Sometimes the Bar Eats You

“Sometimes you eat the bar, and sometimes, well, he eats you.”

The Stranger... The Big Lebowski (1998)

Then are moments in time when the Unstoppable Force collides with the Immoveable Object and natural laws of the universal are reconfirmed. Laws of probability dictate that one shall yield and the other shall prevail. In the end, the unstoppable force was no match for the immoveable object, better known as the federal government. Years of travel knowledge, guile, swiftness and insider contacts could not budge the Immoveable Object.

The confrontation began January 15th when I discovered my passport was missing and was scheduled to travel to Toronto on January 28th. In a complete panic I quickly assembled all the proper documentation, photos, forms and fees running to the nearest Post Office to submit for expedited passport replacement service. Under this expedited service, I was guaranteed to receive my replacement passport within 10 days for a governmental imposed “you are an idiot to wait so long” fee of $175.

The first clue of my impending disaster was arriving at the Post Office to find it closed while celebrating Martin Luther King’s holiday. Understanding that this would delay departure of my application until January 16th, I quickly surmised that a governmental promise of 10 days and an absolute deadline of 12 days was going to be a problem. I vowed to arrive at the Post Office first thing in the morning to ensure my application was first in the express bin to the New Orleans processing center. The contradiction of New Orleans and expedited service imposed a level of concern to the process, but I stood fast in my faith that the benevolent protector and provider would deliver on its promise.

The following day on the way to the Post Office, my car blows a hose just one day after spending $750 to replace my radiator. I guess my auto repair shop discovered my credit score after quoting me a repair number and decided to up the ante with a second round of repairs. Not overly concerned I applied the principal of executive privilege and called my office manager to retrieve me and my pending application. Leaving the smoking heap of my car on a side street downtown I climbed into Mary’s vehicle for the overdue appointment with stewards of snail mail.

To no one’s surprise one day after the holiday, the line of customers that snaked outside the door lead to the gatekeepers, who sole function was to witness my signature on the application and to collect ransom for restoration of my freedom. Standing in line you begin to realize how the art of personal dehumanization has been perfected. It’s revealing how the system assumes you know this vague and confusing system of acquainted transportation of communications. How each individual is punished for the smallest of procedural missteps, such as not filling out a line on the back of a form thereby regulating them in to public to obediently complete the task and unceremoniously move to the back of this oversized conga line.

Optimism of quickly completing this task fades as I realize new impending passport rules has created a flood of applications from the elderly and drug addicts who are now required to show a passport before they enter Mexico to buy cheap drugs and velvet paintings. The whole scene reminds my of some sort of basic therapy for severe head injury patients who are being provided life skills before they are released back into the general public. I expect to see Jack Nicholson’s character in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest to run past in a white gown with his ass hanging out.

Sixteen passport applications later I arrive at the front of the counter to sign my name. The man behind the counter takes my money and gives me a number to call if I need information on my application’s approval statue. Walking out of the Post Office, Mary is standing on the Post Office steps. With a look of astonishment she says “You are not going to believe this, but my car just died and won’t start. I think you’re cursed?”

Yeah she was probably right, but my passport application is now in the capable hands of the trustworthy government officials. I smile at Mary and say “Call the office and get some other lucky employee to come and get the two of us. If we keep this up, I’ll have the entire staff out here with us and all their cars scattered across town disabled.”

A week passes when I decide to have Mary contact the New Orleans processing center to find out the status of my application. As is the process with the government, they will not talk to Mary, but need to talk me directly. Now there is a foolproof security measure? “Who am I talking to?” a voice inquires from the phone. “Mr. Blue” I confirm, clearing this critical security issue. I wonder if I could get my dog to bark in a certain way whether it would clear this security checkpoint. In broken English acquired in the two days since she got off the boat from Asia, she says “Mistra Bleuz, You passport mailed tomorrow.”

