you would a tough stew meat. Occasionally the words would be retrieved and inspected closely to see if their secrets were revealed. I have been unable to reconcile the contradiction of coincidence and fate.

Coincidence has two definitions according to the American Heritage Dictionary. The first definition of coincidence is “The state or fact of occupying the same relative position or area in space.” This definition is relative easy to understand and subsequently dismissed as not very insightful. This describes a state of proximity that places no importance on the events either proceeding or following the occupation of space. Random laws of probability can lead to a state of coincidence. The second law of thermodynamics (or the law of entropy) supports the concept of coincidence in chaos. The Law of Entropy holds the “tendency for all matter and energy in the universe to evolve toward a state of inert chaos”. Entropy is a measure of the disorder or randomness in a closed system. I can accept the fact that as objects in space evolve toward a state of entropy that certain random coincidence may occur. The definition of entropy can be expanded to the “inevitable and steady deterioration of society”. No additional deeper meaning is attributed to the fact that two objects occupy the same area in space. Essentially, everyone we meet is a result of random chaos.

As I was about to dismiss the first definition of coincidence I noticed an obscure definition of entropy “A measure of the loss of information in a transmitted message”. Chaos can be described mathematically, so it is measurable. In the same fashion coincidence can be described mathematically. Focusing on the randomness of coincidence may obscure its relevance. A higher the state of entropy equals a higher “loss of information in a transmitted message”. Could it be that coincidence is a message that has lost so much information that its origin is no longer apparent? This connection between coincidence and a degraded message can not be dismissed prematurely.

The second definition of coincidence is “A sequence of events that although accidental seems to have been planned or arranged”. This definition places coincidence in the context of a sequence of events. Space has been replaced by time. Physical proximity is not required. Coincidence is defined by its relationship to a series of events, rather than a point in space. Events either proceeding or following the coincidence have meaning in explaining the coincidence. The word ‘accidental’ in the definition can be replaced with random. Again the disorder or randomness can be explained as a measurable process. The operative word we need to explore is “seems”. Coincidence only “seems to have been planned or arranged”. The natural law of chaos only appears to have been altered by a series of events. We are not provided proof that the planned or arranged events have relevance, only that they seem to have relevance. What appears may be true or it may not be true?

On the other hand the word fate is defined as “the supposed force, principle, or power that predetermines events” or “the inevitable events predestined by this force”. Fate focuses on the power or force that arranges or plans a sequence of events. All events or actions can be reduced to a mathematical formula of probability, even chaos as noted earlier. Fate assumes that the relevance of the events is proven and inevitable. Fate assumes we are pawns helpless in our ability to change events that have been predetermined. Ralph Waldo Emerson said “Fate is nothing but the deeds committed in a prior state of existence.” The words fate and destiny are almost interchangeable in this context. It is a concept based on the belief that there is a fixed natural order to the universe. Fate describes a final result or consequence; an outcome that is sometimes unfavorable. It is also associated with doom.

To gain a deeper understanding of fate we need to look at the origin of the word in Greek & Roman Mythology. The Fates were three goddesses, Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos, who control human destiny. The Fates or “Moirae” were the personifications of destiny. They controlled the metaphorical thread of life of every mortal from birth to death. Clotho spun the thread of life from her distaff onto her spindle. Lachesis measured the thread of life with her rod. Atropos was the cutter of the thread of life. She chose the manner of a person's death. When she cut the thread someone on earth died. Fate was allotted in proportions which could not be changed. Fate is used in regard to the finality of events as they have worked themselves out, and that same finality is projected into the future to become the inevitability of events as they will work themselves out.

While fate was personified as a god or goddess, destiny in has none of the negative connotations of fate. Destiny has the same root as "destination": destine, to direct something towards a given end. Without a subject's willful participation, there is no destiny. Destiny cannot be forced on someone; if they are forced into circumstances then that is their fate. The difference between destiny and fate is having control of the outcome or not.

Now that we understand the difference between coincidence and fate, how can we tell them apart? Is the introduction of an individual into my life a function of coincidence or fate? Families seem to fit the definition of fate. There is a truth to their connection with your life. They are related by blood. The relationship is predetermined to a degree. The fact that they are family cannot be changed. For better or worst they represent a series of events that define who you are.

Coincidence may be superficial and only appear to be meaningful. It’s like all those girls in high school that I would spend hours and hours talking on the phone to. At the time the relationships appeared to be meaningful, but in reality I’ve never spoken to most of them ever again. It was a coincidence that we both went to the same high school. I would almost classify those events as occupying the same space. Little from those events had the power to influence how I think today. The passage of time has given me the clarity to understand the superficial nature of some events, while others are more elusive. Let me restate the question again “could it be that coincidence is a message that has lost so much information that its origin is no longer apparent”? Has the mind erased so much of the memory that the experience is no longer important?

