Poutine, Pernot & Poussé

Notre Dame Cathedral, Montreal, Quebec, Canada, 2007. Photo by Mr. Blue

“The beginning of knowledge is the discovery of something we do not understand.”

Frank Herbert (1920-1986)

The sounds of the calèche or horse-drawn carriages echo on narrow cobblestone streets, flanked by 18th- and 19th-century greystone buildings as I watch the snow swirl and dance on the sidewalk. December has brought me to Old Montreal for a board meeting. Our hotel is a delightful historic stone structure over 200 years old, which is considered by Conde Naste as the finest hotel in Canada and I have found no reason to disagree. The holiday spirit fills the air as Christmas decorations adorn the restaurants beckoning to come in and sit by the warm fire to indulge in the exquisite French cuisine. Montreal is the world’s second-largest French-speaking city but is also a melting pot of cultures from around the world, as its mosaic of neighborhoods and diversity of restaurants fill Old Town.

As I walk along the St. Lawrence River waterfront under a long allee of snow covered trees, I am following in the footsteps of Jacques Cartier, who became the first European to reach the area now known as Montreal in 1535 when he entered Island of Montreal while in search of the Northwest Passage and gold. Montreal was named for the Island of Montreal, which in turn was named for Mount Royal a mountain, immediately north of downtown Montreal. As I turn my back to the river the historic facades of Old Montreal frame the dome of the Gothic Revival Notre-Dame basilica which is renowned for the dazzling opulence of its interior. Within an hour I’m completely at home in this beautiful city which is as close to being in Europe as you can find on the North American continent.

Half of our board members are Canadians, who are intent in sharing every aspect of Montreal culture, which makes the stay even more special. Our first new delight was traveling across town to have lunch at the finest Poutine restaurant in Montreal. None on the Canadians would explain what Poutine was as we huddled in the cab. All they would say in that you can’t adequately describe Poutine, it needs to me experienced. A few of the more fussy Americans are concerned when they could not discover the origin of Poutine. In preparation for not partaking in this mystery food, one board member states “I just want you to know there are things I will not eat.”

Curious the Canadian guide begins to prompt the board member on what types of food are off the list?

“Well I don’t eat any type of animal organs.”

Everyone stuffed in the cab breaks out into laughter as the Canadian responds “By God what type of barbarians are you Americans?”

The cab pulls up to a small nondescript small lunch counter in a blue collar neighborhood as we pour out of the backseat and head inside. The interior resembles an old dinner with chrome 1950 style tables and chairs. Everyone inside has the same large dish of Poutine in front of them along with a coke. Poutine is a French-Canadian food that slightly resembles American Gravy Cheese Fries (Uuukkkk), but is actually very, very different in many respects. Poutine is readily-available across Canada, but as locals say it only really tastes good in French Quebec.

According to legend Warwick Quebec is the place where Poutine was invented back in 1957 by restaurateur Fernand Lachance, who died leaving not only his calorific imprint but also some serious questions about the low-carb fuss. Poutine is Acadian slang for mushy mess and is best described as a heart attack in a bowl. By the way, there is a proper way to pronounce poutine, and it's not 'poo-teen'. The phonetic pronunciation is 'peu-tin', which always elicits a vacant stare when one orders it using that word.

The French Fries - The potatos must be hand-cut and very fresh. Fast-food-type fries will not taste quite as good. Also, you must fry the potatoes in pure lard. Vegetable oil and other politically-correct oils spoil the unique taste.

The Gravy - French-Canadian gravy (also known as BBQ Chicken Gravy) is very different than American gravy. First of all, it is very dark and thick, like molasses. Secondly, it has a very flavorful taste which cannot be described...very much like pepper and vinegar and other 'magical' ingredients. Apparently if you can stand a spoon straight up in it, it's good!

The Cheese - The cheese is the most important part of good Poutine. You must use fresh white, cheddar cheese curds. These curds have a taste and texture very different than actual cheddar cheese. The cheese curds actually squeak in your teeth as you bite them.

Traditional Montreal Poutine

The overflowing plates of Poutine arrived at the table without ceremony. Poutine is a French Canadian equivalent of comfort food for a winter day. It was a delightful treat, but I’m not sure I’ll need to experience Poutine again anytime soon as it was almost impossible to finish the excessively oversized portions. I did notice that the fussy Americans seemed to like the Poutine the best while constantly asking “No really what is cheese curds made from?”

The following night for dinner we were treated to one of the top 10 restaurants in Canada which specialized Portuguese Italian fusion food. The restaurant was in a nondescript trendy urban neighborhood which had a lot of street life. The interior of the restaurant was very euro clique and only seated about thirty people. Our crowd of eighteen completely took over the restaurant as we joked with the owner. We allowed the owner to serve us anything he wanted as the plates of incredible food rolled out of the kitchen. There was grilled octopus in a wonderful rich smoky lentil stew, grilled whole squid marinated in olive oil and vinegar, smoked spicy Chorizo sausage, plates of cheese and grilled vegetables, tender lamb shanks in a lemon reduction, cubed pork with clams in a spicy tomato sauce, tiger prawns and scallops. This type of gourmet dining is the standard reward for donating time all year to the organization and the group was reveling in the hospitality, friendship and food. We spend the entire time in the restaurant in a ruckus debate of the differences between Canadian and American culture. “Ya know what I mean, eh?”

Our Canadian guide finally leaned over to me and said “Let me order you an after dinner drink, something I only drink here in Quebec.”

A short time later the owner brings two glasses of ice and two small beakers of a clear liquid. As he pours the clear liquid over the glass of ice it turns cloudy with a pale lime green tint. My guide holds his glass up in a toast and whispers “Pernod, my friend. Remember I graduated from McGill University just down the road here in Montreal and it’s my tradition for you.” As I sipped the Pernod , the leading characteristic was a licorice flavor, which is produced with anise.

According to the Pernod Company, “We owe this elixir to "Docteur Ordinaire", a French doctor in exile in Switzerland. In 1805, the Pernod Fils Company from Pontarlier in France began distilling the secret formula. From 1830 on, artists took to this elixir in the cafés of Paris. "Green fairy" to artists and poets seeking new pleasures, absinthe became one of the strongest symbols of its era with its enigmatic color and the ritual surrounding it. It is sublimated in the works of Verlaine, Rimbaud, Baudelaire, Oscar Wilde, Manet, Toulouse-Lautrec, and later Picasso.”

Seduction by The Green Fairy (cira 1885)

With the new temperance movement growing around the world at the turn of the century, many prominent French politicians and scientists turned their interest to France's new, most popular alcoholic beverage: absinthe. Absinthe was the subject of much stormy, impassioned debate, and was banned in 1915 in France. Today, with the legalization of Thujone and Absinth Wormwood in alcoholic beverages in the European Union, the Pernod Company has attempted to recreate what they thought would be the new Pernod-Fils absinthe.

Once we began drinking Pernod there was no stopping the group. The “Green Fairy” took control as we laughed and carried on until after 1:00 am. I one point I think I actually began speaking French. Since it was the last night the group was going to be together we decided to stop at a bar across the street from the hotel, for one final Pernod.

Outside the bar there was a steep series of steps leading to the door. I became accustom to the collection of young women hanging outside the bar door since smoking was banned in all buildings. As we passed the girls I reached for the door and pulled it. It can’t be closed there are a number of people visible from the windows, so I pulled harder assuming it was stuck. All of a sudden I hear the girls next to me giggle and start saying “Pussy, pussy, Monsieur.” Each time they repeated it then would once again begin giggling at us. I thought to myself that the women are quite accommodating here in Montreal, embarrassed to look for fear they might be serious. I smile and utter “Yes, Yes very nice, Mademoiselle.” It this response they all broke into laughter as one of the girls reaches over and points at a small sign above the door which says “Poussé” It only takes a second for my high school French to kick in as I translate the word as “Push” in English. I guess I’ve had enough of the Green Fairy and turn away from the door explaining to the young women that if we are unable to enter the bar on our own we should call it a night. As I say goodbye to the group, I can’t wait to return to this delightful city and experience some more Poutine, Pernot and Poussé.

