Need a dentist? Living the Dream salutes Forest Hills Family Dental

Posted on November 5, 2010 by Janos Marton

Eleven years ago, Sippy Gulati was awarded academic credit for a dental internship.   Around the high school it was considered an enormous coup, as Sip had spent the entirety of the internship tutoring his dentist on his basketball game.  That’s why some of us were skeptical when Sippy enrolled in dental school after college.  Yet here we are, seven years later, and Sippy is opening his own dental practice in Queens.  We are all proud of him, particularly for having the gumption to make an entrepreneurial move during such rough economic times.   That’s why I’m here touting Forest Hills Family Dental.

Now, I know that many of you don’t have dental insurance.  A lot of jobs these days don’t include it, even good ones.    Because he is looking to open up his clinic with a bang, Sip’s offering really good prices on things like cleanings, cavities, and all the basic stuff.  If you’re reading this and haven’t been to the dentist in like three years, you should probably make an appointment. 

If you think a plug for a private business doesn’t qualify as living the dream, think again. I’ve known Sip since we were precocious karate students in sixth grade.   A young person opening his first business is part and parcel of the American dream, and I hope it’s a big success.   Plus, like I said, many of you are probably overdue for a trip to the dentist.  I’ll be scheduling myself for some time later this month.

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The Real Reason…

Posted on November 4, 2010 by Janos Marton

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Great American Road Trip: Why We Have State Parks

Posted on November 4, 2010 by Janos Marton

On an otherwise gloomy post-elections Wednesday, let’s revisit some good times in California from last week.  After all, California was one of the few bright spots last night, with veteran progressive Barbara Boxer holding her Senate seat, and Jerry Brown, the first person I ever cast a vote for (1992 St. Hughes Elementary presidential poll), cruised to the California governors mansion.

These pictures are from Muir Park and Stinson Beach.  This was a big day, so we’ll start with a big picture of some big trees.  If you’re interested in scale, look above between the second and third tree from the left.  On the ground, by the railing, you’ll see a few people.  That’s how massive these redwoods are…

I did this hike with Sarah C., an old college buddy who now runs ultra-marathons to pass the time during grad school.

During this majestic walk I made a vow that if the choice was ever put before me as a public official, I would never cut funding for state (or federal) parks.  There are such few places there are left, at least in the United States, that give us a true idea of Earth’s glory, the marvels nature can produce.

Any number of economic arguments could be made why a developer could do this or that with land currently under the protection of state parks, but you simply cannot put a price on keeping nature in our midst as a reminder of where we came from.

 

Unlike New England parks, this California trail, which has about 8 miles long and took about four hours to hike, started in a Redwood forest, went through a series of high and dry hills, and then descended into a serious ravine before ending on a beach.

 

 

 

 

Once we got to Stinson Beach, we realized we needed a game plan to get back to our car in the Muir Park parking lot.  The only cab company in town had no functioning cars, but a trucker named Rusty hooked us up.  His toothless friend Mr. Bojangles held us up to propose hanging out on Halloween dressed up a pedophiles, and following around children.  When Rusty shot down that plan, Mr. Bojangles suggested, “We can go as the Donner party dinner party!  We walk around carrying raw meat.”

It was a weird ending to an epic day.  For anyone living in or visiting the bay, this hike is a glorious experience- so get to it.

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Great American Road Trip: The City By The Bay

Posted on October 30, 2010 by Janos Marton

The City That Rocks. The City That NEVER Sleeps! Jefferson Starship was referring, of course, to San Francisco, a city built on rock and roll, and also a series of fault lines that leave it vulnerable to earthquakes for the rest of its existence.

I spent last Friday exploring the legendary Haight-Ashbury.  It’s been decades since commercialization overtook culture there, but it was still neat to see- kind of a Bourbon Street with more of a focus on marijuana than drinking.

The theme of drugs and drug paraphernalia was omnipresent in retail stores, on street corners and adjoining parks, which, by the way, were beautiful and relaxing.

