paranoia

The Chool Bus (ch16)

CHAPTER 16: A different breed of preppers in Spokane, a visit to the Grand Cooley Dam, and a pilgrimage to the home of Grunge Metal’s birthplace.

The gang was stoked! Through all those years and hundreds of gigs, The Forks had never been to Seattle, the birthplace of their favorite music hotbed. And now just a couple more stops to make and they’d be poised at the very doorstep of Grunge Mecca.

First, Spokane… Jack wanted to visit a former colleague and her husband. She, former office manager now golf pro. And he, former hockey pro and veteran of the now turbulent software development business. His firm was grappling with the rise of large language artificial intelligence models (AI) transforming job prospects for code jockeys into something more akin to project management positions. AI was indeed usurping entry level programming jobs and code jockeys were either learning to better interface with people or find other lines of work. Fortunately, Jack’s friend was boardroom politics adept and still gainfully employed.

When the Chool Bus rolled past the address provided, surroundings resembled a Mad Max wasteland so Billie asked Jack to confirm. They could see what looked like a fairly nice house a quarter mile off the paved road. On a dirt road with the surrounding land littered with loose barbed wire, abandoned vehicles, rotting boats, and piles of garbage. 

“Is this it?” cried Billie. “I don’t want the Bus stuck in quicksand, brambles, or a drug deal gone bad.”

Jack put a call into his old friends, Mai and Brandon Wilson. “What gives, Girlfriend? We’re here, but the neighborhood doesn’t look altogether settled… are we in the right place?”

Brandon said he could see the bus from his living room window so, “Yeah, this is the place.”  

Jack introduced the Forks to his friends, former colleagues, hell mates. Mai was from Cambodia and Brandon was Canadian. They were a colorful couple. She was Asian through and through, and he was cracker as they come, she’d refer to him as Honkey from time to time and he affectionately called her Dragon Lady on occasion. The most interesting thing about this colorful couple: Their kids, a boy and a girl, were about as normal as their parents were eccentric. And all of them under a fortified, swanky, million dollar home, nestled in a grove of trees, at the lip of a gorge with a freshwater creek at its base, stocked with provisions, self-sufficient power generation, and weapons ready to survive a zombie apocalypse.

“Wow, this is a far cry from the suburban tract home you had back in the aughts,” said Jack. He was still puzzling over the area’s apparent desolation, and why these folks would choose it for their great Spokane redoubt. 

“Yeah, well apparently your sense of paranoia is contagious.” Mai was fairly snappy with the comebacks. 

“But why? Won’t this area get developed somewhere down the road?” Jack was a self-confessed paranoid, but not pathological, and not nearly enough to invest a million dollars for an opulent mansion plopped down in a rusty dusty junkyard.

“Hey, we’re only a fifteen minute drive from the nearest provision outlets. It’s not as isolated as it seems.” Mai was whipping up her famous sticky rice and spicy dipping sauces. She loves those traditional dishes but Brandon prefers pizza and beer, because, you know… honkey. So, whenever Jack comes around, Mai puts on the spread. It’s a spectacular introduction to Asian food for Professor T, Billie, and Buck. 

After a couple hours of visiting and cleaning up after the meal, the Forks remounted the Chool Bus. A ninety minute drive to the Grand Cooley Dam. They’d catch the 2:00pm guided tour, then push on to the outskirts of Seattle where they’d settle in for the night. In the morning, after enjoying some famous Rain City coffee and danish, the Forks would make their way to London Bridge Studio. This is where a who’s-who of Grunge bands recorded in the 1990s. The first four Alice in Chains recordings, Pearl Jam’s biggest seller, 10, Soundgarden’s major label debut, Louder than Love, Mother Love Bone, Temple of the Dog, and, the thing that Mork T wanted to see most, the vocal booth where Alice in Chains recorded, Man in the Box. 

