A Dream Dies

It is with great sadness that I must report that New Hampshire does not appear to have my brand of frozen tortellini for sale in its supermarkets. Thus ends my quest to, as my parents say, become a tortellini. In compensation I commit myself to eating more of my other regular staples to include donuts and sandwiches. With any luck and continued perseverance I can obtain my alternate goal; that of becoming a pizza. I counsel everyone in this time of trouble and hardship to evaluate their own lives and to each consider in their own ways what frozen tortellini means to them. We are a strong people, and together we can be a strong nation. This crisis too will pass. Just like the refrigerated tortellini and frozen chimichanga crises of the past. Thank you for your time and thank you for your compassion. And please, if anyone has any frozen tortellini with them; please send it to me. Good night, God bless, and God bless America.

Thirty-Four Hours Later (Mexico to New Hampshire)

Patrick and I drove for what very well may have been forever. I haven’t added it all up yet. We crossed over 2,000 miles and drove through what must have been 400 different states. The last few hundred miles of which, it should be noted, were on small town country roads which are not particularly suitable for overladen U-Hauls with trailers attached. For all the talk of America being a patchwork of different and distinct communities and environments it all seemed to run together to me. Texas was dry and flat. In Arkansas trees began showing up. Tennessee, Kentucky, and Ohio were just more trees. And in New York mountains were added. And I guess in Vermont we started seeing signs warning of moose crossing, but we saw no meese. We had no schedule to start with and it quickly became evident that even winging it would require a fair amount of improvisation. The end string of events which we’ll call a plan consisted of a late start from San Antonio followed by a late arrival in Little Rock where we stayed at my good friend Trent’s family’s place. After waffles for dinner and waffles for breakfast we had another late start and decided, heck with sleep and time tables, let’s just drive until we puke. Or fall asleep and drive off a mountain pass, whatever the typical end result of driving more than humans were ever intended to drive. This led to dinner in Nashville that same day, a semi-delirious midnight drive through Ohio on my part, a completely unarousable period of sleep where I’m told Beeders drove through more of Ohio, lunch in some random Vermont town whose name I can no longer remember, and, finally, a reasonable arrival into Lebanon about 54 hours later. It is conceivable according to Google Maps that if we had driven continuously without eating, worn spaceman adult diapers, received inflight refueling by military aircraft, and somehow pole vaulted over all the mountain towns of New York and Vermont we could have done it in 34 hours, but I believe that has only been successfully completed once before by people far more industrious than us. Perhaps the Japanese. So all in all I got to say not bad. If there’s ever a national U-Haul racing circuit I think Patrick and I just very well may place. Maybe go semi-pro.

And now for a Beeder photo montage...

Pre-trip. Patrick wanted nothing but the finest of food on this adventure. So I took him to Rudy's. I think he liked it. Or we should never trust his thumbs up ever again.

Although the theme for this photo slide show adventure is "places Patrick ate," I felt we needed a picture of our crammed U-Haul + crammed MINI. In the sense that a MINI can be crammed at least.

First stop. The Czeck Stop! I was never truly a full convert to the cult of kolache during my time at Texas A&M (I will always love myself some donuts), but I did have to admit these kolaches were pretty great. And so I made Beeders eat some.

Beeders has kolache poisoning. He later gained 5 lbs and then woke up.

In the middle of Vermont. (I think I lost my picture at Coco's Italian restaurant in Nashville, the best restaurant.) This place had "spiedies" which were... I guess messy sandwiches? It was connected to a tire shop so they may just have been heavily sauced, bread wrapped vulcanized rubber scraps for all I know.

Lou's in Hanover. Good hamburgers. I approve. Patrick approves. Everybody approves.

First night in New Hampshire: Ramunto's Brick Oven Pizza! Made by robots in cast iron baking vaults. Although it was attached to a building made of brick, the only bricks actually in the joint were placed there by accident. Or as props. That said our super garlic pizza was pretty good.

Lastly: breakfast at Ace's Diner in Lebanon. The inside of this place was great, like a giant classic diner stereotype, and the food was tasty. Patrick on the other hand was not amused. Or just not happy that I was about to ship his butt off to Boston on a bus.