A number of years ago I was walking on a street late one night in Chicago. It was a bitterly cold night where as the local say the “hawk” was out. The street was desolate and abandon as if in a Hopper painting. In front of me was a small sandwich shop open catering to the late night crowd. The bright windows spilled light that cascaded over the cold concrete. The shop must to have been successful because it had grown to incorporate one or two of the adjacent businesses along the street. In doing so the shop had an entrance that was no longer used. The entrance was recessed slightly from the façade of the building to provide long forgotten customers protection from the weather. As I approached the shop I noticed a person sleeping in the entry. His body was thin and gaunt as he silently lay in a fetal position tucked into the corner of the abandon entry.

In the great depression people would say that he was “down of his luck”. The tattered wool coat that stretched past his knees was frayed. The dark brown wing tip shoes were probably once a successful businessman’s that were donated to a thrift store in exchange for a new fashionable pair. Scuffed and worn the soles of the shoes through two silver dollar holes revealed grey socks, evidence of the long journey they had seen. Facing the entry wall his face was covered by a soft fedora. The fedora had been pinched at the front and was worn pushed back on the head, with the front of the brim bent down covering the eyes. A thick mottled black and grey beard covered his wrinkled sturdy jaw. On his one hand was a thin wool glove which the fingertips were long rubbed away, exposing the first joint of each curled finger. Lying in a rumpled pile, he appeared to have fallen through time from the great depression only to land on the cold street in Chicago.

As I became parallel with the large shop windows I noticed a figure moving toward the doorway from inside the shop. He was a burly second or third generation European immigrant whose family decided to make his stand on this bleak corner years ago. His long white apron immediately identified him as the owner of the shop. As he opened the door I recognized what was going to happen. I braced myself for the confrontation of this proud shop owner verbally accosting and potentially physically removing this weary soul from his street. We have all experienced it before. Our natural reaction is to ignore the situation and without glancing to the side, walk unknowingly past the confrontation.

To my utter amazement, as the shop owner crouched over the sleeping figure his thick hands revealed a streaming Styrofoam cup of hot coffee and a sandwich carefully wrapped in a small brown paper sack. As not to wake the sleeping man, the coffee and sandwich was gently placed on the ground a foot from the man’s head. Silently the burly shop owner turned and retreated back to the warmth of the shop. Stunned at my miscalculation of the events I expected to witness, I stopped walking and faced the windows of the sandwich shop as the owner went back to his routine. I was genuinely moved by the simple act of compassion I observed. Without speaking to either individual I turned a headed back to my hotel, with my thoughts completely consumed with this expression of kindness.

Some would argue that it was coincidence that I was walking that lonely street at that particular time. Random probability placed the three of us in the same place at the same time. While the discovery was purely accidental, where is no evidence of the event being planned or arranged? Did I experienced nothing more than the law of entropy that predicts numerous meaningless encounters or was there a purpose? Would the event have been different if I was not there to witness it? I think not. The shop owner was already in the process of preparing the sandwich long before I turned down the street past his shop. I’m not even sure he ever recognized my presence as I walked by. It might be considered coincidence except for the fact that it set into motion a series of planned actions in my life. Coincidence would have been if I experience the event, then saw it on television later in the evening, eventually dismissing it as only interesting. I must dismiss the experience as pure coincidence since it altered or “predetermined” my future respond to many situations. It must to have been fate that directed me to this point in time.

Fate assumes that this experience was “inevitable”. I was powerless to in any way change the course of events unfolding before my eyes. I was moved to this spot to learn or to be provided insight. I was forced into circumstances that then were my fate. The concept of fate seems so passive. A sense of fate in its oldest human sense is in the soldier's fatalistic image of the "bullet that has your name on it" or the moment when your number "comes up." We all seek to discover a hidden purpose in the random lottery that governs life and death. What troubles me with fate is that it ignores free will.

Free will is the philosophical doctrine that holds that our choices are ultimately up to ourselves. We control or determine the course of future events. In order to understand free will we need to define the philosophical doctrine of determinism versus indeterminism. The differences between the two are defined in Wikipedia. “Determinism holds that each state of affairs is necessitated (determined) by the states of affairs that preceded it, an extension of cause and effect. Indeterminism holds this proposition to be incorrect and that there are events which are not entirely determined by previous states of affairs.”

It goes on to provide the following discussion. “Some philosophers hold that determinism is at odds with free will. This is the doctrine of incompatibilism. Incompatibilists generally claim that a person acts freely (has free will) only in cases where the person is the sole originating cause of the act and the person genuinely could have done otherwise. This kind of free will is (at least allegedly) incompatible with determinism. If determinism is true, and everything that happens is completely determined by the past (including events that preceded our births), then every choice we make would ultimately be determined by prior events that were not under our control. Our choices would be just another outcome determined by the past. So if determinism were true, then we would be trapped by the past and free will would be an illusion, under the theory of incompatibilism.”