“Custom is the great guide of human life.”

David Hume (1711 - 1776)

Holiday Wishes

Old Town Montreal, Canada 2007. Photo by Mr. Blue

"May you go forth under the strength of heaven,
under the light of sun, under the radiance of moon;
may you go forth with the splendor of fire,
with the speed of lightening, with the swiftness of wind;
may you go forth supported by the depth of sea,
by the stability of earth, by the firmness of rock;
May you be surrounded and encircled,
with the protection of the nine elements."

Old Celtic Blessing

Passing of the Storm

“Faith may be defined briefly as an illogical belief in the occurrence of the improbable.”

H. L. Mencken (1880-1956)

Once again I exhale to begin breathing. The storm has passed restoring the ability to see beyond the waning sunlight as the angels gently kiss me on the brow. I can not conceive as to why we are so blessed to experience a state of grace such as this. Why improbability of fate touches some and forsakes others? Watching the storm drift past the horizon I resolutely know with certainty that only time separates our next encounter. I am not so foolish to believe that we shall forever ignore the laws of probability. However on this day I watch with bounding spirit as the storm passes.

After a month of dread and numerous medical procedures it has been determined than the “massive mass” in my wife’s abdomen is a somewhat benign condition called a “Uterine Fibroid Tumor”. Uterine fibroids are nodules of smooth muscle cells and fibrous connective tissue that develop within the wall of the uterus. In her case it has grown to the size of a baseball. The prescribed treatment is to observe the mass every six weeks using ultrasound and if it remains benign we can ignore it. Once again life returns to a normal rhythm for which I am grateful.

“I believe in the love that you gave me
I believe in the faith that could save me
I believe in the hope
and I pray that some day
It may raise me above these”

Bruce Springsteen (Badlands)

Who’ll Stop the Rain

“Long as I remember
the rain been comin' down.
Clouds of myst'ry pouring
confusion on the ground.
Good men through the ages,
try'n' to find the sun,
and I wonder, still I wonder,
who'll stop the rain.”

John Fogerty

In the silence of the world the air fills with the sound of the whip as the flesh is torn from my back. Only the weak of heart seeks a dark apology for the wrath of pain that anoints our soul. The strong and virtuous admit no destiny in kneeling before adversity, nor shall I. Courage is not granted by the almighty but is earned by the necessity to withstand the winds of the tempest as it approaches. My eyes are affixed and my resolve steeled as I await the struggle. A sturdy staff fashioned of faith shall be my only protection as the eye of the storm once again passes over what I cherish. Standing naked before the fury I shall not waiver, for my strength and determination will withstand the onslaught or I shall forever be swept away.

On the eleventh anniversary of my father’s passing and the eve before Thanksgiving the mystery of my wife’s weight loss is discovered. A scan has revealed a massive tumor in her abdomen. We shall once again await the holiday in silence gazing at the storm on the horizon.

“There are times when God asks nothing of his children except silence, patience and tears.”

C. S. Robinson

“The eternal silence of these infinite spaces fills me with dread.”

Blaise Pascal (1623 - 1662)

Out of Bounds

Photo by Mr. Blue

"And I still can hear him say:

You're all just pissin' in the wind

You don't know it but you are.

And there ain't nothin' like a friend

Who can tell you you're just pissin' in the wind."

Neil Young 1974

Lost in the Flood

“Life is a long lesson in humility.”

James M. Barrie (1860 - 1937)

One year ago today my wife died, but through the marvels of modern medicine, a handful of luck and a one of the nation’s most talented brain surgeon she survived a ninety-nine in hundred death sentence. Since then everything has changed but everything remains the same. As we celebrate her first birthday of a second life, we are blessed to have a chance so few are privileged to experience. As pages turn it is not without a price to pay for what was lost in the flood.

In attempt to find comfort in the routine of her previous life, my wife shortly after her release from the hospital, dove head first back into her career against everyone’s better judgment. It was a period of denial that the event ever happened, a desire to prove the world was no different, refusing to accept that she was even lucky. I’ve come to realize she did not experience or comprehend the threshold of death. For her it was the easiest of progressions to stroll into the afterlife as convenient as slipping out of a jacket on a sunny day. Ultimately, it was my near death experience not hers. I had experienced it as if I had left my body hovering above her in the hospital.

For over thirty years her identify was one of a powerful executive, a consummate professional that was sought out for an unparalleled depth of knowledge and ability. Throughout a varied and diverse career she managed multiple offices with a staff of over thirty, established a new Midwest division of six offices for a national corporation and held leadership positions in every aspect of a complex financial industry for a dozen companies. She did all of this without post secondary education using her perceived inferiority as a strong motivational tool to push ahead of her peers. Driven to succeed does not adequately capture the years of working 80 hour weeks. For a lifetime she possessed a defining personal identity which was her foundation of self assurance. Between heartbeats on that day one year ago everything about who she was changed.

Twelve months of healing and evaluation has revealed the final extent of the collateral damage emerging from a shifting fog of uncertainty and hope. It has been a challenging time for both of us as I sit helpless watching her reconcile her new life against the old. In her solicitude, she excruciatingly compares her previous person with the limitations of the new. For months her primary focus was to hide each new disability as they became apparent while attempting to continue her career. Short term memory loss, reduced analytical capacity and significantly diminished reading comprehension unleashed a flood of emotions I have never seem as she struggled to hold on to an exposed root of self respect in a seething river current of personal loss. The detailed neurological assessments have uncovered her amazing ability to adapt, to compensate and how brain function while so fragile responds in mystical ways.

An area of significant impact was her ability to process the spoken word, part comprehension and part short term memory. As a result she has developed an acute visual perception. In order to process the spoken word she will write the message out in her hand with an imaginary finger so that comprehension bypasses the disrupted audio paths and is communicated to the brain visually. It astounds me on resilience our brain is, finding new pathways to repair damage. She was so good at compensating in other ways that the disability was hidden until the neurophysiologist tested a fully range of brain function.

Slowly over the months it became apparent that the collateral damage exceeded her ability to function at a high level in her career. The constant struggle and deception took the fight out of her as she reluctantly came to realize that she no longer wanted to work so hard making people believe nothing had changed. The experience has been only what I can describe as a recovery from a modest form of Alzheimer’s. It has given me a fearful perspective of the unimaginable horror of descending into Alzheimer’s without hope of recovery. It is with certainty that we all will at different rates descend into humility suffering indignity of losing what we cherish. If only by the grace of god, we live long enough whatever fortifies the core of your soul will be taken from you, beauty, mind, body, memories, family, privacy, independence, leaving us all naked at the door of death. Without ceremony we transgress to frail, tattered broken reflections of our former selves, a slow process yielding to nature. Each small loss of mobility, functionality, range, stamina and endurance signals the eventual slow waltz with life’s close. There is no apology for my morose ramblings for they are only a statement of truth whether or not we want to recognize the final and inescapable law of nature.

Gradually through a curtain of tears and fears she accepted the new direction life has taken, but the shift is still undermined by the loss of self assurance, confidence and self identify. This has fundamentally changed our relationship and the level of nurturing she requires. A previous relationship of equals, powerful and decisive, a collective balance is now in flux and redefinition. The fine balance of shared responsibility has been disrupted, at times taking on a parent and child persona as I am possibly overcompensating in a sheltering protective fashion. I find myself doting on her as if she is helpless which she is not, but I find her much more pensive and unsure of decisions. She is in the final stages of obtaining approval for long term disability which will complete her transition to her new life.