In the end the drive was long, but not too long. It was boring, but not too boring. The trailer amazingly never unhitched and the truck amazingly never exploded. Patrick forgave me for the bus ticket, and I think overall he had a reasonable time. He tells me such at least. He may just be saying that to practice his diplomacy as an aspiring ambassador, though. Perhaps he's secretly developing a covert nuclear weapons program. In either case, I appreciated his help and I'd be more than happy to provide him with fissile material should ever the need arise.

A Celebrity Appearance

The Jenkins, made famous by shows such as Molokai Gleeks and the Jenkins College Road Trip, made a guest cameo appearance a few days ago as part of Moriah’s transcontinental publicity tour. Although it is a well known fact that I am a fan of the Jenkins and their work, I unfortunately just barely missed them during their show in Chicago a few weeks back. Finally getting to see them live again, then, was fantastic. Although their standup has changed some over the years with less of the slapstick sister beating sister that gave them prominence early on, the more mature nature of their current performance has really helped provide character development. During this latest event they arrived early while Patrick and I were still desperately working to get everything packed and ready for my move to New Hampshire. Despite this haphazard way they were introduced into the series, their poise and comedic timing carried the day. Between the way they stuffed every nook and cranny of the moving truck with the remaining debris of my apartment, to the way they all seven (with their uncle and cousin) bunked down for the night on the cement floor of an empty studio apartment, to the way they hurled random objects at each other’s faces when they ran out of better things to occupy themselves with, it was pure comedic gold. The one scene where Sarah walked down to the moving van with arms full of nothing more than random wires was classic Jenkins and certainly a highlight of the evening. Although I was disappointed they didn’t play up the offer for ice cream scene – who doesn’t want ice cream while on an evening stroll in the hottest city on the planet? – I was overall very satisfied with their total product. I look forward to seeing them live again, hopefully during their upcoming Christmas holiday tour in December, and I'll definitely be buying their t-shirts. If only there was a Jenkins family coozie....

Reformation and Restoration in Hispaniola

A few months back I found myself in the back of a small, white commercial van bouncing along the dusty roads of an equally small, rural Dominican village. In the van, crammed inside with me, were a number of military physicians, nurses, optometrists and other medical personnel sharing space and either passing out for a brief disorienting nap or discussing whatever it is suited our interests at the particular moment. And this particular moment it was Mormonism.

Now those who know me know there's little I love to talk about more than Mormonism.* Nothing gets me more excited than the Book of Mormon. Between all the talk about Nephites, Lamanites, golden plates, seer stones, potions, elves, and orcs; I get pretty psyched. And I was never more excited than when they finally made it all into a movie trilogy starring Rudy Ruettiger. I wasn’t the one who did the talking this time, though, as we had with us on this particular ride our very own gang of Mormon missionaries. Or is it a pod? A pod of Mormon missionaries? Gaggle? Herd? A murder? In whichever case the Mormons -- there were about 6 or 7 of 'em -- had been working with us on and off for the previous few days in our attempts to convert the entire country into a liberal democracy under our Lord and Savior Joseph Smith. They helped fill our significant Spanish translator gap and served as essentially our only Creole translators early on. They were not officially assigned to work with us, and their attendance was rather random, but their assistance was invaluable.

This particular conversation started with my relatively innocuous question of why they all wore white button up shirts and ties. (Answer: something to do with them being elders?) This was then followed by my slightly less innocent question of what the next step after elder was, and exactly how many points it took to level up. After that the fire had been set and the rest of the back of the van took over in what would be a 45 minute debate as to whether or not Mormonism was the One, True™ Religion. The details of the discussion are largely unimportant as it was mostly a disjointed, random exchange of accusations, defenses, and barely comprehensible apologetics as these conversations often become in the setting of large group discussion, but what did interest me was the oft-repeated claim that what separated Mormonism from other religions and other brands of Christianity in general was that its foundation was not a “reformation” of sorts – i.e. something decided upon and brought about my man – but rather a unique “restoration” which was God breathed and Heavenly led. Man was not rebuking and reforming man, but God Himself was intervening to restore the true religion to the planet. Its history then, whether true or not, was what separated it from other heresies and was what served as testament to its ultimate veracity. It was a claim I have heard made by many religions now, and a claim which, by and large, I think is bunk. Whatever you want to call it, reformation or restoration, the processes which brought about a good number of today’s modern religions were largely the same.