Friday night I explored the scene in the Mission, which some locals describe as the Williamsburg of San Francisco.  It seemed more like the East Village to me.  The rent in cool parts of San Francisco actually rival Manhattan.

Perhaps the best thing about the Mission is the string of Taquerias that line 24th street, providing a late night snack that can almost rival pizza.

Saturday was supposed to start benignly, lunch with a pair of friends from law school.  Next thing I know I’m partying somewhat wildly at an artist’s apartment with about a dozen people, including a 65 year old black hipster named C.B.  He chastised me for not taking proper care of my hat.  “I say this to you as a fellow gentleman…”

Part of the cause for celebration was Game 6 of the Phillies-Giants game.  As it became apparent that I was going to witness some history, I got myself downtown to meet up with

some more old friends.  When Brian Wilson mowed down the last hitter, our bar explodeds, chanting “The Giants win the pennant! The Giants win the pennant!”  That’s a reference to the legendary 1951 home run by Bobby Thompson  that delivered the Giants the pennant over their bitter cross-town foes, the Brooklyn Dodger. As a die-hard Dodgers fan, the chant still pains me, and almost caused me to switch my allegiance to the Texas Rangers.

The Texas Rangers, however, are the former team of George W. Bush, who still attends games frequently.   In a battle between San Fran (“no one calls it that, Janos”) and Texas, I think the choice has been made for us.

Fear the Beard.

I did not know the Golden Gate was red. I guess that’s kind of well known.  Perhaps I subconsciously felt it would be some golden yellow color, though it turns out the name is derived from the Gold Rush era.

Sunday night we hit up a speakeasy party in Oakland.  It was a benefit for fireman, who were rocking some serious mustaches, though many proved to be fake.

At one point, a fireman grabbed me on the shoulder.  “You’ve been breaking the rules.”  I thought he was referring to the brandy I’d smuggled into the party.  I know it’s in poor taste to smuggle drinks into a fundraiser, but honestly, you can’t have an event that charges cover and doesn’t offer drink specials.  It turned out he was referring to my mustache.

“You’re only supposed to grow it for six weeks.  Yours looks like you’ve been working on it for longer than that.”  He seemed relieved when I explained that I wasn’t participating in the mustache contest.  I complemented his look. He said it was called a ‘face-shield.’

“It was very popular during the Roosevelt and Taft presidencies.”

The band was great.  “They majored in old time music at Oberlin,” someone explained to me.  Gotta love Oberlin.

Here’s to a strong weekend on the bay.

There’s one more post to conclude the Great American Road Trip.  After that, we’ll be back in real time, in New York City, the true city that never sleeps.

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Great American Road Trip: Portlandia and the Way of the Train

Posted on October 28, 2010 by Janos Marton

I rolled into Portland off a four-hour Greyhound around 12:30pm.  The sun was shining and the weather was perfect.  The streets massaged my feet.  ‘Yes, I could live here,’ I thought while strolling down 5th Avenue.

I soon discovered the Backspace Cafe, one of the better venues I’ve ever come across.  It hosts live music, serves great great food, has free wi-fi, and even has a computer repair center in the middle of its cavernous room.

Backspace is in the northwest, considered the yuppie part of town by locals.  It was worth checking out, however, for Powell’s Book Store, which purports to be the largest used book store in the country. Of course, local partisans for Strand in the East Village would disagree.

I’ll say this much- Strand definitely kicks Powell’s ass when it comes to cool, cheap books. There is no equivalent of the $1 rack, and many of Powell’s selections are priced at a higher cost than you’d find them on Amazon.  Also, the sections are ordered so meticulously that you’d never stumble across a random book, which is kind of the purpose of used bookstores.   I picked up a $2 History of the Teamsters at the Goodwill and a $1.50 copy of Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee at another thrift store down the block.  You can’t replace the feeling of sifting through a random stack until, upon clasping the dirty old book in your hands, you know, ‘this is it.’