To simply our discussion, indeterminism conforms to concepts of both fate and coincidence. It is outside our ability to control or our comprehension to understand. On the other hand determinism is an expression of free will or destiny. An individual is capable of changing the future. Although some may argue destiny is a willing acknowledgement and pursuit of fate. I favor the idea that destiny embraces free will. Determinism is divided among two camps, those who believe that all actions are the product of free will and those that believe that free will is only extended to actions within an individual’s control. Limiting free will only to only personal actions leaves to many questions unanswered. In my mind every action has to be a product of free will, even inaction. Having the opportunity to act and deciding not to, is in itself an action of free will.

As I conclude this debate, I return to my original premise. Is it possible to determine if an event is coincidence or fate? The simple approach is to determine if the event has a meaningful impact on the course of one’s life. If not, it should be considered a coincidence. If it does impact one’s life it can be considered an expression of one’s fate. Clarity to tell the difference may only come over the passage of time and upon reflection. Only when an event is examined as a part of a larger series of events can its relevance to the future be assessed. Both coincidence and fate do little to capture the spirit of existence. It’s like reading the box scores of a baseball game long after the game has been decided. Fate or coincidence is allotted to those who do not possess the character of strength to live with the consequences of free will.

Free will allows us to forge our destiny. Although nobody knows what will happen in the future, we can be secure in the fact that we control our own destiny. Each action and decision is an expression of free will. This provides us the opportunity for self improvement and greatness. Good things come from your destiny. How can we confer greatness only to those few that are predetermined by fate? Are the rest of us doomed to being less than what we can be? Fate is an archaic tool that was used to subdue and pacify the common people in ancient feudal law. It is no longer relevant to society. The son of an immigrant is no longer confined only to be a menial laborer, but can control destiny and become president.

The phase “do not confuse coincidence with fate” is wrong. It represents an illusion of choice. The phase should read “do not confuse fate with destiny.” The chance encounter on a cold Chicago street was fate, but using that experience to change is destiny. Outcomes are not predetermined. Fate or coincidence may allow a chance encounter to occur, but destiny controls the meaningfulness or relevance of that meeting to the future. The terrible burden free will exerts on us is that of destiny unfulfilled. A dream ignored, an opportunity missed, a life not touched is destiny unfulfilled. The next time the future perplexes you remember “do not confuse fate with destiny”.

Time for Repair

One can not exceed the speed of light, no matter how much you train. I find myself less capable of maintaining the rate of activity I have in the past. I’m not sure if it is the body wearing out or the ebbing of motivation, but I don’t see the need to push the edge so hard. I travel from Labor Day to Thanksgiving Day almost continuously. This is the time when the “rubber chicken circuit” is in full swing. The construction projects are frantically finishing up before winter. The convention season is in hyper drive with me speaking at a dozen locations. I call it the “rubber chicken circuit” because you accept a keynote speaking session and you get to join the crowd for a “rubber chicken” lunch served by the thousands by the host hotel.

At the end of this travel period, I am usually physically and mentally exhausted. I’m not smart enough to let off the gas by myself, so my body reminds me that I’m human. Every late fall like clockwork I get a good head cold. My body decides to punish me for my year of neglecting sleep and a proper diet. My body chooses the illness most capable of intense pain if travel is not postponed. If you are unaware of tremendous debilitating pain of a plane ride with a head cold, I wish only that you never experience it. I’m not able to describe the agony as the plane descends and the decompression attempts to slowly burst your ear canals. The pain continues to increase until the plane lands on the runway. It could drive sane people into deranged madmen. While the descent is typically 30 minutes, the agony is sufficient for a lifetime. It’s like a pair of red hot ice picks is slowly driven into your ears. I develop acute paranoia if I’m traveling with a runny nose.

In the past I developed a routine which allowed me to travel in a plane even with a severe cold. The process starts with a remedy called “airborne” which is a combination of dozens of herbs, minerals and vitamins designed to strengthen your immune system. If you believe the label, it was created by a teacher who was always getting colds from her class. Next is a lethal dose of maximum sinus decongestant. Finally as the plane leaves the runway I insert into my ears a pair of earplugs called “Ear Planes”. These earplugs are designed to buffer the decompression of the airplane. This formula allowed me to ignore the warning signs of impaired health and push past to the next symptom.

No longer am I compelled to travel when I’m not feeling well. I was to travel to Tampa this morning to meet with the board of directors of a new association at their annual meeting. I was to meet with 50 executives to solicit comments for a chapter in a technical book I’m writing. I prepared my routine, all the products were purchased. I awoke at 4:00 am to catch 5:40 am flight to Atlanta. I stood looking in the mirror at this worn figure and decided to crawl back to bed. My mind could not muster the energy to talk myself into heading to the airport. I knew the trip would further degrade my health, making it that much more difficult to crawl out of bed at 5:30 am Friday for another trip to Chicago. I know there is going to be hell to pay for this last cancellation, but the mind is not willing to push the flesh to the edge again.

“Time waits for no man” the saying goes. I’m debating the need to continue to grow my success and the need to take the pedal off the gas some. My particular industry is exceptionally competitive. The glow of success fades quickly as the media looks for the next star to feed the publicity machine. Compliancy only leads to obscurity. As my yielding mind and body tells me to rest, all I know is that today I choose obscurity. It’s time to close the shop a couple of days for repairs.