One of the remaining mysteries has been her loss of appetite for which I have taken her to specialists and physicians over and over without discovering a cause. Every time we recieve a clean bill of health. She has lost 40 pounds and is now struggling to fill a size 0. I think she has stabilized at this weight which is of no apparent concern to her. The extreme weight lost probably makes me more protection because she seems so frail. At a critical point during one of the visits to the neurosurgeon, he highly recommended that she quite smoking because there is a number of small defects on the other side of her brain and smoking is a significant factor in increasing the risk that these defects can develop into another rupture. He also suggested that she get a chest x-ray because an unexplained weight loss such as hers could be cancer. As we walked out of the doctor’s office she lit up a cigarette and looked up at me to say “I think that went well.” I have to admit it was one of the few times in our marriage I totally lost it. It was a blur but I think my first words were “What fucking planet do you live on!!!!!” It remains an unresolved issue, a small defiant stand on personal choice and independence she is unwilling to relinquish.

A requirement of the short term disability policy is that she stop working which was a struggle at first but now she quietly sits at home cleaning long forgotten items while spending time with her mother. The days drift by in a series of never ending errands and casual meanderings as her daily interaction with the outside world shrinks. After thirty years of making her clients successful, catering to their every need, becoming close in decades old relationships, I’m astounded how quickly they have all disappeared without a trace which makes me angry at their shallowness.

Although not obvious to her I watch each day like a hawk gauging her level of satisfaction and personal fulfillment always concerned that her departure from the spotlight will manifest itself into depression. On occasion she will look at her laptop with wistful eye of a life departed, but just as quickly her gaze will focus on the dust that has accumulated on its lid as she goes to get a dusting rag. Each day I pray she finds solace and balance in her second life. When the times are right I probe by asking her simply “Are you happy. Is everything going alright?” The answer always takes much longer than I feel it should, revealing an unresolved internal debate, but is unquestionably “Yes I’m happy”. I intentionally leave an awkward silent pause to allow for the recrimination or retraction that never comes.

None of us can know what the future shall bring. We all travel our separate road making decisions based on the moment. Even in retrospect I’m not sure we can judge if those decisions are for the better or the worst, they are just a milepost in a journey that ends sometime and someplace in the future. Personally, I’ve always had to reconcile my family legacy of early departures to the afterlife. As they say “We don’t make old bones.” This lifelong realization might be an underlying factor in my frantic pace; a life line that could be measured in years not decades if family history determines the odds and probabilities. What will I leave behind unfulfilled? As we all walk to the fateful edge of existence what dreams will be broken, what desires will haunt final our thoughts, what love will be lost in the flood?

As each natural disaster cleanses the land with undirected violence, sculpting the earth into new patterns we learn anew to navigate our altered world by the sun and heavens having faith in those things unchanged in a changed landscape. Adapting to circumstances while picking of the pieces of our life we walk into an uncertain future only knowing those things that we lost in the flood but always thankful, hopeful to experience another spring morning, another summer afternoon, another sunset, another starlit night, just another chance to breath.

"Cowards die many times before their deaths;
The valiant never taste of death but once.
Of all the wonders that I yet have heard,
It seems to me most strange that men should fear;
Seeing that death, a necessary end,
Will come when it will come. “

William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616)

North Beach Discovery

How about a Sunday lunch with four hundred thousand of your closest friends? Streets filled with long tables overflowing with Italian pasta, bread and wine. Smiling faces engaged in jovial laughter and conversation while the warm fall sun illuminates the festivity as a parade slowly snakes by. A history of passing on folk traditions from one generation to the next for 138 years is evident as your stroll the streets. By accident we stumbled on San Francisco’s Annual Italian Heritage Parade on Columbus Day which is distinguished as the City's oldest civic event and the nation's oldest Italian-American parade. What a beautiful way to spend a lazy Sunday.

“The trouble with eating Italian food is that five or six days later you're hungry again.”

George Miller

A Room with a View

Penthouse View, San Francisco, Photo by Mr. Blue

Sometimes I lie awake at night

And wonder

Where the years have gone

They have all passed under

Sleep's dark and silent gate

Bonnie Raitt

Where Real Men Eat, Part 2

Hollywood Cafe, San Francisco. Photo by Mr. Blue

"Part of the secret of success in life is to eat what you like and let the food fight it out inside."

Mark Twain (1835 - 1910)

Inconceivable

How does one spend two days in Napa Valley during a spectacular fall weekend and never leave a board meeting? It becomes an inconceivable distraction sitting around a dark windowless board room viewing a complicated agenda while paradise calls you like a temptress to an escape only a few feet from your reach. Only while driving back to San Francisco did I fully appreciate how much did I miss. I’m beginning to see a subtle shift in my priorities from civic commitment to self indulgence.

“Meetings are an addictive, highly self-indulgent activity that corporations and other organizations habitually engage in only because they cannot actually masturbate.”

Alain van der Heide

The Pitch

“One of the hardest tasks of leadership is understanding that you are not what you are, but what you're perceived to be by others.”

Edward L. Flom

Walking out of the terminal dense humid air blankets the ground like a wet sheet as small drops of moisture clings to my glistening skin. The airport is abandon in darkness as everything wet from the lazy rain. Taking my suit jacket off, I carefully fold it placing it neatly into my black leather carry on bag. I never remember how steamy Miami is during this time of year and always wear a jacket which becomes just another useless piece of dead weight to tote around during the trip. Looking around the street I struggle to recall, if the surroundings look familiar or not. After so many years of perpetual motion everywhere appears both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. I scan the terminal for recognizable clues to jump start my brain. It is like I’m retracing a past life which is haunting me through a foggy haze. I decide the clues are inconclusive, but don’t know if I’m been here before as I maneuver shallow puddles with its surface dancing from the fleeting raindrops as I drift to hotel pick-up zone.

Calling the hotel service they indicate a shuttle bus will pick me up in twenty five minutes. Glancing at me watch I note the time, 1:15 am and make the calculation that I will finally get checked in to the hotel sometime close to 2:00 am. My stomach is churning from what feels like an excess of caffeine, but because my lack of consumption of caffeine, I attribute my queasiness to adrenaline. The weakness in my stomach is coupled with a low grade headache that has slowly begun to grip my shoulders. The dull constant pounding wraps over my left ear down the neck to my back. It has been about a week since I’ve had a restful night of sleep. I’m currently working on about three hours of sleep a night anticipating tomorrow’s presentation. To relieve the fatigue I raise face to the sky allowing the warm drizzle to cleanse my forehead.

Travel is filled with wasted time. Time that has no meaning or purpose, no ability to contribute, just hollow gaps in life that contain unending small eternities of personal boredom. All one can do trapped in these wasted voids is to peer out at the future, helplessly waiting for the journey to continue, waiting for the motion to begin. On the road time is elastic and discontinuous as hour disappear is a blink of an eye while other moments painfully drag in a torturous slow motion. Over the years I’ve developed the ability to shift my thoughts into neutral, a self induced trance effectively disarming my emotions. Mental adaptation to time is critical in preserving emotional sanity on the road. It’s acknowledgement that I’m not in control of the circumstances, a freeing of the confirmed spirit allowing frustration, anger, stress and ire to dissipate into thin air. I focus on the warm raindrops striking my face recalling childhood memories of walking in a late afternoon summer rain. Then as if by magic, as if summoned from a dark void within me, the hotel shuttle rounds the empty sullen street and pulls up next to me opening the door with a rusty squeak.

Secure in an emotionless trance I silently sit without speaking to the shuttle driver as the bus turns and twists bumpy dark streets of an ugly wasteland of rusty metal industrial buildings scattered randomly in open expanses of asphalt tarmac decorated by chain link fences topped with ribbons of gleaming razor wire. Off in the distance is a small darken form of a palm tree. It is the only clue that I’m in semitropical Miami. Emerging from an endless series of grey concrete ramps and overpasses a colorful glow appears on the horizon. Hues of purple and red neon light the night sky which could be mistaken for just another strip club that sits like an enticing oasis in the post nuclear environment surrounding most airports. Heading toward the glow in the sky the name of the hotel reveals itself through a low hanging mist. I dismiss the oddity that my ten story hotel is covered in neon like a strip club because its Miami, everything in Miami is covered in neon even the palm trees.