The rest of Wednesday was brutal. My couchsurfing host canceled on me, so I spent most of the days looking for internet hotspots so I could send out desperate 11th hour requests.   I ended up walking up an enormous hill, bag on shoulders, to get to northeast, the hip part of town.  The next day I could barely put weight on my shoulders without pain.

Note to Couchsurfers: 11th hour surfing is very difficult.  I contacted about 15 people, and only heard back from two people by that night, both of whom said no. Eventually my original host agreed to pick me up at a bar around midnight.

To kill time I hit up the beer garden, Prost.  The bar was packed for the Giants/Phillies game.  As a Mets fan, I was more than happy to support the Giants in vanquishing the dreaded Phanatics.  The game ended when Roy Oswalt, star Philly starter, tried to close out the game in relief, a la Randy Johnson.  Memo to Oswalt: You are not the Big Unit.  The Giants roughed him up, the bar celebrated, etc.

I wandered to a few more local joints, even pulling off a near victory in pool.  On my last shot, I scratched the 8 Ball, which cost me the game.  My opponent sympathetically let me re-shoot, but I scratched the 8 Ball again. I am not good at pool. More of a Hands Pool guy.

After exploring some more of Portland in the morning, and concluding that for all its charm, it didn’t have enough going on for me to live there, it was off to the train station.

My seatmate was an older woman who reminded me of Yoda.  After listening to her giggle and mutter truisms for a while, I excused myself to the lounge car.   The early hours of the Amtrak ride featured beautiful scenery and relative tranquility.  The crazies weren’t out in full, and the lounge was occupied by polite looking couples.  I went down to the bar car, where the bartender was raving about how Eisenhower had destroyed America’s rail system by stealing money for highways.

It occurred to me that never in my life have I ever heard someone rave about President Eisenhower.  He was about as middle of the road a president as we’ve had in the last 120 years.  As the sun set and view faded, there was less to do.  We completely lost cell phone reception for about two hours, during which the lounge car anxiously awaited news of the Giants game.  I was actually rooting for a Phillies win.  I wanted to be in San Fran for the celebration, not in some forlorn Amtrak lounge.

After dinner, which was around 7, about 90% either went to bed or went through such motions.   That left the crazies to roost.   I met a ragged old man named Jim, who ranted about how great Amtrak rides used to be.  He’d done the Portland-San Francisco ride four times this year already, and he thought this batch of Amtrak agents to be particular dicks.   Back in the day, he explained, you used to be able to bring booze on board and drink as much as you wanted, which led to big lounge car parties.   No more.  And you couldn’t even smoke.  I offered him some brandy I’d brought with me.  He thanked me and offered to smoke me up at the next stop.  Uninterested in getting thrown off the train in the middle of nowhere, Oregon, I politely declined.

The bar car put in a half hearted effort around 11pm.  The bartender was a wry, somewhat bitter 60 something black man who had worked the line for years.  He told me that the Bush administration had passed rules barring him from playing music in the bar car.  There’s always something sad about drinking in silence.   He told me the Bush administration generally passed rules with the purpose of making life on Amtrak miserable, as part of their plan to eliminate Amtrak entirely.

“He had the votes in Congress all lined up.  Then September 11th happened.  All of a sudden, everyone wants to get the hell out of D.C.  Problem is, airports are closed, roads are packed.  So what does Congress do? They hop on the first Amtrak ride out of town.  Mr. Bush lost a lot of votes on that day.”

The bartender had to cut off one likable fellow who had gotten so drunk that when he tried to tip the bartender, he ended up putting a dollar bill into his own recently finished glass instead of the tip jar.   Not sure I’ve ever seen that before.   The bartender was firm at a first in cutting him off.

“If the conductor comes down and see you looking like that, with your eyes all glazed over, I’m getting fired, and you’re getting thrown off this train. Now, I know I don’t want to get fired, and I know you don’t want to get thrown off this train in the middle of the night.”  They reached an agreement in which Drunkie would each a reheated set of Buffalo Wings before he was allowed to order again.