What A Lonely Place!

Travel is about discovering unexpected and hidden places. Many times these places are hidden in plain view. You may pass by them day after day for years only to discover them by chance. My chance discovery was at a place I had visited hundreds of times, my hometown airport.

It was late in the afternoon last week, when I was arriving home from some forgettable business trip to Washington DC. I was fortunate enough to get a direct flight instead of a trip around the horn. It was a Canada Air regional jet with hard seats sized two inches smaller than the space required to inhale a full breath of air. I called the process of sitting absolutely still with no room to move as being in “suspend animation”. The 45 passenger regional jet was never designed for a three hour cross country flight. It is literally a pain in the ass to sit in those seats for three hours without moving. Getting up to visit the restroom is typically out of the question.

The plane lands and pulls up to the gate. As the tone sounds indicating that it is acceptable to stand up, everybody on the flight jumps into the aisle. This process is much more dramatic on regional jets because of the confined space and the fact that everyone is in considerable pain from the rock hard seats. Once in the aisle the formation resembles what the army used to call “nuts to butts”. For the brief time is takes to unload the plane all rules about public space are suspended. I’ve seen people who rode the Tokyo subway every day for years begin to panic in this cattle stampede.

Eventually I the people begin to file out of the aircraft past the flight attendant with the vacant stare and plastic smile. The first breath of fresh air in the jetway is the first signal to your body that you are close to ending this latest round of torture. Quietly I file past the crowd of people waiting in the lobby, scanning the subdued faces. I allow myself a small grin while thanking my lucky stars that I am exiting the plane, not getting ready to load the plane like the poor fools I’m passing.

Most of these emotions and actions are instinctual responses. I am on automatic pilot, slowly working my way to the door like a rat in a maze. My first action upon exiting security is to stop in at the men’s room in anticipation of the long drive home. I shuffle in like normal and turned the corner. I think to myself “They must have remodeled the restrooms since my last visit”. The urinals used to be over there. I begin to hunt for the new location of the urinals. Within a second or two of realizing they don’t exist here, light went on! This is not the men’s room this is the ladies room! The primitive part of the brain took control and panic set in. The preservation by flight reflex kicked in. I started heading for the door as quickly as I deemed publicly acceptable. Moving at a rate any quicker than what I was traveling, would I believe target me as a pervert.

As I approached the door to exit, I met a lady on her way into the restroom. Typically I’m never at a loss for words or a funny comment, but I didn’t have much meaningful to contribute at that particular point in time. Startled by my presence we were standing face to face about six inches apart. I turned my shoulder sideways allowing her to pass and gave her what I thought was a nervous smile. In reality the combination of shock and a false nervous smile probably make me look like the pervert I was trying to avoid. I picked up speed and headed for the car.

While driving home I began to think about this new hidden world I just experienced. I could only compare the experience to the men’s room which I was so familiar with. It was so different, it was disturbing to me. The ladies room was vacant and baron. Every one was hidden behind closed stall doors. It was quiet and depressing, with no activity. In contrast the men’s room is always filled with men standing around in plain view. Although conversation is not encouraged at least you feel like you are part of a larger group. Activity is visible and noise fills the space. Since this will be probably my only experience in a ladies restroom for a long time, I will be struck by a single impression. “Man, what a lonely place”.

Junkyard Blues - Part II

The smallest mechanical miscalculation can lead to a total conflagration of the system. Its part of a larger industrial conspiracy called “planned obsolesces”. Objects are designed to self destruct at the slightest hint that a repair is going to be attempted. In the 1960’s manufacturers came to the conclusion that is they made a washing machine that would last thirty years they would not be able to sell you a new washing machine for another thirty years. No longer satisfied with market growth from expanding legion of consumers created by the post war baby boom, manufacturers decided to shift our attention away from quality and distract us with new features. In the process, planned obsolesces became the primary focus of our consumer economy.

During the last half century the concept of planned obsolesces has continued to evolve. Electronic consumer goods are the perfect example of a product designed to be obsolete the instant the box is opened. It is problematic that manufacturers have become so efficient that they obsolete products before they are sold from the store shelf.

Hewlett Packard is the undisputed king of planned obsolesces. HP design jet printers are essentially carrying case for disposable parts. HP sells or I should say gives a printer to a consumer for less than it costs to manufacturer it. Company profit is in years of selling high priced “consumables” for the printer. Most of the moving parts are designed for only 30 to 60 day life expectancy. During the time the consumer owns the printer they will purchase consumables costing twenty times the original purchase price of the printer. A product designed to sell more products. How more perfect can it get?

For years I have raged a personal war against planned obsolesces. I once ran a Minolta copier eight years past when the company would make parts for it. I ran it four years past when third party overseas replacement parts makers would make parts for it. I ran it two years past when I could find abandon copiers in the nationwide Minolta dealerships. The local Minolta distributor finally offered me a six year old replacement for free, just because they were just tired of repairing my unit. The damn thing would still be running is only Klaus could only figure out how to attach a crank to it.