Next, they’d make their way to Black Dog Forge, a famous practice place for Soundgarden and Pearl Jam to name just a couple. Some of the most classic grunge cuts were written in that basement rehearsal space. Unfortunately, they wouldn’t get inside. They were, however, able to visit room #207, the Sub Pop Suite at the Palladium Hotel, lots of Sub Pop memorabilia, especially the most famous Sub Pop recording, Nirvana’s Bleach. 

Then, of course, a visit to the Edgewater Hotel, a veritable blizzard of music memorabilia, starting with the ‘60s when the Beatles rented rooms after being rejected by other hotels in the area. After that, many other iconic acts stayed at the Edgewater, Led Zeppelin and many more. 

After this whirlwind jaunt through Grunge Mecca, the Forks stopped for a late lunch at the Sub Pop founder’s favorite spot, Pho Bac. Back in the day, Pho Bac had two menu items: small and large bowls of Vietnamese soup, considered medicinal in some circles. Mia and Jack’s favorite work lunch choice back when they were Spokane hell mates in the aughts. Billie shared the sentiment and insisted, “We GOTTA have lunch at Pho Bac!” When they got there they found the original location was closed, but a new one was established a few short yards away… 

Ummmm Pho… good music… good friends… good soup. 

NEXT WEEK:
Professor T explains the rationale for his research.

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links

The Chool Bus (ch15)

CHAPTER 15: Billie and MollyG enjoy the steamy Clearwater Mineral Pool and Coeur d’Alene turns out bland as any mid-sized white-bread college town.

The gang decided to go separate ways for recreation in the Missoula area, Jack and Buck teamed up on a mission to experience the local flavors, that is, the local brew-pub flavors. Experiencing the people was important too, but, according to Jack, “a man has to have priorities.” 

Professor T held the Chool Bus down as a substantial backlog of business had accumulated since departing on this leg of the trip. He wanted it all moved to the outbox before heading to Coeur d’Alene for the next round of focus group interviews. 

By the time Professor T finished his morning necessaries, Billie and MollyG were making their way to the Clearwater Forest in Molly’s Mini Cooper. The ladies had been an item back in the 90s when the Forks were in their heyday, and though their breakup was mostly amicable, Billie suspected Molly hadn’t doused that torch. But as they say… time and tide. MollyG moved on, married one of her favorite high school party pals, had a fulfilling career as a social media strategist, her husband turned out to be a decent human being, and their kids looked to be developing mostly stable. “No complaints. Life is good, though a little predictable and sometimes kind of boring.” Molly was unloading on her trusted confidant and former lover. 

“I’m glad we could reconnect,” said Billie as the ladies eased a’la natural into the healing steam of the Clearwater mineral pool. 

“I often wonder what our lives might have been like had we stayed together,” said Molly. 

“Well, it wouldn’t have been boring.” Billie had the matter settled. “I’ve given this a lot of thought and like you, i’m inclined to go with the normie flow. I don’t try to hide who i really am, but when i think about the challenge of raising children, it would stop being so much about me. I’d strive to give my kids a clean runway into the world. And besides, if there’s a ring on my finger, the town busybodies will have fewer handles to grab when looking for someone to ruin.” Molly turned to Billie with a puzzled squint. “I know that sounds a smidge paranoid. Probably from traveling with a cyber security researcher.” Molly knew she was talking about Jack Dean, someone she had dated before meeting Billie.

“Right.” Molly’s memory bank was dumping Jack residue on her head like Nickelodeon green slime. 

“Like Jack always says, ‘just because your paranoid, doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you.’ Not sure if Jack or Curt Cobane coined that.” MollyG was a big Nirvana fan, but for her the quote oozed with Jack energy.  

The ladies had a pleasant catchup session, and by the time they were dried, combed, and scrunchied, Billie felt confident MollyG had made peace with her lingering desires. After getting back into their street clothes they remounted the Mini Cooper delivering Billie back to the Chool Bus and MollyG to the hearth and home of her little family.

In the morning, Jack and Buck regaled the Forks with some tidbits picked up on their Missoula bar crawl: First, the locals are proud of their rugged, slow-paced, wild-west, hard workin’ diverse heritage, meaning elements of the pale-faced pioneers and the great spirit native sentiments blend in a unique stew that places a high value on protecting the state’s natural beauty and unique history.