In a rush of appreciation and guilt that I ever questioned our democratic system, I profusely thank the agency for their understanding and commitment towards service. It was like all the dread and anxiety was unwarranted. A small voice in the back of my mind whispered “She said mailed?” My application fee included the most expensive overnight; first delivery express mail money could buy. I dismissed the red flag as a misunderstanding by the operator which would be cleared up in her next English language class later tonight.

Four days later, while traveling in Philadelphia, I realized that there has been no messages or calls of exaltation at having completed the obstacle course and thus receiving the prized passport, so I ask Mary once again to call the New Orleans processing center. This time she must have figured out how to add enough baritone to her voice to clear the security checkpoint. In a decidedly sheepish voice she said “You’re not going to like this!” At the moment I knew I was screwed. “Let me guess, the Asian refugee we talked to was wrong? How could take possibly happen?” I thought of the recent cell phone commercial “You know what Daddy got? Daddy got hosed!”

In most circumstances I would be able to postpone a meeting to buy some time to correct the problem, but as Murphy would have it, “No way in Hell!” The meeting in Toronto is a historic summit of forty experts from around the world convening to establish an occupational skills analysis of a new emerging profession. The summit is being funded by the Canadian government which includes hiring an internationally recognized authority in occupational analysis to facilitate the workshop. The event planners have been working for almost a year preparing the background documents and organizing the venue, which is going to be held in one of the most prestigious hotels in Toronto. The event will begin will with an extravagant cocktail party in the presidential suite of the hotel which is where the chairman of the summit will stay.

If you haven’t guessed by now, I am the chairman of the summit………….. “You know what Daddy got? Daddy got hosed!” I was fortunate to spend my two days in Philadelphia with a couple of Canadians from Toronto who lifted my spirits by telling how lax the process was, even after the deadline has passed. I even listened to the news reports and heard how accommodating the officials were, letting passengers through customs with a warning. “Don’t worry all you need is a driver’s license and a copy of the passport. Not a problem, eh!

Today was the Day of Judgment; could the unstoppable force defeat the immoveable object? With the eager anticipation of a child running down the stairs for Christmas, I dashed to the counter with my story and limited documentation. I smiled and politely explained the situation. Like a bug hitting the windshield at highway speeds, my day was over. The rest is somewhat a blur. I seem to recall saying “You don’t understand you mindless ape, if I’m not traveling to Toronto today; I have no need of f---cking rescheduling on another one of your f---cking flights.” The last thing I remember for sure was being escorted off of airport property by the security guards. Needless to say this is going to cost me a few dozen cavity searches, before the system decides I’ve been reformed and rehabilitated.

The best part is that I have a total of five days to complete the passport application process before my flight to Australia. I’m sure the lead story coverage on the five o’clock news program featuring me will help the processors in New Orleans get the message, that a crazed psycho is planning a trip to the Big Easy if a passport does shown up in a day or two.

As I peer over the smoking wreckage of today, I recognize that in my entire professional career that I have never had a belly flog from the high dive that even comes close to this one. Do not assume that statement means that my professional career is void of miscalculations, misunderstandings, mistakes, bad judgments and total lapses of mental functioning. Quite the contrary I’m a walking poster boy for stupid dog tricks. What makes this belly flop so monumental is that it exceeds by far all the other stupid actions of a generally mistake prone career. As I search to find meaning in the events of the day, attempting to extract wisdom, I am at a complete loss. Someone needs to paint the picture for me, show me the great spiritual purpose, and mentor me in understanding the cosmic forces at work, because all I’m coming up with is “Sometimes you eat the bar, and sometimes, well, he eats you, eh!”

“Failure is simply the opportunity to begin again, this time more intelligently.”
Henry Ford

To Slay Boreas

The time is growing short as I prepare for an epic battle with the Devouring One. My mind is stilled as the New Year approaches setting in motion a legendary struggle between mortal man and the god of the cold north wind, Boreas. Providence as has aligned the stars so that I will battle the white abyss as the first sun of the New Year sets over my small hamlet. So it has been written.