An unintended result of this planned obsolesces is that we are losing the people who know how to fix things. We are losing the art of troubleshooting. Today’s repairmen are nineteen year old “swap jocks”, who basically pulls an assembly out of a machine and replaces it with another. This process is repeated until the machine magically works. The consumer is then charged for the cost of all the assemblies installed instead of the single assembly which was broken. In most cases the broken part is a small object on the assembly. You can no longer go the television shop and buy a couple “vacuum tubes” to replace and fix the TV. Anyone under thirty will have no idea what a vacuum tube is. I’m advocating that all the “swap jocks” should be replaced by monkeys in white shirts and ties. There would be no change in the mental capability, the repair process would continue as intended and the process would be more entertaining. Assuming the laws of probability the monkeys would repair the machines faster than the “swap jock” about 50% of the time.

The world of free thinking, talented repairmen is under assault. Most of these old world craftsmen have gone into hiding. It is possible to seek them out, but they are not easy to find. They are now old men with grey hair in worn faded overalls. If you look hard enough they can be found in the backroom of tired cinderblock buildings with rusted bars over the painted windows. Look for these buildings are far from the interstate intersections. They are most commonly found on the old state highways sometimes called “blue highways”. These are the parts of our cities that were disposed of when the interstate highway made its appearance in the 1960’s. Nestled between the abandon drive up motor lodge and the pawn shop they are hidden. The signs, if any, are old and possibly hand painted.

Like searching for druids in Celtic caves, it is easy to identify a true old world repairman’s shop when you enter one. There is a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling without a shade, the type you turn on by pulling a string. A worn dining room chair with the seat replaced and a leg repaired with wire sits behind a huge wooden oak desk. The desk has piles of old faded papers with curled ends that have not been touched in years. Two or three calendars that are a dozen years old, no longer measure time but are used for decoration hang on the unpainted wall. The floor is either scuffed faded checkerboard pattern or rough concrete that has been burnished to a chocolate brown over the years. In one corner of the room is a hound dog that is so old and tired it won’t get up to greet you.

Against the walls are dented galvanized metal shelves with piles of parts in dusty stained cardboard boxes from companies that no longer exist. Scattered on the floor is the evidence of the repairman’s years of study, piles of carefully dissected machine each discarded after revealing their secrets. Like the way doctors use corpses to learn disease, repairmen study broken machines. The wooden counter separating you from the repairman is deeply worn from the thousands of people seeking his wisdom over the years.

Some repairmen’s wisdom is so extensive it may be difficult to understand him. Like reading from some foreign scripture, he will mumble phases long lost to society. “Oh, that’s the model 195B which was replaced in 62 by model 215C with the articulated control arm.” Listening in reverence, the proper thing to do is to smile quietly and nod your head. The mumbling will continue. “Never did like the 195B, thought the 165-FC was a better solution, it came with reversible clutch which allowed….. I think I’ve got one here, somewhere? You ever have seen one?” No need to answer he will continue to mumble regardless of your answer. As the damaged machine is placed on the counter, like a detective he will finally get around to asking you “What’s it doing?” This is your opportunity to speak.

This is the most difficult part of the visit. I come prepared for meeting the repairman, by carefully listening to the offending machine and attempting to articulate the sound of its malaise. It is like trying to talk to Einstein using only baby talk. Realize, you will never say anything remotely intelligent to the repairman. Grunting and pointing at the machine with a puzzled look like a big ape usually works the best for me. Otherwise you end up saying something childish like “When the black piece hits that thing there in makes a clump-clump sound.”

All good repairmen will show enough respect to allow you to think for a brief second that you communicated something of value. In reality, the fly buzzing against the window behind you is having an equally useful conversation with the repairman as you are. Behind the quiet façade his mind is inspecting the machine and visualizing all of the parts functioning in concert. After you have finished whatever prepared diatribe you feel you need to convey, he will turn his back on you and walk to the metal shelves mumbling some other long lost phase. “Sonny, you remind me of Bob on Maple, he had a problem with his 49M-3 decided to leave it here and buy a new 1800EM, never worked worth a damn.”

After a moment of silence, the mumbling will begin again. “I’ll bet you the gasket is interfering with the idler control screw. I saw that happen all the time with the 217-DC. What we use to do it replace it with an o-ring from the 383-XL, since they stopped making parts for the XL in 78, I substitute the gasket from a 478-CA.” Again this is the proper time to smile and nod. Any stupid comment at this point will disrespect the process and may cost you the “you are an idiot service charge of $25”.

The conversation will begin to conclude as the repairman roots around on the metal shelves. “Now was that part number 29481C? No it was 29497D.” As you look at the stacks of parts catalogues discarded in the corner, you realize they are like old newspapers that have been read and contain no information that the repairman doesn’t already know. The catalogues are for your entertainment, no one else. The repairman perfectly in harmony with his environment will reach into a half rotten cardboard box and pull out a rubber gasket wrapped in clear plastic. He will walk back to the counter grab a pair of pliers hand forged during the first industrial revolution and begin to perform surgery on the machine before your eyes.