But then, the true aim comes bursting forth. You see, Jack is a beer hound, and some of the best brews, according to the Great American Beer Fest, can be found right there in Missoula. The boys started with The oldest brewery in town and the only German microbrewery in the Montana Rockies focusing on traditional lagers. They concluded the tour with a 12 tap pub serving artisan pizza, and a patio with a bird’s eye view of the surrounding mountains.

“Don’t mind me, i’ll just hang around the bus and do all the grunt work.” Professor T was feigning jealousy looking for a humor opening… failing to find one, with a slow smile, he assured the gang he was, “just kidding. In fact, i’m all caught up.”

“Maybe you can lighten up a smidge, yes?” Jack was acting like a jerk.

“We’ll see what we can do,” said Mork Thompson with Jack’s assholiness washing right off his back like water on a duck.

The trip to Coeur d’Alene was a bit tense given Professor T’s apprehension regarding the apocalyptic mood of the Great American Redoubt. He was afraid his research into the fibrillating heart of the divided nation might be misconstrued by these end-times preppers as having a political agenda at odds with their ideas about the future.

“Ah, don’t let it worry you.” Jack of all people was playing the voice of reason for a change. “I’m told their ravings are more bluster than anything, though i know their weapons are real. I once employed a network administrator to work in a Spokane office, but he lived on the outskirts of Coeur d’Alene. He invited me to dinner with his family. Seven dirt eaters, door slammers and curtain climbers crawling around the property like feral cats, but cute, yeah. His wife was a consummate den mom. She was able to whip those rug rats into line for dinner like a drill sergeant.” Jack took a bite from the breakfast burrito he had picked up at the grab-n-go.

“Tell Buck about his man cave,” Billie called out from the driver’s seat.

“Oh, yeah. Well, this guy was definitely strapped. His man cave was lined with pistols, rifles, survival gear, and some ominous crates in a dark corner. I asked him about those crates, about the size of a rocket-propelled grenade launcher, if he had one, that is.” 

“Woah!” Buck was paying close attention to Jack’s story. 

“Yeah,” said Jack. “I asked about them, and his response would have been funny if not cliche. He said, and i quote, ‘i could tell you, but…’ And that’s where my curiosity reached its end. I really didn’t want to know this about him.”

“Did he think you were going to leave it at that?” Buck was curious.

“Well, for all i know, those crates were filled with first-aid gear and supplies. None of it was any of my business. The guns i saw were all legal and registered. The evening left me the impression that he was an old-fashioned, be fruitful and multiply church-going, hard working American dad with enough ordinance to protect the brood in the event of an attack from a hostile force.” 

“Was he a good network admin?” Buck wanted to know.

“Sure, he never gave me cause to think otherwise. For all i know, he’s providing quality IT support for some other firm as we speak. But i had to block him on Facebook as he’s a prolific Christian doomsday ranter and it stopped being funny, so i really don’t know what he’s up to now.”

“None of this feels comforting,” Professor T was half listening to the conversation, and sinking deeper into an unsettling dread.

“You’ll see,” Jack was slightly amused by Professor T’s uncharacteristic concern. And as the Forks were packing the Chool Bus for the next leg of the trip, Professor T had forgotten all of those worries as the focus group and interactions around Coeur d’Alene turned out to be bland and pedestrian as one might expect from any Norman Rockwell world depicted in those Americana Paintings.

NEXT WEEK:
A different breed of preppers in Spokane, a visit to the Grand Cooley Dam, and a pilgrimage to the home of Grunge Metal’s birthplace. 