Traveling to Miami is as close to an international destination as anywhere in North America. The city gyrates to its own pulse as the gateway to South America and the Caribbean. Tomorrow’s presentation is to a large multinational corporation which employs more nationalities then the United Nations. Our evening’s reservation is with a French hotel chain housed in a tastefully renovated 1930 Art Deco building. The lobby is sleek and eclectic with white washed walls spotted with black and white vintage art photography. The staff is Moroccan, French and Cuban which add to the exotic charm.

The room is ample and modern with a large window which is illuminated with the soft pastels of the neon that trim the structure. I always have difficulty immediately falling asleep at night and require an hour or two to relax regardless of the time. My insomnia is more acute as I script tomorrow’s presentation over and over in my mind. Pulling aside the sheer curtains the window peers over a large pool deck which is also outlined in neon casting a surrealistic cartoon glow to the landscape. I pick up my camera and snap a few photos from the window before noticing a security guard staring at me from six stories below. Feeling self conscience I put the camera down and turn on the laptop to add the finals touches to the pitch. Finally, exhausted from the long day I pick up the phone at 3:45 am to request a 6:00 am wake-up call.

Miami Night. Photo by Mr. Blue

The interview team of four meets in the hotel restaurant for breakfast at 7:00 am. The white linen dining room is pure French tropical with exquisite rich black coffee served in glass Turkish presses. The food is above average due to the French cuisine as the interview team goes over the script and agenda in unrelenting detail. We then turn our attention to project schedule and costs which is a massive logistic undertaking as the papers cover the small table. We conclude breakfast with intensely grilling each other trying to identify all the questions we might be required to field during the presentation.

Preparations are over and its time to hale a cab to the headquarters. The cab driver laughs as we give him the address which is all of one block from the hotel. He is congenial as we inform him that he will have a hard time making his fortune my picking up deadbeats like us all the time. As we pile out of the cab into the sultry warm air the headquarters building is another nondescript blue glass box sitting on another nondescript business park road that is designed to punish anyone wanting to walk to another destination. Landscaping is used in a feeble attempt to cloak the hideous two story cheap concrete parking structures and acres of molten black asphalt as we walk toward the door. Miami is more fortunate than more with its ability to support lush highly manicured collections of exotic plants from around the world, which left unattended by the legions of migrant labor, would perish before your eyes.

Passing through an uninspired lobby, we are greeted by the receptionist who directs us to the conference room we are scheduled to present in. She points out the audio-visual equipment, turns and leaves us alone to set up. The conference room is well appointed with the newest of business teleconferencing equipment revealing the company’s broad international reach. Most interesting is the piles of discarded presentation props, sample boards, posters, models which indicates we have reached the inner lair of the real decision makers. We are in the inner sanctum of the power elite where the future is forged. It is like we are surrounded by the bones and remains of the hopeful that have preceded us. Some of the remains are quite elaborate and creative, while others are crude and rudimentary. I wonder if the previous presenter fled leaving the debris or was it abandon after the approach was ripped apart. Confirming that our equipment works without problems, we sit down and wait their arrival.

Quietly I lower my head and close my eyes to focus internal energy painting positive mental images in my mind. Years ago this important of a presentation would rattle nerves and make me unsure that I was fully prepared to lead the presentation. Today is different because I’m completely in control of the concept, approach and rationale. I created a solution that did not exist before and one that the company will realize they can’t live without. I carefully picked the supporting members of the team and crafted the story they will tell. I’ve detailed the schedule to a level that exceeds the client’s understanding of their own project. The presentation is the culmination of months of inventive thinking and we are completely prepared. It is important when dealing with investments of millions of dollars of other people’s money that you exude leadership, strength and decisiveness.

The door opens and five executives dressed in business casual walk in and introduce themselves. Our primary contact for the project has been Rebecca, who is a young attractive professional formally from the pharmaceutical industry. She introduces the other project executives, the vice president of international operations, the facilities director, the operations director and the vice president of new product development. I am immediately impressed with the intelligence of the group as they conclude some business small talk. Smiling to myself I realize we have been placed in front of the cream of the organization and they have come to challenge our ideas. It is moments like theses that I live for, an assembly of powerful, smart, passionate professionals that don’t want to waste time and have come to make the future happen. It is all about vision and possibility with a group like this.

Rebecca informs me that we half 45 minutes and notes that two of the executives will need to leave at that time for other appointments as she turns the floor over to me. I begin by thanking everyone from taking time from their busy schedule and start in discussing the origins of our team. Everyone loves a story that conveys the reason that we come to this point in time with the people present. I use the story to build the relationship between the team members that have evolved over years and even decades. It’s a way to weave in humor, professionalism, expertise, commitment, passion and vision. The conclusion of the story is the reason we are before the group, creating a circular reference back to the present.

Body language is one of the most revealing gestures during an interview. If properly recognized and interpreted body language is an unfair advantage to the presenter exposing the true emotions of the listener. I am able to discern the social order of the group just by how they glance at each other during questions. The subtle gestures convey interest, confusion, disbelief or intrigue. This group is fully engaged with the two lesser executives deferring to the senior executives though subtle unspoken gestures. I turn my attention to the decision makers while still maintaining contact with the others. One must be careful not to slight or ignore anyone at the table for they can become the individuals that could force a hung jury into indecision.

The presentation shifts dramatically as the executives begin to understand the magnitude of the project complexity. The naïve assumptions that preceded this project direction are exposed and the group collectively is overwhelmed by the logistics of implementing the project within the compressed schedule. The questions begin to fly madly at us like bats bolting out of a cave at night. Deftly I field the hardballs and direct them to the appropriate team member who has been scripted on the correct answer. I allow the presentation to be temporarily sidetracked because the questions drive toward each individual’s hidden agenda. The group is extremely intelligent and is able to make the complex connections that we have prepared for much later in the presentation. I attempt table the discussion until the proper section in the presentation and am able to proceed somewhat further down the presentation before the next series of questions erupt.

Many years of experience and hundreds of presentations allows me to steer a fine line between open debate and uncontrollable chaos. Once again I curtail the discussion forcing us back on the scripted presentation because we have systematically anticipated their questions and concerns. Time is beginning to become a concern as we approach the time where two executives will leave and we risk not finishing with our conclusions. As our scientist is bogging down on technical information I advance the slides to push him along while politely acknowledging that we have worked together so long that I know where to push. It gets a laugh from the mostly serious crowd. At one point I begin to fear that the discussion is getting out of hand and the group is about to make important decisions without the benefit of all the facts. I forcefully curtail the discussion and more back to our presentation.

To my amazement the time for the two executives to leave comes and goes. They are so fully engrossed in the discussion that they intentionally delay their departure. This is the most positive signal possible in a presentation like this. We have risen to a level of priority that now supersedes their previous commitments. We have completely captured the decision makers so that all other duties are secondary for the moment. We are playing with dynamite by suggesting the incredible complexity of the project and the daunting magnitude to the logistics, but confidently assuring the group we are the only team capable of delivering the project without question. At one point the discussion taking an ominous turn as someone suggests the project is not feasible and should be abandoned. Alarmed I quickly rescue the discussion by offering that the technical issues are not insurmountable, but will require additional investigation. It is the true academic conclusion to all reports “further research is required”.