There will be a couple small grunts as he struggles with accumulation of rust and scale, but after three minutes the old broken part will discarded and replaced with a part from another machine that even the original manufacturer doesn’t know will work. Finally he will look up at you and smile “That should keep it going for another ten years.” As he gently lays the machine back into your arms you ask what you owe him. He turns to gaze at the calendars that are reminders of years gone by and says “That’s going to be $2.78 today, Sonny.”

Leaving the shop you ask yourself “What will happen to the world when we lose the last of these aging forgotten wise men?” The future is bleak. We will never be able to replace these bastions of knowledge with the hordes of pimpled faced “swap jocks” from Circuit City. Whatever the future, I guarantee I’ll be the last person they drag screaming and kicking into this disposable society.

Junkyard Blues - Part I

Personal commitment to ideology or principals can manifest itself in unusual ways. I have always been interested in conservation, although my lifestyle has not always followed a strict expression of this ideal. I tend to pick the ideals I wish to express on how convenient they are at the time. Humans tend to be lax on issues that require personal sacrifice. “I’ve done my share let someone else finish saving the world”.

Somewhere along the way I decided to express my commitment to preservation in the car I drove. I did not take the simple solution which would be to go out and purchase a hybrid vehicle. This solution yields little personal sacrifice. My badge of honor required pain and suffering. Purchasing a new hybrid vehicle only contributed to the consumer economy and it places one more vehicle in the junkyard.

I decided to extend the life of the vehicles I owned. I would purchase a vehicle with just over 100,000 miles on the odometer and drive them into the ground, which would occur around 200,000 miles. At the point where the vehicle was a total loss, it would be cannibalized for parts for the next aging car I would purchase. This concept of conservation extended not only the life of individual vehicles it extended the life of every part of the vehicle. My unique approach to conservation required the adherence of two important principals. In order to maximize the efficient reuse of parts, I must continue to purchase vehicles of the same model and production year. Secondly, an individual must have sufficient mechanical skills to successfully place salvaged parts on another vehicle with sufficient competency so that one’s life would not constantly be in danger. I was much less successful at developing the necessary mechanical skills than I was at purchasing a consistent model year. My lack of mechanical skills fulfilled my pain and suffering requirement many times over.

A self anointed shade tree mechanic and gregarious friend of mine was a European road rally car fan. Klaus was smuggled out of East Germany at the age of five. He was tall, energetic and a supremely confident individual with a loud booming voice and laugh that was infectious. His long muscular arms were trained like a contortionist to twist like pretzels reaching deeply into engine compartment to blindly unscrew the smallest of bolts. While buried in the bowels of an engine his jet black mop of curly hair would flop around and clean the grime from the compartment like a duster. Klaus lived for Saturday to rip into another engine.

Klaus was firmly convinced that his German heritage endowed him with all the mechanical and engineering knowledge of the entire German people. This was not entirely true, I found out later. He would remove a part and study it intensely until the mechanical essence of the part would revel itself to him. If a part’s function would elude him, after a few hours of intense scrutiny he would summarily dismiss the part as being non-essential and toss it away. Once it was determined the vehicle would run without a particular part, Klaus would never change his opinion about the uselessness of the part. All classified nonessential parts would be automatically removed from all future vehicles. Over the course of time Klaus identified dozens of nonessential parts which would pile up in the corner of the garage.

After much discussion, Klaus convinced me that the vehicle I was destined to be conserved was the 1978 Saab 99 Turbo. The vehicle had an impressive racing record in Europe. It was wide and low and the suspension gave it handling that was very good for the time. The chassis was also designed for safety. What convinced Klaus was in 1978 the first turbocharged version of the car was introduced. The engine was a four-cylinder in-line turbocharged engine that was tilted at 45 degrees, basically half of a V8 which produced 87 hp at 5500 rpm. Previously a bit of a dog, the addition of the turbocharger resulted in an impressive speed boost for the lightweight vehicle. As the rumors went, the turbocharged engine was designed for the new larger and heavier Saab 900. Unfortunately in 1978 the new Saab 900 body was not complete, so the engine was installed in the Saab 99. While in production Saab discovered that the power of the turbocharger over extended the top end performance of the engine past safe design limits. To correct the problem, Saab installed an electronic governor on the engine in 1979 to limit the explosive top end performance. Klaus often stated “It was an oversized engine stuffed into a small coupe which made it run like a striped ape”. I never disagreed with him. It was a street legal race car.

For over a decade Klaus and I cornered the 1978 Saab 99 Turbo market in the Midwest. We were known for hundreds of miles as the consumers of these aging vehicles. Saab dealers knew us personally and we would be the first one called when a turbo was traded in. Eventually we knew of every 1978 Saab 99 Turbo within two hundred miles whether or not you had any interest in selling it. During my tenure as president of the Saab 99 Turbo conservation movement I owned at least six of these cars. We understood the personality of the car like nobody else. I could tell you what part would break next based purely on the odometer reading. Do not assume this means we obtained the status of master Saab mechanic. Saab was a company that also built jet engines in Sweden. Many unique tools were required for the proper installation of many parts. Klaus never believed a part should ever require a special tool, so we usually did with out the special tool and opted for the mind numbing process of conducting precision mechanical surgery on the car with nothing but the most primitive Sears 99-piece tool kit.