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links

The Chool Bus (ch03)

Chapter 3: Jack Dean makes paranoia a viable career path

By the wall clock it was 9:15pm. Jack Dean had no plan to still be on campus after celebrating accomplishments and attending end of semester ceremonies. But he had grades to turn in and that needed to be done Monday at noon. Normally he would have saved some of that work for Saturday but he was scheduled to hit the road with his former band mates, Mork Thompson and Billie Schmidt and he needed Saturday and Sunday for attending personal tasks preparing for the first of many road trips supporting Thompson’s research project searching for the fibrillating heart of our divided nation. Fortunately, he was able to click submit on the final class roster before 10:00pm. Now he could head home, get some sleep, and get his business done in time to check in with the gang Sunday afternoon.

Back in the day Jack played a crucial role in the Grunge band (The Forks) with Billie and Professor Thompson (stage name, Mork T.). Jack was not just a perfectly serviceable bass player, he was also the glue that kept Mork T, the group’s center of gravity and Billie Schmidt, their kinetic hot-headed drummer from flying apart. A bit of a paranoia case, Jack could sense when trouble was brewing. Not only between his mercurial companions but also with promoters, venue owners, and fans. Like… he had a 6th sense antenna for trouble. Fortunately, these proclivities served him well after the band broke up and each member sought their own post rock-n-roll life. 

Again, Jack was a bit of a paranoid, not pathological, but enough to make sleep a bit of a challenge. His nighttime MO consisted of a couple hits of primo weed and a beer or two on weekends. On this occasion he skipped the beer and hit the hay after packing his ganja back in it’s safe place. Tomorrow would be dedicated to making preparations for weeks on the road conducting focus group interviews and tending to logistics with the assistance of a US road atlas and a new GPS app sporting various celebrity personalities for voices. Jack called the app, Siri’s Drunk Sister (SDS) because it had led him astray a couple times and he felt he needed to cross-reference questionable back road routes with the official road atlas. No worries, the extra vigilance was worth the trouble because the newest build had Samuel L Jackson and Roseanne Barr among others giving voice instructions. Colorful remonstrations issued forth whenever a driver made turns not aligned with SDS instructions… often hilarious. 

And like Billie, Jack was excited to be part of Professor Thompson’s team as he was also on the university’s tenure track and so needed publication credits for his curriculum vitae. More importantly, he was excited to be traveling with his old band mates, older, wiser, no longer dealing with the youthful angst and drunken drama that marked many of the “good ol’ days”.

One reason the gang’s checkered past was even more colorful than most was Jack’s hapless talent for attracting trouble.

And though he was no longer soliciting extra-curricular rendezvous with young admirers, he was responsible for a rock-steady bootie-movin’ groove that made him nearly irresistible to the susceptible. And so this animal magnetism had to be judiciously regulated on campus. Jack was damn good at redirecting the amorous advances of impressionable young ladies. And fortunately, as a cyber-security specialist, not many of his direct charges were of the female persuasion. As well, for some reason, his male LGBT students weren’t susceptible to Jack’s particular brand of pheromone. 

And so, the gang was reunited, Billie had taken the Chool Bus on a maiden voyage over one of the more challenging mountain passes on a pilgrimage to visit Owl Farm in Woody Creek Colorado, the home and redoubt sanctuary of her favorite cultural critic Hunter S Thompson. So with the Chool Bus road-tested from the High Plains to the top of the world, the Forks were ready to take the nation’s temperature, coast to coast. 

First stop, Fort Collins Colorado. Professor T’s research included survey questionnaires, the type used by political pollsters, where participants are drawn from college towns, dense urban population centers, and rural working-class communities with strong religious identifications. This data would be juxtaposed with the face-to-face focus-group work conducted by the reunited Forks making their way from state to state in a rolling home converted for traveling rock and roll refugees, the Chool Bus. Appointments with off-the beaten path communities as well as inner-city diverse-demographic groups are made and the tentative itinerary was crafted to be flexible enough to provide alternate destinations in case any of the original appointments proved unworkable for whatever reason.

Jack Dean, the paranoid tenure-track cyber-security instructor with a history of attracting trouble and a terrific bass player with tons of soul. No way Billie and Professor T would trade Jack for a less troublesome model, the Forks loved their mildly paranoid groovelicious partner.