Rebecca concludes the presentation with one question “Why should we hire the team?” I openly laugh at the question because it is the most elemental question of all interviews and somehow, I overlooked preparing for that question. In my mind the omission in our preparation is so oblivious that my own body language is revealing how tickled I am with the penetrating simple question that I have no answer for. It is a moment of ironic pleasure as I am completely stumped and admit to the group that we were so immersed in solving their problem, failed to prepare for that fundamental question. As an attribute of the quality team I assembled, one of them answers the question with stunning relevance and brilliance leaving me cackling in the corner.

The presentation concludes with warm handshakes and congratulations on how exceptional our preparation was. I glance at my watch and note that we held the two executives almost 40 minutes past their previous appointments. Rebecca asks for copies of the presentation which we have prepared for and hand her a CD containing all the information presented. The team assembles the equipment and says goodbye to the group. Once again we walk out into the warm humid air of south Florida to wait for a decision from the group. We silently smile at each other knowing the pitch went well as the sun caresses our faces. This is what we do I think to myself. The future is uncertain and we may not know for weeks if we were selected or if another team controlled the process better than us. In time we will hear the decision of the executives concerning their investment of millions of dollars. Until then I will fondly recall the pitch where I was unprepared to answer the most elemental question of all, “Why should we hire you?”

“In the modern world of business, it is useless to be a creative original thinker unless you can also sell what you create. Management cannot be expected to recognize a good idea unless it is presented to them by a good salesman.”

David M. Ogilvy

You Are Love

Halifax, Canada 2007. Photo by Mr. Blue

"A soul that sees beauty may sometimes walk alone."

Johann von Goeth (1749-1832)

To Distance

“Did you receive the leaf I sent to you?
It lit its yellow way across old roofs.
I hope it found a place upon your coat.
I'd like to know that autumn traveled safe.

Here on the very doorsill of the dusk,
Where nothing is as strong as the ebb tide,
Of light upon the landscape we once knew,
I drink a sunset cup to distance, Friend.”

Sandra Fowler

Content with Nothing except Everything

Photo by Mr. Blue 2007

“A man cannot be wise enough to be a great artist without being wise enough to wish to be a philosopher. A man cannot have the energy to produce good art without having the energy to wish to pass beyond it. A small artist is content with art; a great artist is content with nothing except everything. So we find that when real forces, good or bad, like Kipling and Shaw, enter our arena, they bring with them not only startling and arresting art, but very startling and arresting dogmas. And they care even more, and desire us to care even more, about their startling and arresting dogmas than about their startling and arresting art.”

G. K. Chesterton (1874–1936)

Culture of No

“Frugality without creativity is deprivation.”

Amy Dacyczyn

There is a sinister and insidious process plundering the great public spaces of our nation and few seem to neither notice nor care. Public apathy and ignorance has given this plaque on our sensibilities a foothold challenging the value and even existence of great public spaces. The first victim executed in this all out assault is the creativity of design. It has taken years of close observation to understand this subtle shift away from civic responsibility to the absolution of risk in the construction industry. Society has entered a period of future uncertainty where the bureaucrat and accountant are responsible for the artistic and design values of public spaces. Around the office, we call this new period the “Culture of No”. I am deeply troubled by loss of opportunity to create public spaces of meaning and relevance to further generations. Consider what our world might look like with out Central Park in New York or the Mall in Washington DC.

The creep toward chaos began thirty years ago when in a short sighted attempt to shed liability for the construction process the American Institute of Architects (AIA) positioned architects out of managing the construction process. The thought was if architects are going to be sued for managing the construction process then architects just will limit involvement and inherently shed their liability. This stupid act of contrition has relegated architects to a meaningless and ineffectual seat in the back of the construction industry bus. Once the master builder, the architect abdicated the only meaningful way of controlling quality assurance on the construction site and in the process exponentially increased their liability and risk of litigation. The architect is no longer at the table in a position of authority to defend the design or provide a rational for civic values. The AIA’s decision is one of the world’s greatest blunders. The only logical response to construction liability was for architects to take full control of construction process and insert themselves deeper into on site management. Alas this abdication created a vacuum to fill a fundamental need required by the construction industry and spawned the creation of a new profession, the construction manager.

While a few enlightened architectural firms recognized the opportunity and added construction management as a specialty service, most walked away from the table, leaving general contractors to fill the void. The fox is now running the henhouse as the industry spirals into an abyss that we may never recover from. Recognizing the enormous opportunity to limit risk and reap huge profits general contractors jumped at the chance to control the construction process, especially the budget. Within a short period of twenty years construction managers or what we call “general contractors at no risk” have inserted themselves into the construction process ahead of architects. While this seems benign the result is catastrophic, impacting every decision made during the conception and design of a project.

The sacred one on one relationship between the owner and architect in which design values are established, where art and civic responsibility are discussed, where the relevance of context is formulated no longer exists. Today the discussion managed by the construction manager constantly challenges every decision of the architect on the basis of cost or construction efficiency, before an architectural vision is born. It was once said that an idea at birth is most frail and ever so delicate that it can be easily killed before it has a chance to grow. In the current environment ideas never has a chance to be realized because it is suffocated immediately by the ponderous weight of substandard budgets and schedules exclusively defined by inept construction managers. The industry has evolved to the point where the owner and construction manager establishes a project budget before architect is even selected.

Consider the problem in this approach, a contractor with no training in design is formulating a budget before any exploratory investigations are begun. Without any real interest in design or commitment to artistic expression the construction manager assembles a series of simple white box assumptions which are primarily focused on square foot costs of other uninspired completed generic commercial buildings recognized only for their brutal ugliness. The budget is normally based on the least complex or vanilla solution. There is no consideration for civic responsibility or really any understanding of site context as the construction manager establishes the budget. The motives for the construction manager to set the bar as low as possible are oblivious, because in most cases it will be that same construction manager in the role of general contractor which will be responsible for delivering the project for that budget. In order to make it easy to achieve the goal, all unnecessary complications and complexities are avoided. The construction manager which is really the general contractor is now in position to play both sides against the center. Keeping the bar low and the pricing high allows the construction manager to reap huge profits at the expense of the public.

Once this uninformed vanilla budget is established it becomes law with few exceptions and the entire design process enters the value engineering (VE) stage. Early in my career value engineering was confined to the small world of bringing a project back into budget after prices were received by a competitive bid process. Today VE is a constant process of striping integrity from a project before it is fully conceived. The joke around the office it that “value engineering is of no value and it ain’t engineering”. For example a recent project was budgeted without geotechnical investigations. After the geotechnical engineer discovered a high groundwater table it was necessary to include a foundation dewatering system which would cost $500,000. Guess what the original budget established by some uninformed manager did not include a dewatering system, so it becomes the responsible of the architect to gut $500,000 out of a project which is already without frills. No discussion that this omission should have been considered by the construction manager. No discussion that the budget should be increase to accommodate the unknown site conditions. No, just cut the public improvements, just cut the plazas, just remove the grand entry, and just make everything we build look like a cheap target store. The worst of all is the construction manager doesn’t see anything wrong with that. A cheap target store is much easier to build, much more predictable to cost than a beautiful work of architecture.

In another project of significance we were asked to submit a proposal to a nationally recognized architect. We explored the beautiful and elaborate preliminary concepts developed by the architect, estimating in detail what each component would cost based on similar projects we have completed around the nation. When we were done we estimated the budget to achieve the architects schematic vision was about 1.5 million dollars. Presenting the estimates to the architect, the construction manager piped up and said they had only budgeted $175,000 for the work, a tenfold difference. Somewhat in shock I asked “What is that number based on? Did you even look at these drawings?”

The construction manager said “We gave the drawings to Mullet Contractors to give us a price. You know the inept, unqualified group that has been in court constantly because of construction fraud. You know that group of thieves that has been kicked off every project in the metro because they don’t know their ass from a hole in the ground.”

“You mean you accepted this unqualified unresponsive number without validating it and this was the basis for your entire construction estimate? There was no information on materials, no specifications, no allowances, no established schedule or no direction given beyond this rough sketch?” I ask not believing how this is not considered a criminal act.