Jim was down there, always making small talk.  A Czech dude who had been at my dinner table earlier was there.  He was on his way to Costa Rica, but seemed unthrilled about it.  His girlfriend was making him go, or something.  The bar car crowd can be a little depressing.  One very intense dude stopped by and gave an extemporaneous monologue about how he has the second best bow and arrow big game hunter on the West Coast.  A former military man, he had forsworn the gun to hunt deer, moose, bears and whatever else with his bow.   He was sponsored by a bow company or something.  He had but one regret, a fat rival who always seemed to bring in bigger game than him.   He was on his way to California for hunting.  He was so frustrated by his fat rival that I feared he’d eventually have a breakdown, like America’s second best Proust scholar in Little Miss Sunshine, except armed with a bow and arrow.   When the bar closed down I went to bed, and woke up on the Bay.

 

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Great American Road Trip: Exploring the Great Northwest

Posted on October 27, 2010 by Janos Marton

In the 1840s, expansionist American rhetoric was soaring, and as tension grew over the annexation of the northwest territories, Democratic politicians road the slogan “54-40” or fight to electoral success in 1844.  The slogan referred to the 54th parallel, far north of the present day Canadian border.  The British, in contrast, had hawks claiming that they had rights to western land as low as the 42nd parallel, today’s California-Oregon border.  President Polk, sensing an upcoming war with Mexico, was not in the mood to fight on two fronts, and eventually compromised with Britain on the 49th parallel, placing present day Oregon and Washington under U.S control, and present day British Columbia under the Crown.

Following our night of weirdness in Spokane, Senge and I took a five hour bus ride into Seattle.  The terrain for most of the ride was pure farmland, reminding us more of eastern North Dakota than anything else we’d seen out west.  It was not until the bus began its slow climb into the mountains near Seattle that the scenery turned to the woodlands you expect out of Washington.  The ride was otherwise dreary, an unpleasant reminder of how Greyhound manages peoples’ time and maintains its bathrooms.

In Seattle, we housed at the Casa Rafter, a pleasant little green home in a pleasant little green part of town.  Rafter lives only a couple minutes walk from the hip Capitol Hill district, though I never actually saw the Capitol.

The neighborhood was full of bars, music venues, vintage clothing stores and the like.  Senge explored the best we could, but eventually caved to exhaustion after visiting some key grunge era landmarks, like Cha Cha’s.

The next day Senge departed from the Great American Road Trip, and I was off to Vancouver, a short, cheap bus ride away.

In Vancouver I stayed with Sarah Berman, in my first ever case of Couchsurfing reciprocation.  Couchsurfing is usually a karma based system- the more people you host, the more people are likely to host you.  Sarah had surfed with me in Brooklyn last year, and I assumed that one day I’d make the trek to Vancouver.  Freed from the punishing schedule I’d designed for me and Suby, visiting a cool city a few hours to the north made sense.  It was a Monday night, but Sarah rallied her friends, and before I knew it we were having a mini roof party in the late hours of the evening.  I asked a dude what roof we were on, and he told me it was the local movie theater. How cool is that?  Between the evening’s festivities and the great Asian food that is everywhere you turn, a night in Vancouver fit the bill.

Lucky for me and Sarah, it was Tuesday morning.   We went to a Dutch themed restaurant from brunch that has a Pannekoek special every Tuesday.  A Pannekoek is like a pancake that takes up your whole plate, with ingredients baked into it and placed on top of it.  They are pretty filling and delicious.

Strapped for time, but hoping for a final adventure, we went to a tree where Sarah takes her guests to get a unique view of downtown.  It is a tall tree, with branches perfect for climbing.  I do not love heights, but this tree was pretty friendly, and the view of the downtown was great.   The architecture in all these northwestern cities is pretty underwhelming, but they make up for it with their mountainous backdrops.