NEXT WEEK:
Chapter 4: The Forks embark, and Professor T learns the perceived value of privacy in a social media world.

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links

Notes from the Road (pt2)

And so… a lot has transpired since our whirlwind swing through the New England and the D.C. swamps. To be more explicit, we’ve wrapped the HSoB tour in a bow visiting all 48 mainland states. Admittedly, some got less attention than fairly warranted. Texas most egregiously. So, after taking care of health, dental, optical, and vehicular care in good ol’ Hays, America, we (Rocinante and i) made our way south when the Late October chill started infiltrating the great state of Kansas. 

1st stop… Tejas…

Since the time is neigh for diving head first into the book project, i couldn’t in good conscience leave the current snapshot of Texas stand unfinished … we’re searching for that “fibrillating heart of our divided nation”. And Texas in an important pole in the current energy disturbance. So, we HAD to spend more time here. And so we did. Starting with a stop in Red Rock, a rural berg roughly 30 miles from Austin. We have friends there, including one bass player who i assume wishes to remain nameless. He’s the one from whom i learned the expression, “just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.” He was a literal comrade in arms as we stumbled through a giant swath of the 1980s in the same Rock-n-Roll platoon… we took no prisoners. As well, a brief detour to celebrate Thanksgiving with a Texas comrade from a different war, the 2000s… the Bush years. Another fellow soldier whom i’m assuming wishes to remain anonymous. From him, i learned that there are no problems in Civil Engineering that, “can’t be solved with a bullet.” He has effectively estranged from his home state, but i suspect he still harbors a deep connection to this storied “whole ‘nuther country”. One thing for certain, he has a keen Texas ear for good music.

Anyway… Texas… after escaping the late autumn chill in Kansas, cruising over the vast tabletop of the Texas prairie, listening to Crime and Punishment via audio book, deep in a reverie, my concentration started wafting in and out with disjointed strains of a song i once knew by heart but hadn’t heard in many years. The voice was that “high lonesome” distinctly Texas lilt, and as the miles rolled by, the music grew more intense and i couldn’t ignore it any longer. When the song started drowning out the book, i turned it (the audio book) off, and racked my memory for a door that could lead me into the song properly, but it didn’t appear. Finally, wishing to get my concentration back in order to track the Dostoevsky novel properly, i pulled over in one of those Texas prairie parking areas for a quick Google search. I HAD to get a bead on that song. And here it is… Lilah, by Don Henley. From a record released the year my first marriage was falling apart. The song evidently embedded itself in the hole where my soul had been before the divorce. Anyway… it was the endless Texas prairie that stirred the song from its resting place, and that impression will be with me for the rest of my days.   

Now, in Rocinante’s slipstream as we made our way South, an early November arctic blast ravaged the Eastern Midwest, and more, reaching all the way to Georgia, even Northern Florida. And since we have no interest in climates dipping into the 30s, we beat a burning path to Corpus Christi after sharing a few beers, reminiscences, and current doin’s with my old Rock-n-Roll war buddy.

After crossing the prairie, escaping the white knuckle traffic snarls of Austin, and finally spending a few weeks here in South Texas, i have a better impression of the Lone Star State and with that, ready to dive head first into the book project. 

For that purpose, back to the River of Grass… back to South Florida and the Miami-Dade Public Library Network. I’ve begun the process of world building and character development, and i know i have a lot to learn before screwing up enough courage to present a manuscript to publishers. I also know the chances of snagging a professional deal are slim to none. But i’ve read Stephen King’s comments “On Writing,” and from that, i know rejections come in bushel baskets. So dear loopers, please understand, i don’t do any of this out of an expectation for something more than, how did Papa Vonnegut put it? Oh yeah, renewing, “feeding, and growing my soul”. And by some lucky coincidence, this has been my retirement plan all along… #winning.