Luther, prior to taking the first steps towards what would eventually be Lutheranism and the start of Protestantism as a whole, was only brought to take that step by a divine vow to God during a terrible thunderstorm. Calvin, before his embracing of the six points, was only led away from Catholicism and into his reformist zeal by a personal conversion experience of his own. Even though neither of these “reformers” invested into their religions stories about sunglasses and mass transatlantic migrations to South America, each felt he was nevertheless led by God to “restore” Christianity to its rightful, original state. And truly no religious sect can be said to be more in touch with the Divine than the Charismatics who regularly commune with Him through the gifts of tongues and prophesy, and who in their birth at the turn of the last century felt their changes were not some academically inspired changing of the rules but a glorious return to Christianity’s ancient roots. And if survival of belief despite wackiness of back story is the key to a true restoration? Truly no Christian branch can beat the Seventh Day Adventists who have at their very foundation a failed guess at apocalypse by their theological head William Miller in 1844. And if authenticity is verified by an inability to compose wackiness on one’s own, then no Christian denomination has got anything on the Prophet Muhammad (peace and virgins be upon him) who was thought by many to be completely illiterate and yet received and recorded God’s word through Gabriel. From a proper vantage point it is indeed not the restorative nature of Mormonism which distinguishes itself from all other religions, but it is what in fact unites it with all others. No preacher or prophet since the passing of BC to AD has claimed to invent a religion. They have all claimed to simply be bringing man back to what God had always wanted for him: the One, True™ Religion.

Mormon doctrine aside, what surprised me most from my interactions with the gang of Mormons wasn’t their beliefs, but their disposition. Given another time, another place, and another twist of faith they would no longer be Mormon missionaries but Evangelical missionaries. Nearly everything about them save their pointdexter shirts and ties reminded me of the dutiful, young Christian missionary fresh from his church youth group, ready to passionately share his faith, and with only a superficial familiarity of the depth and nature of the world’s great number of faiths. Despite their stuttering and stumbling, despite the fragmented sometimes circular nature of their arguments, and despite the flashes of confusion that periodically shadowed their faces they continued to debate and share as if by earnestness and eagerness they could make up for what they didn’t understand. They were being the salt of the Earth, a city on a hill, the lights of the world -- only in a world with a slightly different God who just so happened to have a thing for polygamy. Although I’d like to think I was a slightly smarter and handsomer version of them back in the day the nature and character of my belief was likely very much the same.

With that car ride as the backdrop for my religious disposition during the trip, my religious experience in the Dominican was not over. On the next to last day, the evening before our flight back to the States we went to the beach on the northern coast of the island. Good times were had by all, too good a time was had by many. After fighting to get back on the exact same buses we rode in on, we then slowly convoyed back to the FOB a noisy mess of relatively inebriated gringos. While many slept, a sizable portion decided a late evening drive home was the perfect time to tell random jokes for an hour straight all of which, from what I can tell, were terrifically funny. Having laughed as much as I could that day already I put on some head phones, turned on some Eve 6, and had some time to myself. And I never felt more alone. Not in the lonely sense -- I had a good friend sitting across from me in the seat adjacent, passed out -- but in the cosmic, existential, you are alone in the universe sense. It has been in my best estimation for a number of years now that there is no god, but it was only now that as much as such a thought can be felt I felt it. Thinking of the trip and the various parties that had taken part in it: the Mormon missionaries who valiantly strove to shape the world into God’s great image; the Haitian patients numbed by tragedy, poverty, and sometimes a bit of the dullards; the Dominican patients from all walks of life, with all sorts of expectations, who all for whatever reasons generally didn’t like the Haitians; the young Dominican translators who generously helped translate for us when they weren’t too busy flirting amongst themselves; the forward operating base’s officer corps who were primarily concerned with the strict implementation of rules and successful project implementation or enjoyment of the experience secondarily; the residents who were assigned to the MEDRETE and who were indifferent to its outcomes; the residents who volunteered for the job and who were disillusioned, excited, or bewildered with its progress; the multitude of family, friends, and strangers back home and the world over going about their lives, focused solely on their lives, and familiar only with their own perspectives; and the notion of an all powerful god underwriting the whole story seemed to me just a little silly. I don’t use run on sentences loosely -- in two weeks I had met and interacted with a seemingly numberless sum of people of different backgrounds, upbringings, world views, and nowhere did I see any grand purpose underwriting any of their lives. There was no unifying theme or central plot, just a thousand unconnected story lines. God’s invisible hand in life is often stated to be that of a great weaver forever working on the most intricate, beautiful, and complex of tapestries that is our world. We, seeing only one side of it, the side of its construction with its loose and extraneous threads and colors, often do not appreciate any sense or design in it. But God, seeing the finished side with every string in place and every image in full detail, knowing the pattern and purpose behind His every stroke, fully appreciates the plan He has for every one of us. I acknowledge my view is limited in life, but I feel I got the biggest glimpse yet of the tapestry, even if the reversed side, and still all I see is threads.