 

The ride back to Seattle was more stressful than the ride there, largely due to the surely American border patrol, who kept us waiting in line forever while a half dozen of them mozied about.  As one of the few Americans on the bus ride, I was pretty embarrassed. On the way into Canada, a pair of Canadian officials had gotten our whole bus through the security checkpoint in about ten minutes, including their search of the bus, and acted with the utmost professionalism.   I was pretty beat when I got back to Seattle, more so when I got my daily exercise by hiking the two-mile hill to Rafter’s house.

I passed the Space Needle, which wasn’t that impressive, perhaps because of the unattractive neighborhood it emerges from.  Rafter is in the throes of that dreaded 1L year of law school, so he was more than content to stay in.  I needed the rest- my first night of relaxing in two weeks.  As I prepared for bed I actually circled the room multiple times, certain that I had forgotten something.  It seemed unnatural not to be in a frantic rush.

 

 

 

I enjoyed Seattle, and while I don’t see myself moving out there, should you choose to, I recommend the best-named realtor in town, Gol Hoghooghi.

 

 

And just like that, on to Portland, solo, sans car.  I’ll leave you with a final, epic photo from Vancouver:

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Great American Road Trip: Day 7 in Spokane, city of Stockton

Posted on October 22, 2010 by Janos Marton

Epic events often come in threes.  The deaths of Morrison, Joplin and Hendrix, all at age 27 within 12 months of each other, is a great example.  In our case, we had three of the most stimulating cab rides of our lives, in the span of the 27 hours we were in Spokane.

The First Taxi Driver

Our Motel 6 was a twenty minute drive to downtown, so we called a cab.  The first driver seemed affable enough, so I engaged him on basic topics, like how to say Spokane (it’s pronounced “Spoke-Ann”).   But once the conversation was initiated, it wasn’t long before he launched into his tirade of choice: texting and driving.  “The other day, I was ahead of this dumb kid who was texting on his cell phone while he was driving.  I slow down for a red light, and he plows right into me. Smashes up the back of my car!”  We offered our condolences.  “Now I had half a mind to call the police, really fix this kid up good.  But I thought, ‘eh, I’ll just scare the bejeezus out of him’.  So he comes out of the car, and he’s all, ‘Dude, my bad, this is totally on me’”.  His teenage dude accent, by the way was outstanding.

“I say, ‘no shit this is on you! And I’ll tell you what. You probably won’t even learn from this. You’ll probably get back in your car, and drive away texting your friends about you just got into a big accident while you were texting.’”

At this point he apparently had the kid shuddering.  Then he chuckled, “The thing is, always got a four inch beam protruding from the back of my van. When the kid got out of the car, he saw the beam’s smashed his license plate all up. He was all, ‘Dude, my license plate, it’s like, totally smashed.’ And I said, ‘I should smash your cell phone too! I should smash it on the ground. Then I would take the pieces and hang them around your smashed up license plate so you could drive through the streets with a big sign on your car saying, ‘Look at me, this is what I have done.’’”

That’s the first time I’ve put three quotations back to back to back. I hope it is grammatically correct.

He moved on from the texting as we crossed Sprague Street.

“Spokane has toothless whores.”

We sat and digested that one.

““Whatever you do, don’t tell a cab driver to take you Sprague Street. That’s the part of town this cab ride ain’t gonna go. All the whores are there.  If you see a good looking woman offering you sex, she’s a cop. We don’t have any good-looking whores.”  Duly noted.  He was more impressed with the caliber of the Gonzaga University girls.  “You’ve never in your life seen so many naughty nurses for Halloween than at this supposedly Catholic college!”

When the glorious ride came to an end at the Star Restaurant and Lounge, I asked him for a business card so we could call the cab company to get home.  After hesitating for a second, Nate asked to have one for himself too.  “You never know,” Nate remarked, “Weird things happen out there.”

The driver swung his head around towards us.  “They sure do.”