Onward through the fog… Rohlfie

Below the Earth – Above the Sun: The Fibrillating Heart

The class war is over… we won. ~ Warren Buffett (paraphrased)

This morning, i woke on the heels of a very strange dream. In that spilled neon netherworld between wakefulness and full-bore dreaming, i saw a TV debate of the most grotesque and farcical kind. A clash of larger-than-life personalities that seemed to pulse with the beat of a mournful tune. The exchange left an assembled host slack-jawed and angels reaching for their smelling salts. On one side, Raoul Duke, the fictional alter-ego of Gonzo Journalist, Hunter S. Thompson, a bit disheveled from what looked like a three-week bender in the heart of the American Nightmare. On the other side, Grigori Rasputin, peasant turned confidant to the imperial family of Nicholas II, the last Emperor of Russia. Basically, an unsanctioned agent from Hell, officious as ever in a full-length black tunic, his beard scraggly, his eyes glittering with infernal amusement.

Duke
Rasputin

The subject of this bizarre cage match? Nothing less than the relative merits of the Beatitudes versus the neo-reactionary agenda of a lavishly funded, high-tech, anti-democratic, ethnonationalist wrecking crew.

Duke, surprisingly, championed the Nazarene’s teachings, albeit with a somewhat impaired countenance suggesting he might have misinterpreted “turn the other cheek” as an invitation to sample every substance in his kit bag. He blathered on about meekness, mercy, and loving your enemy as yourself. His arguments punctuated by tics of paranoia and a banshee howl that rattled the walls.

Rasputin, meanwhile, was in his element, his sardonic wit honed to a razor’s edge. He expounded the neo-reactionary talking points with a gleeful malice, projecting contradictions, absurd fantasies of racist discrimination, and thinly veiled appeals to violence and hatred onto the distracted Duke. With the confidence of an operative well versed in Curtis Yarvin‘s litany of insipid Matrix anecdotes and historical cherry picking. He painted a portrait of red and blue pills, medical experimentalists, and treasonous enemies within, with minds controlled by a monastery of elites indoctrinating youth with a bankrupt philosophy of “the woke.” His heart filled with a venomous envy of anyone with a slightly brighter enlightenment, or an accurate take on Eric Raymond’s thesis of the Cathedral and the Bazaar.

“These libtards,” he sneered, his voice dripping with contempt, “prattle on about the merits of diversity while simultaneously demonstrating their utter intolerance of white male energy. They yearn for a mythical world of brotherly love that could never exist, a paradise of fools and dreamers lost in the mists of their own addled imaginations. The very embodiment of the Dunning-Kruger effect, their ignorance so profound it renders them incapable of recognizing their own stupidity.”

Duke, roused from his stupor by Rasputin’s shameless belligerence, attempted a rebuttal, but his words were lost in a torrent of incoherent babble. He stumbled over his own feet, his bucket hat askew, his kit bag waving erratically like a train conductor’s lamp gone haywire. Even in this impaired condition, he mocked his interlocuter’s obsession with gender ambiguity and critical history, his ludicrous claims of religious hegemony, and his pathetic attempts to cloak his bigotry in the mantle of patriotism.

Rasputin, sensing the rabble on his side, pressed the attack. “These are not patriots,” he thundered, “but parasites, feeding off the carcass of a once-great nation. They’re the enemies of freedom, foes of common sense, the very antithesis of everything that is good, sweet, and true in the human spirit.”

The debate, if one could call it that, ended in a whimper rather than a bang. Duke, thoroughly distracted and utterly outmatched, collapsed in a heap of red herrings and non-sequiturs. Rasputin, victorious but strangely melancholic, vanished in a puff of brimstone, leaving behind the lingering scent of sulfur and the echo of scathing laughter.

The assembled onlookers, meanwhile, were left to ponder the spectacle they had just witnessed. Had a cartoon character just delivered a wobbly, but eloquent defense of Christian values? Had the wizard of Petersburg just leveled an aggressive defense of neo-fascist philosophy? Had the world gone mad? Or was this just another Tuesday in the heyday of the New Apostolic Reformation?

One thing was certain: the universe has a wicked sense of humor.

Strap in, loopers…
…the ride has just begun.