For those that do not know, Boreas was the Greek god of the cold north wind and the bringer of winter. His name meant "North Wind" or "Devouring One". Greek legend described Boreas as very strong, with a violent temper to match. He was frequently depicted as a winged old man with shaggy hair and beard, holding a conch shell and wearing a billowing cloak. During my journey I am sure to stare into his cold fierce eyes challenging his rule. Do not underestimate his power and cruelty as he recently stole Christmas from a quarter million travelers in Denver last week alone. He has been conserving his energy for the time when he is the strongest at which time he will seek vengeance and retribution from anyone that stands in his way. The lands on which we will battle are already known and the mild calm is only a retreat from the fury to come.

In a hundred years my travels will never be aligned such as they are for January. Fate has written this clash in the calendar without reprieve or repentance. I shall only be home about six days in January. As if I was attempting to provoke Boreas by spitting in his face, I will visit the cities of Toronto, Minneapolis, Chicago, Rapid City, Cheyenne and Denver to face the brunt of the cold while Philadelphia and Baltimore wait with ice and sleet. The only shelter I will find is three days in San Antonio to recover my strength and will. No one can expect to walk the razor’s edge for so long without bleeding. I’m sure it will provide the next generation hours of entertainment as the tales of courage are told before a warm fireplace.

Most people consider my actions as a road warrior who has gone insane. Why tempt fate and hurl myself into the lair of the winter gods. Everyone knows that I no longer ski or enjoy winter sports. The sad truth is that this fools schedule is another fleeting attempt to gain fame and fortune. However if I should survive, I will be granted my reward in February when I travel to Australia for three weeks during the waning of the summer season. What can I say “Only fools rush in where wise men fear to tread.” I’ll see you on the white side.

In the dread circle hemmed by glaciers,
Pallid waste where no radiant fathomers,
Columbuses or Gamas, ever pass,
In realms of dingy gloom and deep crevasse
Seized from creation by nonentity,
Beyond ice floe and berg and ice-bound sea,
Deep in the fog that quenches every ray,
In stone waves and rock waters, far from day,
Amid the gloom, there, on the pole, stands black
Archangel Winter, darkness on his back
And trumpet at his lips; nor does he cast
One flash of eye, or blow one clarion-blast;
He never even dreams, being sheer snow;
The winged winds, captives of that age-old foe
Silence, are in his hand—birds in a snare;
His sightless eyes horribly watch the air;
Hoarfrost is in his bones and on his head,
And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;
He terrifies the Vast, he seems so wild;
He is harsh, dismal, ice—that is, exiled;
The earth beneath his feet, in its dark cape,
Is dumb; he is the mute white stony shape
Set on that tomb in the eternal night;
Never does any motion, sound, or light
Brush the lone giant in that somber pall.
But when, on the timepieces that we call
Stars, the last day, endless and centerless,
Will sound, then the Lord's face will luminesce
And melt the spirit; his mouth will distend
Suddenly, in a savage, dreadful bend,
And the worlds—skiffs rudderless, rolling on—
Will hear the storm-blast of his clarion.

Archangel Winter
by Victor Hugo

The Meeting Place

Toronto is a place that I had no image or expectation. My brief internet search before I stepped on the plane provided few clues as to the real identity of the city I would soon be experiencing. It is rare that I travel to a destination completely cold without a list of attractions that I would attempt to visit if circumstances allowed. The list is always more extensive than time ever allows. Other commitments consumed every minute for weeks prior to the trip so the journey had the feel of a scavenger hunt. I was unaware of the hotel I was booked at until I pulled out the memo on the plane. The only fundamental piece of information I knew was that I should expect my cab ride to the hotel to cost about $40.00.

Toronto would not reveal itself immediately. Clearing customs was simple, although a passport will be required by year end. Previous international travel taught me some simple rules. Change some money at the airport so you have local currency for the cab ride. This limits the opportunities for getting short changed by the cabbie. Always ignore the gypsy cab and limo drivers in baggage claim. They are typically planning to give you a real a real ride at twice the cost.