On The Town

Almost immediately after de-cabbing, we were passed by a pack of a dozen wasted college girls.  As they loudly stumbled over eachother, a regular from the Star Lounge and Restaurant commented, “There go the young ‘uns.”  His buddy replied, “Must be they just finished their studying.”

The Star Lounge and Restaurant is most hopping place in town- but only on Thursdays.  As one Gonzaga student explained to us later, they have Karaoke nights from Monday to Thursday.  After three nights of middle aged people working the mic, the students bum rush it on Thursday and turn it into a madhouse.  Unfortunately, we were there on Saturday, and the clientele was weak.  Even worse was the cover band, which, after starting with standard classic rock fare, descended into horrendous covers of Michael Jackson.  I mean, few times have I seen such a terrible cover band in my life.  By the time they were blasting their version of Sir Mix A Lot’s “Baby’s Got Back” to an empty dance floor, Nate and I knew it was time to get the check and bounce.   The once upshot was the micro brewed beer, which continued its unbroken streak of excellence through the West.

In that part of town, the only other established bar is Dan and Jack’s.   I don’t whether it is Dan or Jack, but one of them is NBA Hall of Famer John Stockton’s father.  Stockton is known for his exceptional work as point guard for the Utah Jazz, where he became the NBA’s all-time leader in assists and half of the deadly Stockton-Malone tandem.  Less well known is that he went to Gonzaga, a school that earned a rep in the college basketball world more than a decade after his tenure there.   An online guide described Dan and Jack’s as the “hub for Spokane’s Utah Jazz fans”, however large that contingent is.

After the Dan and Jack’s bartender rattled off our choices, Nate, not quite at full steam, insisted on trying the Mere Pond.  “I’ve never had it before,” he professed to the bartenders.  “But this stuff is fucking awesome.”  “You’ll have to excuse my friend,” I corrected.  We actually had two pitchers of Mere Pond last night in Missoula.”  In Nate’s defense, I hadn’t been able to recall the name after Missoula, calling it ‘beer pong’, which turned out to be pretty close.   Eventually we acquired a booth, which worked for people watching and sporadic conversation.  At 1:30am the bar shut down, and despite our best efforts, we could not find ourselves a Gonzaga after-party.  We called the cab company and a different fella showed up, one closer to us in age and demeanor.

The Second Taxi Driver

We seemed to be having an amiable enough time.  When Nate and I expressed our hunger, the driver took us through Zip’s, a burger chain I’ve never seen in all my years of cross country travel.  They had my fish fillet up right away.  Shortly after the Zip’s drive through it came up that our driver was from Seattle, but lived in Spokane. Based on everything I knew about the two cities, this struck me as odd, like growing up in New York City but moving to Buffalo.  “Seattle sucks,” he explained tersely.   “Why does Seattle suck?” I innocently asked. Nate later chastised me- “there was no good answer that could have come from that question.”

At my question, our previously chill driver’s face turned red and scrunched in with blind fury.  “I’ll tell you what sucks about Seattle- the goddamn socialists!” Silence descended over the car. Again from me, “What do the socialists do?”

“Those goddamn socialists tell you how to live.  They tell you what car to drive, what clothes to wear…what to eat!  And don’t get me started on this administration! They’re a bunch of socialists too!”

He was bursting on and off again, like a struggling car engine.  Nate did his best to calm things down.  “They sound really self-righteous.”

“They’re incredibly self-righteous!”

“I hate people who are self-righteous.” Thanks Nate. I added, “Yeah, this country was built on freedom!” or some inane tripe like that.  We had already nearly been killed by one excitable driver that day; no need to get on this one’s bad side.  We steered the conversation towards pizza before arriving at the Motel 6. All’s well that ends well.

The Third Taxi Driver

On Sunday morning I lifted our taxi’s trunk hatch, to loud and effusive congratulations from our third driver.  This made me think it was just our first driver happy to see us, but it was actually a different cat altogether. Our new driver betrayed a New England accent, and I asked how a Providence, Rhode Island man like him wound up in Spokane.  “The people here are nice, but they drive all over the fucking road. Like this asshole behind me!”  We g\lanced behind us, and saw a steady accumulation of cars trailing us.  That is because we were driving ten below the speed limit in the passing lane.