This is not meant to be a polemic against religion. The variability in world views and life courses does not prove anything about god. The seeming lack of purpose proves nothing more than that we are perhaps not meant to know. All I know is that during that ride back to base with all the commotion of the preceding twelve days sloshing around in my mind I’d never less felt a need for there to be a god in the world and I’d never less seen evidence of one in life. And though that may sound like a despairing thing to say, for me it is not. It was a moment of clarity. A brief moment of serenity. I was comfortable because it made sense even if it wasn’t the Truth everyone hopes for. When we got back to the barracks and as I sweated up to my sweaty room I was grateful for the Mormons and all their Mormonism. Their efforts may have not paid the dividends they had wanted, but I definitely feel as if I had profited from the experience. It’s just a shame I couldn’t join their club. I hear there ain’t no Heaven like Mormon Heaven.

*Wait, that’s Mormonism? I thought that was Pokemon? Isn’t Mormonism a card game? Pokemon versus the Latter Day Saints?

Sing A Song Of Celeberation

Glory, glory, hallelujah! I have graduated residency and will soon by shedding off the chains of oppression. Loosening the bindings which have held me down. And getting the heck out of these dry barren, South Texan lands as swiftly as possible. (To be fair San Antonio *does* have four seasons: early summer, summer, late summer, and not summer.) The indentured servitude is coming to a close. Truthfully I have one more week of medicine consults till I am truly free, but I plan to defer all medical management questions to my consult monkey who I have trained in the use of both Essentris and the red pocket medicine book. My only regret is that I will not be able to see the old hospital pancaked through controlled explosions, and my one great wish for the future is to see via video feed the old hospital pancaked through controlled explosions. People tell me New Hampshire is going to be cold and unbelievably snowy, but people don't know that for the seven years I've prayed for cold and unbelievably snowy. I'd rather get sweaty shoveling snow off my car than simply because I am sitting inside of it.

Seven more days of work. However many days of military out-processing. A day or two of packing. And freedom!

Cactus to Clouds (Almost)

A few weeks ago -- for no particularly good reason -- my nephew and I climbed a mountain. Not in the sense that we drove to a parking lot within a few thousand feet of a summit and then finished the business with a leisurely trot or even in the sense that we overcame a profound spiritual or psychosocial problem by digging deep down inside ourselves to find the strength our parents and elementary school teachers always knew we had, but in the "we started at the bottom of a mountain and hiked to friggin' top of it" sense. And it turns out that involves quite a bit of hiking. Truthfully we did not "hike" "all the way" to the "summit" -- my chicken legs wouldn't have it -- but we did make it a little over 4/5 the way and with a change in elevation of a little over 8000 feet I'm sticking by it. Regardless, I now have a feeling of accomplishment where the feeling in my feet used to be. Plus Beeders refused to drag my body up the rest of the way so in a way it's really his fault.

Speaking of Beeders, here is Patrick chronicling our journey through forced picture taking.