One of the most consistent problems with the first Saab turbo was that the turbo would get almost white hot when the engine was raced hard. Improper warm up or cool down procedures would immediately warp the turbo o-rings requiring a complete rebuilt. We had so many turbos rebuilt that we became close friends with the local rebuild shop. They got past the point of charging us if we stopped by with our own rebuild kit. We would buy turbo rebuild kits by the dozen. To the turbo shop we were a form of weekly entertainment.

One Sunday just as it was turning dark, we just finished replacing some broken parts with salvaged parts from the accumulated warehouse of parts in our garage. The next morning I had an extensive multiple city business trip. The three city airline booking was a non-refundable airfare which cost over a thousand dollars. Rebooking this trip would cost at least five hundred dollars. As is typical with all my travel, I started for the airport late. The thirty five mile drive to the airport is the longest journey in the world especially when you are going to miss a plane. The Saab 99 turbo was perfectly suited for this type of hyper travel.

Each trip was an exercise in avoiding the speed traps placed along my route. Having been stopped at all the possible locations numerous times to be issued speeding tickets, I was relatively confident I knew where to slow down. About halfway into my road rally time trail to the airport, I noticed the temperature gauge beginning to rise into the red. Klaus had trained me well in the art of shade tree mechanics. With a Germanic precision I began to consider all of the factors which would lead to an engine meltdown. My primary focus was the work complete the night before. I didn’t recall Klaus finding any new nonessential parts to be tossed aside. As I retraced each activity of the night before nothing was out of the usual.

I briefly considered stopping to open the hood to take a look, but dismissed the idea after glancing at my watch. I could not afford the five hundred dollars it would cost to miss the flight. I came to the conclusion what I had plenty of spare parts to correct the condition. Passing the three quarter mark of my journey, I was surprised to see the needle on the temperature gauge had graduated past the marks indicating temperature. The needle had pushed so far past the temperature gauge that I now had two needles on my battery gauge. I thought to myself, “I bet Klaus doesn’t even know that a Saab can do that”.

Considering the list of options available I decided to speed up and get the car to the airport as quickly as possible. When Saab decided to place such a large engine in such a small compartment, they created a cooling problem. The small front grill area was not large enough to allow sufficient air past the radiator to cool the excessively hot turbo. Saab’s solution was to install two high powered fans to suck three times the amount of air past the grill to cool the engine. As I considered the engineering comprises required to make this combination of engine and chassis work, I recalled the image of the fan wires dangling unplugged as the hood was shut last night. This solved the riddle of the overheating engine. I knew from past experience that the engine would need to cool for hours before anyone could reach in and reconnect the fan wires. I didn’t have the time to pull over on the shoulder.

I pushed to car to the explosive top end which Saab was in the process of correcting, when I hear a clear pop of a potato gun that had just hurled a spud a couple hundred yards. I immediately focused on the operation of the vehicle. There did not appear to be a loss of power. The turbo was still whirling with a high pitched whine. All spark plugs were firing in order. The engine seemed to be running fine. I began to relax and dismiss the sound as road debris hitting the undercarriage of the car, when something caught the corner of my eye. It was a brief flash of sunlight in the rear view mirror. As I looked into the mirror I noticed there was no car behind me for as far as the eye could see. At closer inspection there was a handful of small round metal parts spinning like tops about 100 feet behind me.

Six to eight obvious engine parts danced on the pavement reflecting sunlight as they spun. The image of the parts shrank and disappeared quickly at the car sped away from the spot. Having just solved one mechanical mystery I began to solve the newest puzzle. Where did those parts spinning on the ground come from? I decided to begin to match the shape of the spinning parts against my extensive parts inventory at home. Again I turned my attention to the operation of the vehicle. Everything seemed to be functioning. No usual sounds? No new vibrations? Using Klaus’ mechanical skills I dismissed the parts as nonessential. Looking back at the dash, the temperature gauge had now circled 270 degree and the temperature needle registered just below cool having knocked off the battery needle along the way. I made a metal note to myself to ask Klaus if he had any spare needles for a battery gauge when I got back.

As the journey pushed forward toward the airport a brilliant white smoke began to trail from the speeding vehicle. I laughed to myself that mechanical riddle number three was much too easy to solve. With the radiator fans unplugged the cooling system was overheating which produced the white smoke as it spewed from the radiator. The car now resembled a rocket as the smoke dissipated into one long thin plume reaching a half of mile in length. I can ride this out. I’m not far from the airport. I was only two miles from the airport when the smoke turned from white to black. Mechanical mystery number four was confusing me. I had no idea what it could be. Black smoke is oil or fuel. White is water and antifreeze. My problem was white smoke. How could the smoke immediately shift from white to black? These were two independent mechanical systems. A conflagration of two systems would result in the mixing of white and black creating grey smoke. I did not understand how the smoke could change colors.