With total lack of concern he replies “Yeah, that’s how we did it and no we won’t change it”.

How does one ever begin to close the distance between $1,500,000 and $175,000. What will the public get from the incredible artistic vision by the architect? They will get another cheap looking Kmart with a parking lot, never a functioning urban space which creates great cities. The saddest part is that if the owner really knew the cost early in the process, he would have authorized the additional cost, but the gatekeeper of the budget is the construction manager and his culture is no. Whenever the construction manager needs to increase the budget in order to build the minimum requirement, they blame the overage on the architect and get to increase their fee to manage the overage.

In a recent example on an important civic building in which hundreds of thousands of patrons will visit each year, we discussed with the owner over four months the budget to create a grand public space respectful of the grand public. Our assumptions were slightly over 2 million dollars, again based on extensive experience and knowledge. When out of the blue we receive an email from the construction manager blistering us for not designing with any concern for budget and that the design team was being totally irresponsible. Confused we called a meeting asking for clarification, knowing we were working off our budget assumptions discussed with the owner. In the meeting the construction manager finally had to reveal the secret budget assumptions they were working with and for the first time provided line item budget pricing. They estimated that the civic masterpiece costing hundreds of million dollars on a large difficult site would only require $650,000 for everything around the building. When pressed on what was the basis of that estimate? They only offered that it was an unsubstantiated guess without supporting documentation. Let it be known that we were not dealing with a new inexperienced constructor manager but one of the top ten largest groups in the nation. Once again an inept uncaring untrained construction estimator is making decisions about how are cities will be designed?

In each of these examples, the construction manager defined an unrealistic budget which eliminates all opportunity for public space. They achieve credibility because everything they build is basically cheap and ugly, and when a challenge to their budget is made they can trot out fifty examples of cheap buildings as comparison. How can they get away with the destruction to our urban environments while lining their pockets with huge profits? The answer is easy; they have a facilitator, the risk avoidance governmental bureaucrat.

The culture of no is endorsed by the public officials who are responsible with protecting the public good. Bureaucrats are a relatively benign group of wall flowers devoid of artistic appreciation. They are simple managers that do what they are told and only worry about the criteria under which their performance is measured. Unfortunately we do not ask bureaucrats to create urban spaces of great value to society, we ask them to manage projects that are delivered in budget, on time and that adhere with the rules. As a result government bureaucrats deny any discussion which could threaten the schedule or more importantly the budget. This myopic fear of not delivering a project on budget makes the bureaucrat unable to adjudicate project objectives that require advocating for increased budget funding. The culture of no places the risk avoidance governmental bureaucrat as the gatekeeper of public benefit. When the process combines the construction manager’s personal agenda to keep it simple to make money and the bureaucrat’s inordinate fear of challenging the process, the result is a culture of no.

What was once an infrequent imposition on creativity has now developed into a process that rewards inept managers, greedy contractors and ignores the public good. The future of social environments is uncertain. Having considered the trend for many years, I’m pessimistic about the system changing anytime soon. The architect is helpless, the public has no advocate, the construction managers won’t relinquish control and the bureaucrat won’t do anything to be criticized about so the urban environment will continue to be a victim of the culture of no.

“The perfect bureaucrat everywhere is the man who manages to make no decisions and escape all responsibility.”

Brooks Atkinson (1894 - 1984)

Laboring on a Labor Day Dream

“The only liberty an inferior man really cherishes is the liberty to quit work, stretch out in the sun, and scratch himself.”

H.L. Mencken

This Labor Day will be one to remember for it has changed the direction of my life or to be forgotten as a wayward dream. During this holiday weekend I have toiled for over thirty hours preparing the pitch of my career. An opportunity the magnitude of which I can not begin to comprehend. On Thursday I will travel to Ft. Lauderdale to present a proposal which will require the formation of two new corporations one based in the Caribbean and another in the Mediterranean most likely Rome. The project will require extensive travel to Europe for possibly the next four years. If properly managed the contract could extend for decades developing into a series of international patents which would be partnered with global multination mega corporations. I am drifting in a dream from an altered state of reality. Thursday will be the culmination of eighteen months of positioning, marketing and effort to make this pitch of a lifetime in which I could actually be in a position of influence to change the world. Funny how often people say that and how seldom it is the truth. Today I can find not solace in idleness for I am alive and on fire.

“Idleness is a constant sin, and labor is a duty. Idleness is the devil's home for temptation and for unprofitable, distracting musings; while labor profiteth others and ourselves.”

Anne Baxter

Sleepless Night

in the dream I fall into the sleepless sea
with a swell of panic and pain
my veins are aching for the distant reef
in the crush of emotional waves...

hey, can you picture the sight
the figures on the beach in the searing night
and the roaring hurt of my silent fight...
can you pull me out
of this sleepless night
can you pull me out?...

King Crimson

A View from the Cocoon

“When you get right down to it, what we all need is a place to go... A place where we can escape the noise of our lives and just relax.”

Takayuki Ikkaku

Gordon & the Party Pig

“What men call good fellowship is commonly but the virtue of pigs in a litter which lie close together to keep each other warm.”

Henry David Thoreau (1817 - 1862)

Deep in the Alaskan wilderness I have rediscovered a long forgotten masculine culture of vibrato, camaraderie and unabashed verbal torment. In my present lifestyle of receptions and committee meetings, the essence of the exclusive blue collar boys club has disappeared from my lexicon. I traveled to the fringe of humanity with my brother who had not been outside a house filled with small children in seven years only to find how rusty and atrophied our masculine social skills were. Rather quickly I picked up my old New Jersey swagger, while my brother seemed to require more time to shake off the stench of domestication.

Male culture appears on the outside to be a cruel, punitive verbal assault based on intense competition which attempts to exploit perceived weakness of the individuals of the group. Under the surface is a genuine sincere team building process in which each individual is challenged to exceed personal limitations in order to gain rank in the group. The primary tool in this process is humor, whether targeted at an individual or more commonly self deprecating and targeted at one owns weaknesses. The topics of ridicule haven’t changed since my youth and remain manhood, femininity, homosexuality, sexual prowess, physical endowment, physical ability, mental ability and the most dreaded attribute, the lack of dominance in your personal relationships (commonly referred to as pussy whipped). Within these topics most verbal taunts are fair game with the objective of getting the largest rise from the tribe. To the uninitiated the language can be shocking and exceptionally offensive which actually delivers a higher score whenever you can make this jaded group of male apes cringe.

Fishing for salmon and halibut in the ocean may sound like a leisurely excursion, but it is exceptionally strenuous and physically demanding. It challenges every ounce of your conditioning and fortitude. Typically the group arises at 3:45 in the morning for a large country breakfast of eggs, bacon and pancakes. The group gets fitted in waders and rain gear as the fishing equipment is hauled to the dock. The boat pushes off at 4:50 am for what can only be considered as the most spectacular one hour boat ride to the fishing grounds. Low hanging fog and clouds cling to the mountains as the sun rises burning openings in the cover revealing brilliant colors of red, orange and blue. The air is crisp as it chills one to the bone. Approaching the open ocean the boat encounters rolling surf which turns the vessel into a violent cement mixer. The violent thrashing of the boat requires everyone to brace themselves with considerable exertion as you are physically lifted 12 inches off the ground only to return to the vessel with a brutal pounding. The experience reminded of me of what World War I veterans must have endured while being shelled in the trenches. At the end of three days the heels of my feet were covered with bone bruises from the violent collisions with the steel deck of the boat, not to mention the constant aching of my knees, hips, kidneys and liver. I felt like I endured twelve rounds with a Mexican fighter that focused his attack on body punching. During a day of fishing one experiences this physical beating for about two hours in 30 minute increments as we reposition ourselves to where the fish are biting.