The first impression of the city was a huge traffic jam on the interstate. As we slowly passed the bumper to bumper traffic, I noticed the wide range of ethnic nationalities represented. I would later be surprised to learn that Toronto is the most ethically diverse city in the world.

Toronto is a Huron people's word meaning 'Meeting Place'. In the 1600’s Toronto was very crucial for its series of trails and water routes that led from northern and western Canada to the Gulf of Mexico. Known as the "Toronto Passage", it followed the Humber River, as an important overland shortcut between Lake Ontario and the upper Great Lakes. For this reason Toronto became a hot spot for French fur traders.

Toronto is the 5th largest city in North America at 2.4 million, which are more people than the populations of most of the provinces and territories in Canada. The ethnic diversity is what sets Toronto apart from other North American cities. Toronto is home to virtually all of the world's culture groups and is the city where more than 100 languages are spoken.


According to the City of Toronto’s website, “once primarily a British and protestant city, immigration has played a dynamic role in the changing face of Toronto since the end of the Second World War. Today, 42 per cent of all Canadian immigrants choose Toronto as their destination and as such, Toronto's visible minority population now accounts for more than 40 per cent of the population compared to 11 per cent nationwide. There are more than 90 different ethnic groups in the Toronto area and over one million non-English or French speaking people. The top ten source countries for immigration to Canada were China, India, Pakistan, Hong Kong, Iran, Sri Lanka, Philippines, Taiwan, Russia and Jamaica.”

It is apparent to the casual visitor that the city has embraced the many cultures of the world and it is working! Toronto has bilingual street signs, specialty stores, ethnic restaurants, ethnic publications and a variety of ethnic shopping centers. It is a vibrant city that at times feels more European than any other city in North America. Unlike other American cities there was not a racial undercurrent of conclaves. The atmosphere on the street was decidedly tolerant and open. Even the street beggars did not have an “in your face” attitude. They would silently stand and open a door to a store for you and politely say “have a nice day”. I’ve always maintained a simple rule for street beggars; you must contribute something to society even if it is a simple act. Act as a part of society not as outcast from it and I will contribute to your cause. Not once in my trip did I experience any individual in the city of Toronto act outside of societal boundaries, although there was clear and exuberate expression of ethnic multiculturism and individualism. I’m sure I could have found trouble if I had enough time, but it was refreshing that it was cloistered out of reach.

During dinner one night I overheard a discussion of two middle aged ladies from Toronto who were discussing the experience of a friend, who had recently moved with her husband to Chicago. She was white and her husband was black. The conversation focused on the racism the couple experienced in Chicago. The two ladies were in disbelief, appalled and dumbfounded that such demeaning and restrictive racial environment existed in the world. The married couple was denied a home purchase in a neighborhood because the husband was black. They described in great detail each of the subtle acts of racism that the couple experienced each day. I found myself quietly nodding in agreement as each violation was described.

The view during dinner from the CN tower.

At the start of the conversation I falsely assumed that the ladies were naïve to big city urban culture which requires a certain level of personal diligence mixed with slight adventure-like tension. Towards the end of the conversation my perspective shifted to the fact that racism and intolerance is alive and well in the states. This paradigm shift was only possible while being immersed in this incredible diverse city without a hint of these issues. For a moment I was able to examine our urban culture for what it was, a series of seething unhealed wounds. I was saddened by the realization that we tend to treat each other as if we are all five years old and are still on the playground. In reality, I must apologize to the five year olds because at that age we are all color blind and could not grasp the concept of racial intolerance.

I continue to wrestle with the meaning of this epiphany. Toronto was a mirror in which I could closely examine myself. Like finding the first grey hair or wrinkle in a once youthful face, you are profoundly confronted with the realization that you are not who you think you are. I am grateful to Toronto for this refreshing slap in the face. I will eagerly await my next opportunity to visit this invisible city on the northern plains which is the most cultural diverse city in the world. Who would have thunk-it???