Time 05:30.

Cactus to Clouds begins, conveniently enough, in the cacti of Palm Desert which is itself situated in the largest retirement community of Hades. In order to avoid the heat we had to start painfully early in the morning. It took a while to find the trail head so we got started about 30 minutes later than we had planned to.

Time 06:30.

One hour down. Sun is up. Everybody's smiling. We're crisscrossing the mountain and desperately trying to follow the trail marked by white paint blotches which were thankfully fairly easy to see. There were, unfortunately, however, white pain blotches everywhere. I'd the say the three or so diversions we took were scenic, but it's the desert. They were just thorny wastes of time.

Time 07:30.

Second hour up and we're finally through all the switchbacks and over lapping trails. We have now entered the realm of the bees, however. Although you cannot see them they we there. It turns out the desert is full of bees actually. They were likely just doing regular bee things, but with that many in one place you gotta think they were up to no good. Terrorism probably. Thankfully we minded our business and they minded theirs.

Time 08:30.

Third hour up! Finally starting to get some elevation underneath us. Still have no idea how far we have to go and, therefore, still smiling.

Time 09:40.

Fourth hour up. Turns out the fourth hour is a lot like the third hour: lots of hiking through desert. By this time we were far enough to realize we had a long way to go, but not far enough to have any idea exactly how far. It was at this point I began considering selling Beeders to some coyotes in exchange for a taxi ride back into town.

Time 010:30.

Fifth hour. Will we ever get out of this infernal desert?

I must admit. I was getting a little tired now. Patrick nevertheless refused to carry me on his back.

Time 011:40.

Sixth hour! Ooh isn't that lovely?! Yeah. Great. I'm ready to lie down and die. Beeders is still smiling for whatever reason.

Time 12:40.

The seventh hour! The ecology is finally starting to change! No more dried plants, dirt, and lizards. Just pine trees, dirt, and lizards.

Time 13:45.

Hour eight! We're so close we can almost taste it. Patrick was so inspired he decided to jump for this photo. It may or may not have taken about six takes before we got it right. It was around this time that the bronzed wild mountain man passed us up with his hiking stick. I think he was on drugs.

Time 14:05.

The clouds! We made it to the top, sort of! In a sense! We made it to the tram station and level ground which, I decided, was an excellent place for a stop. And for a nap. And to maybe not hike any more ever again.

As noted before technically the top of the Cactus to Clouds trail is the summit of Mount San Jacinto which was about another 2,000 feet in elevation gain, but screw Mount San Jacinto. Some things mankind was never intended to do. I got to spend a great day outside in God's brown Earth with my nephew, and a beautiful tram ride slowly returned us back to the desert. It returned us to the desert in a different part of town thus requiring a 6 mile walk back, but it was a beautiful tram ride down nevertheless. And three days later? A California Angel's game. All in all all good times.

The Best Trip Ever (And A Few Lies)

There's a saying that goes something like, "if you can't say something nice, then just suggest it through thinly veiled generalities." It is very similar to the popular and oft quoted, "turn the other cheek so as to begin your roundhouse kick." It's the moral high ground in our current crazy, mixed up, passive-aggressive, and duplicitous world today. And I am nothing if not moral. Assuming "moral" is a synonym for either "male" or "Caucasian."

As such I have nothing but good things to say about my recent MEDRETE trip with the Army to the Dominican Republic to deliver health care to the those less fortunate. The thick blanket of rules provided at the Foward Operating Base (FOB) gave me a snug sense of security while the daily ration of Meals Ready to Eat (MREs) gave both my jaw a rest and my colon a work out. The feverish pace at which we saw patients taught me how to diagnose a whole array of diseases and medical conditions based on the slightest amount of information -- even if I didn't understand a word they were saying! And the contraband sniffing dog at the Health and Wellness formation? Man, that was one cute dog.

It wasn't all sunshine and unicorns, though. They did make us go to the beach the last day, and take this ridiculous picture.


The smiles were forced. Truthfully, I spent most my time thinking about chow.











Some pictures. Hopefully there'll be more later if the official photo sergeant ever gets back to us with all the photos she took.