The vessel consists of our captain named Carrington, a first mate and five fishermen. Our captain was in fact our first mate during the last trip three years ago so we ready had a warm friendship with the skipper. The first mate is the boat grunt whose exertion exceeds everyone’s plus some. He is responsible for baiting hooks, hauling up the anchor, untangling knots, gaffing fish into the boat, gutting the fish and cleaning the deck. Our first mate is a sixteen year old named Gordon who is on his maiden voyage as a deck hand. We asked the girls that work at the lodge about Gordon. They said he was sensitive, quiet and frail. Our first question was “Do you think we can make him cry? Do you think we can make him quit?” The girls were confident he would hang in there and pass the male test. The way life on the water works is that the second you push away from the dock all laws of humanity are suspended and feudal law starts with the captain in charge.

The fishing boat is simple without any comforts such as seats or cushions. Typically everyone sits on fishing coolers or tackle boxes. The gunnels on the side of the boat are solid aluminum that extends only to slightly lower than your knee so that there is nothing to brace yourself with as the boat rocks and rolls in the open sea. Your knees and legs are constantly battered by the gunnels. This is not a trip for the girls, for the restroom is a five gallon plastic bucket that is placed on the forward deck. The easiest way to become the target of verbal abuse is needing to “hit the bucket”.

Fishing is accomplished for the most part while standing with heavy tackle to overcome the sea currents. The captain notes on the sonar “Ho’s (Coho Salmon) at 195 feet.” We drop the weighted line to 210 feet then immediately reel it up allowing the bait to spin and flash silver as you pull through the school tempting the salmon. The physical exertion is continuous as you drop the line and reel it back up on a shifting unstable platform. It did not take long for my forearms, biceps, shoulders and back muscles to begin to burn and cramp. The first day the captain did not know I was left handed so I had to reel in a crossover position with a right handed reel. For it, I garnered my share of attention as I heard “What the f--------. You work that reel like a girl.” At one point my forearm cramped so badly that for the next 45 minutes the cramps would return whenever I bent my elbow. The following day the captain took my left handed reel in order to pull the line up for another fisherman and remarked “Damn your one tough son of a bitch! I can believe how f------ hard it is to work a reel in reverse and you did it for an entire day.” There was only one standard male response to such a compliment “F---- you. You're just a pussy.”

All of a sudden the reason you have endured all the pain and discomfort becomes apparent as a thirty pound king salmon strikes your bait and the fight begins. King salmon will struggle some as you pull them up from 190 feet of water, but all of a sudden they realize they are approaching the surface and takes off like a rocket. The reel screams with a shrill whistle as the salmon rips off 300 or 400 hundred feet of line and all you can do to hang on to dear life as they head for the sea floor or tail dance across the surface on the horizon. After the run concludes you begin to slowly pull the fish back toward the boat reeling two feet at a time using every muscle in you upper body. After 10 minutes as the fish approaches the boat again and teases you with a fuzzy glimpse of silver when the reel screams again as another 300 to 400 feet of line is ripped off. The largest salmon I hooked ran four times and took about 45 minutes to get in the boat.

King salmon won’t allow you to stand on one place on the boat and reel them in, they run in every direction even under the boat so you are constantly lapping the deck attempting to keep your line perpendicular to the vessel. You may end up lapping the deck eights times crawling over and under the lines of the other fisherman, anchor and propellers. You can’t imagine how exciting it is when three fishermen are working king salmon at the same time screaming running around the boat trying to keep the lines untangled. About half the time they spit the hook out and the fight is prematurely over. Finally you are able to get one in the boat to the sound of the guys congratulating you “Not bad for a girl with a peg leg! If I didn’t know better I’d think you were gay.” There you stand drenched in sweat as every muscle is burning from exhaustion and the senses in hyper drive. In some instances I’m so spent that I’m unable to lift the fish up on the gaff in order to get the obligatory photo. The limelight pales quickly as you reach into the cooler for another beer and immediately drop the line for another round.

When the fish are hitting the captain is controlling the activity, yelling instructions to the novice fisherman. He is usually responsible for getting the big fish in the boat. Halibut over fifty pounds are so dangerous that they are shot with a shot shotgun before they are pulled into the boat. The tail slaps of Halibut are so powerful that they can easily break leg or even kill someone. What could appeal to the male mind more than fishing, beer, cursing and shooting something with a gun? In the process of running around the boat with a gun attempting to subdue a 127 pound halibut the captain tripped over some bait buckets and screamed “God Damn it Gordon!!! What the Hell are you doing? Clean up this f------ mess.” A short time later one of the fishermen was working a king salmon while the captain was in the cabin. During a forceful pull of the rod the salmon spit out the hook rocketing the eight ounce lead counterweight at the boat at a horrific speed. Before anyone knew it the lead counterweight slammed into the top of the metal cabin with the sound of a grenade exploding surprising everyone aboard. Suddenly a voice erupts from the cabin “God Damn it Gordon!!! What the hell are you doing?” It didn’t take the group long to pick up on the theme of this trip “God Damn it Gordon!!! What the hell are you doing?”

It probably didn’t help that Gordon didn’t take to the sea well and in a short time he was seasick and chumming off the bow. This was all the more reason for the boys to help young Gordon to work on his weaknesses and offer some support helping him become an esteemed member of the tribe. “God Damn it Gordon!!! What the hell are you doing? I need my hook baited”

Poor Gordon not fully familiar with male rituals actually attempted a reply “I’m sorry I’ll be there after I’m done vomiting.”

Needless to say it provided too easy of a retort “God Damn it Gordon!!! You can vomit later there are Ho’s waiting for me”. The entire group took some pride in educating Gordon on the male rituals of manhood. After Gordon disposed of breakfast we offered some manly support “Gordon you look like shit, you better drink a beer.” That consoling gesture was followed with “God Damn it Gordon, my f------- grandmother can vomit better than that.” The male equivalent of “Go walk it off.”

After a few moments of silence you would hear the mindless banter “I’m having so much f------ fun with you girls that I think I’ll commemorate the experience when I get back to port by having a little butterfly tattooed on my ass.”

“Oh yeah, I think I’ll have my nipples pierced for nipple rings.” Someone else jumps in.

The captain offers his insights “Why wait until we get to shore, I’ve got some big Halibut circle hooks. We can do it now if you like.”

“That would be nice. Do you think you could hang some of those big 16 ounce lead weights off the hooks too?”

Gordon decides to wade into the conversation. He opens with “Yeah we could call you nipples hooks.” It was a fairly weak retort by male standards which is countered with the standard “F--- You Gordon. You decide to get a pair of balls from the tackle box? Why don’t you go chum up some more fish.”

We all had to smile that Gordon began to step up and play with the boys. He was starting to earn his stripes. We were pushing Gordon to come out of him shell and take a few swings at the plate. Gordon struggled the most at pulling the anchor from the ocean floor which required some substantial upper body strength. The first three of four attempts he was relieved by the captain with the now routine “God Damn it Gordon!!! What the hell are you doing? Pull harder it will build your shoulders.”

Over the three days Gordon developed a comfort level in understanding the male banter and playful joking. Only once did we really catch him off guard where he did not know if we were joking or not. During one of Gordon’s attempts to pull the anchor from the ocean floor someone yelled at him “God Damn it Gordon!!! What the hell are you doing? Take off your shirt so we can watch your muscles ripple.” Gordon immediately froze and stopped pulling on the anchor chain. Slowly he turned and looked at the group with an expression of surprise and confusion. It was priceless, for a second we crossed over in Gordon’s mind from joking about being homosexuals to actually being homosexuals. By the end of the three days Gordon was a cherished member of the tribe. He had stood his ground and been pushed to the point of total physical and metal exhaustion as had the entire tribe. Although all the attention did not relive Gordon of hearing “God Damn it Gordon!!! What the hell are you doing?” well into the night.