Approaching the airport, there was not enough time to catch the airport shuttle, so I decided to park at one of the small gas stations next to the airport property. Still wrestling mystery number four, I pulled off the interstate onto an exit ramp. At the top of the ramp was a stop sign and to the left one short block was the gas station. As I stopped at the stop sign the paint on top of my hood bubbled like an egg in a hot skillet. I was amazed how rapidly my hood was bubbling. It didn’t take a German rocket scientist to conclude the car was on fire! There wasn’t much comfort in the fact that I solved mystery number four at this point in time. About half the parts under the hood of the car are plastic and plastic burns with a thick black smoke especially when fanned with one hundred mile per hour winds.

While staring at the hood standing still at the ramp intersection, small blue flames popped out from under the grill to look at me. If the flames had a camera to take a photo of me peering through the windshield I’m sure it would have won every photo contest in the world. At my first introduction to the fire, I panicked and decided to drive the burning car to the gas station to put the flames out. I considered this the appropriate conservation solution, maximize the life cycle of the parts that were not quite yet on fire. It’s truly amazing how slow time passes when you are driving a burning car.

In the eternity it took me to travel that one block from the stop sign to the gas station I developed, evaluated and prioritized at least twenty separate plans for exiting the car. Out of habit or maybe because I was in shock I pulled my burning Saab 99 Turbo right up to the gas pump like I need something flammable to be close to. The gas station attendant saw me driving up the street and assumed from the smoke streaming from behind my car that my car was overheated. It this it was the understatement of the year. Apparently the attendant was unaware of the difference between white smoke and black smoke. Casually he shuffled out of the open service station door smiling at the prospect of selling me two gallons of the outrageously overpriced antifreeze.

As the car rolled slowly up to the gas pump I grabbed my luggage and hurled it though the open sunroof. A flood of adrenalin allowed me to rocket the luggage from the car like an ejection seat on an F-18 fighter jet. My luggage made a beautiful arch which reached a height of about ten feet and then landed about twenty feet from the smoking vehicle. Startled by never having seen anyone remove their luggage from a moving vehicle in such a fashion, the attendance began to approach the car laughing. “Looks like you need some water for that car buddy.”

I was a little distracted for small talk with the attendance as I threw open the car door and dove for the ground. Like a dog that is running at full speed when they arrive at the end of the leash, I was about three feet from the car when the seatbelt snapped me back into the car. Strangely none of my twenty plans included unbuckling my seatbelt before exiting the car in panic. I made another mental note to myself seatbelts are useless in a burning vehicle. Quickly I removed my seatbelt and dove again for the ground, easily clearing the pump island and I rolled toward the attendant who was beginning to wonder what type of fruitcake had made an appearance at his station.

In the process of ejecting myself from the car I managed to pull the hood release level which allowed the hood to pop open revealing a nuclear fireball of flame which stretched to the canopy of the pump island. The attendant let out a girlish squeal. It was the type of sound that would ruin your life as a kid if anyone else heard it. It was a sound that you would have to deny forever. A sound that could get you tagged for life with a nickname like “Squiggles” or “Chicken”. Upon hearing the attendant’s cry I thought “Whee what a pussy” as he broking into a dead run for the building. I turn my attention back to the burning car and began to realize the poor decision I made parking the car next to the gas pumps. I let out my own girlish squeal which I continue to deny to this day and headed for the building to see what the attendance was doing.

I was knocked aside as the attendant rocketed out of the gas station with a huge fire extinguisher and began covering the car with a thick blanket of white foam. In a few short seconds the car was transformed was a raging Texas A&M bonfire to a smoldering and hissing pile of parts. With the disaster averted the attendant looked at me with one of those “I’m going to kill this idiot” looks, as I began to collect luggage. I decided I should try to connect with the guy. I walked over and said “Thanks dude, I really needed some help and didn’t know where else to go.” He replied “I wouldn’t suggest driving a burning car up to a gas pump” As I tossed the luggage over my shoulder, I smiled “Yeah next time I’m cruising around in a burning vehicle I’ll remember that.” As I started toward the shuttle bus, the attendant asked “What should I do with the car?” “Just tow it around back and park it. I’ll be back in a week.”

A week later I returned to the gas station to survey to damage and concluded that this particular vehicle would be retired, but there were still some parts that could live on. Asked the attendance for the bill and was shocked to see a line item of $450 for one fire extinguisher. I looked up at him and said “Dude, I never authorized you to use the fire extinguisher on the car. I think you took it upon yourself to use that extinguisher. I’m not paying for that.” Without missing a beat he replied “Yeah your right that’s a mistake that shouldn’t be for the fire extinguisher that $450 charge is for the 25 foot tow you asked for before leaving”. You know he was right, I couldn’t argue. I paid the bill and proceed to call to have the car towed back to the house for salvage.