The fishing would conclude about 2:30 pm each afternoon and be followed with another spectacular hour drive back to port. Exhausted and bruised we would climb the dock as Gordon with the help of three high school students would fillet and vacuum pack the fish. Not more than 60 minutes after hitting shore the fish was in the freezer. Most of the time the group would barely drag themselves to the store for something to grill and replenish the stock of bourbon and beer.

The most memorable evening was with Carrington and one of his friends that brought along the Party Pig. Apparently this guy would raise pigs and then slaughter them for the pork. This one particular pig was the runt of the litter and would not fatten up fast enough so it became a pet, at least for the short term. While I was taking a shower I kept hearing some raucous partying downstairs occasionally mixed in with a squeal. I didn’t think much about it until I arrive downstairs to find a small twenty pound pig drinking beer. It was at that moment I wished I had a pet Party Pig myself, for it was the star of the show. Someone would place a bottle of beer open on the floor and the pig would squeal while running to pick the bottle up with its mouth, tilt it back and guzzle the entire contents in the blink of an eye. Men in the wilderness are so easily entertained. No one could leave a beer unguarded on the floor because the pig would run over and drink it. What was really funny was that they needed to cover the pig’s eyes when ever someone opened a beer or else the pig would freak out and rush who ever was holding the beer.

During about 90 minutes the pig drank six beers keeping up with fishermen and mountain men alike before waddling over to a corner of the living room and passing out. At which point the owner which was on the verge of passing out himself picked up the Party Pig and went home. I began to think about the financial opportunities of having a personal Party Pig. I bet you could make three to four hundred dollars a night in the bars. “Oh yeah you think your so tough? I bet this little twenty pound pig can out drink you!!” It’s a sucker bet. Just think $2500 a week or $120,000 a year trotting the Party Pig around the bar scene. The only down side would be the travel required since the Party Pig would gain a reputation rather quickly and you would need to travel far and wide to hit bars where the legend of the Party Pig was not known. I can hear it now “Don’t mess with the Party Pig, he’ll kick your ass.” Eventually the evening concluded with a familiar rant “God Damn it Gordon!!! What the hell are you doing? You can’t even out drink a twenty pound pig.”

It did not take long to decide that 3:45 AM is coming quickly and my body is shutting down. It is time to call it quits but not without a warm felt goodnight. “God Damn it Gordon!!! What the hell are you doing? You should be asleep so you can keep up with us homos tomorrow. Hell I bet that even that little Party Pig could kick your ass out on the boat tomorrow.”

The Wilderness Boys Club 2007 Edition. Photo by God Damn Gordon

“It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them.”

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Off to the Fishing Grounds

Dawn rising over the mountians of Baranof Island in the Alexander Archipelago in the Gulf of Alaska. Photo by Mr. Blue

There's a piping wind from a sunrise shore
Blowing over a silver sea,
There's a joyous voice in the lapsing tide
That calls enticingly;
The mist of dawn has taken flight
To the dim horizon's bound,
And with wide sails set and eager hearts
We're off to the fishing ground.

Ho, comrades mine, how that brave wind sings
Like a great sea-harp afar!
We whistle its wild notes back to it
As we cross the harbor bar.
Behind us there are the homes we love
And hearts that are fond and true,
And before us beckons a strong young day
On leagues of glorious blue.

Comrades, a song as the fleet goes out,
A song of the orient sea!
We are the heirs of its tingling strife,
Its courage and liberty.
Sing as the white sails cream and fill,
And the foam in our wake is long,
Sing till the headlands black and grim
Echo us back our song!

Oh, 'tis a glad and heartsome thing
To wake ere the night be done
And steer the course that our fathers steered
In the path of the rising sun.
The wind and welkin and wave are ours
Wherever our bourne is found,
And we envy no landsman his dream and sleep
When we're off to the fishing ground.

Lucy Maud Montgomery (1874–1942)

16 Hrs + 2997 Miles = “Rain City”

Capitol Hill, Seattle, Washington, Photo by Mr. Blue

“There is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged to find the ways in which you yourself have altered.”

Nelson Mandela (1918 - ), 'A Long Walk to Freedom'

Ignorance is Bliss

I have finally topped my all time stupid move in an airport. Feeling a little smug I was reading the paper this morning about how July was the second worst month for delays in the airline industry since they started keeping score. During this epic carnage I’ve been able to dance around delays for the last couple of months. It would be ingratiating to attribute it to my exceptional knowledge of the airline industry, but in reality it is just random luck. The article indicated that in June 367 flights endured more than a three hour runway delay. With a great sense of accomplishment I’m happy to state that not one of those flights was I a passenger on. The airlines must be distributing the punishment to some other deserving folks and leaving their old whipping boy alone.

Here I am sitting in BWI happily reading about what will be considered by travelers as the worst travel month in airline history waiting for my flight home. Early completion of my business meetings facilitated a four hour early arrival to the airport. During a leisurely stroll to my gate I noticed an earlier flight home leaving at 11:40 am connecting through St. Louis arriving at 2:10 pm. My direct flight was scheduled to leave 12:55 pm, arriving at 2:30 pm. Briefly I considered the potential for delay in St. Louis for only a 20 minute arrival advantage and decided to pass on the first flight for the safe bet of the direct flight. All seemed smooth sailing with blue skies from coast to coast.

I started the computer and got involved working on some reports. Checking my watch occasionally the hours passed quickly. I watched as the gate attendant asked for volunteers to give up their seat on the Kansas City flight in exchange for two hundred dollars and a round trip coupon. Gradually they loaded up the plane and pushed off from the gate. Heavily focused on the work at hand, I didn’t pay much attention to the activities surrounding me at the gate. As the watch crept closer to my departure time I put away the computer and began to get ready to board the flight home. Funny I thought the gate was A2 right where I was sitting. No need for concern they change gates all the time. The alarm went off when I looked at the status board and my flight was not listed. Oh No! My watch was still set on Central Time and my flight was Eastern Time.

Then the realization struck me like a car wreck. I just missed my flight after getting to the airport four hours early. It wasn’t the normal missed flight where you are stuck in traffic or at the other concourse with a broken tram shuttle. I was sitting at my gate not 20 feet from the door. What I assumed to be the first Kansas City flight was my direct flight. If I have actually been on the earlier flight they would have been boarding St. Louis not Kansas City. The simple facts never dawned on me. In the process the entire aircraft of passengers had to walk around me to get onto the flight and I sat there smiling at them stone cold brain dead. I continued to sit there watch them close the door and push off the gate. At one point, I actually smiled at the pilot as he called for the tug. Since they needed someone to miss the flight to get all the standby passengers on board, they never called my name to board. Someone should have taken pity on the poor retarded person sitting in bliss at the gate but it never happened.

Funny you know a missed flight looks like just every other flight leaving the airport when you’re sitting watching it from the terminal window. Nothing really out of the ordinary as it rolls away without you. Somewhere in the back of my mind I thought “Suckers, I bet I’ll still beat them to Kansas City. They’ll certainly take a hit in St. Louis". The insult added to injury was the fact that they were asking for people to volunteer to take a later flight for 200 hundred dollars and a free roundtrip coupon. In my best Forest Gump impersonation I smile politely as they begged for people to give up their seat. No not me, I’ll wait until the offer expires before I realize that is my flight. Not only did I give up my seat but I failed to even get compensated for it. For my ignorance and the heavy summer travel schedule I was unable to get on the 2:30 through Chicago, the 4:35 through Chicago, the 5:05 through St. Louis and the 6:05 through Nashville, all of which I waited at the gate as a standby passenger. After mugging some poor elderly gentleman in the restroom I was able to obtain a seat on the oversold 7:30 direct flight. The day turned into a 10 hour delay. It serve me right to tempt fate and make fun of the travel gods.

“Education is a progressive discovery of our own ignorance.”

Will Durant (1885 - 1981)