He hollered about the “eye-candy” on th street, though it seems our tastes were a little more discerning than his.   Once we started passing through downtown, however, he got dark on us, going into his death of the American lamentations.  “Around here, people retire at age 20, and then drink the rest of their lives away. Drinking, drinking, drinking! I know, because I’ve spent plenty of time drinking with them. But what else are you going to do? There’s no fucking jobs around here.  What are you going to do, work at Jack in the Box? ‘Hey, you be the assistant manager- it’s your job to make the fries!’  Or work at Subway’s, ‘You’re in charge of the tomatoes.’”  His commentary was dark, but extremely funny, and Nate and I were bowled over laughing. He continued,

“What’s more, you can’t just get a job at fucking Subway’s being in charge of the tomatoes. They want you to go to trade school for that shit. ‘Gotta see the degree!’” Needless to say, I’m printing about a third of his curses.  To be accurate would be to clutter.

He still hadn’t come close to answering my original question that had jumpstarted this whole conversation- why was a Providence man in Spokane?  At this point he went into this rambling tearjerker about how in Providence he “fell in love with his drinking buddy (“A dangerous combination”, Nate piped up), and how, well, you know how the rest of it goes…”  I actually had no idea how the rest went, but I’ll infer that there was some series of escalating bets that led them to getting married in Spokane, like that episode of Arrested Development.   What puzzled me is why a couple moving west from Rhode Island would make it all the way to Washington, but not take the five hour bus ride to make it to Seattle.

Anyway, they apparently were not a good match, always drinking and fighting.  One time she chased him into the street with a frying pan, and he said enough was enough.  “I took a Greyhound bus FIVE AND A HALF DAYS to get back to Providence.  Then I drank for three more days.  That’s when my parents said, ‘Julia called, she wants to get back together!’ And I said, ‘That bitch chased me out of my house with a frying pan, and I’ve just been on this bus FIVE AND A HALF DAYS!’ And they said, ‘Do what you want, but you can’t stay here. You should go home, to your wife.’ And they locked me out! So I had to take the bus FIVE AND A HALF DAYS to get back to Spokane.”  We could further infer that they were no longer together.

As we pulled up to the Greyhound station he boomed, “Welcome to Spokane, your bags are gone!”  Nate and I looked at eachother quizzically.  “Everyone’s a thief out here. People get off the bus and boom, someone steals their luggage.  It makes sense to me.  Everyone’s broke, so if you don’t want your shit stolen just give ‘em a couple bucks.”   And in one final grandiose gesture he swept back towards us.

“I mean, why fuck with a nutcase?”   We tipped him well, and as we left the cab, he mused over what bottle he would pick up with his newfound cash.

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Great American Road Trip: Day 12 Summaries

Posted on October 22, 2010 by Janos Marton

I am sure you are all familiar with the ever expanding nature of the universe. My own road trip, which began one, then two days ahead of the accounts being posted here, have skyrocketed to an unacceptable five light days. You are still reading about misadventures in Spokane, Seattle’s eerie cousin from eastern Washington. To do all the stories, cities and characters justice, I’ve been forced to move at a slower pace. Well, this post hopes to clarify the present a bit. Many bubbles will be filled in later, including the Spokane taxi driving triumvirate, the impromptu Vancouver roof party and the beer gardens of Portland.
At this moment, I am in the lounge car of an Amtrak train southbound for San Francisco. Two women are sitting across from me at the table, loudly working on a crossword puzzle together. And there is no wi-fi, of course. This post is brought to you by the Droid 2, Verizon and the tedious work of my index fingers.
Spokane lived up to its billing as an awfully weird place, but it was fun enough for a night. After an epic breakfast at the only downtown restaurant open on Sunday morning, we took a five hour bus to Seattle, crashing at La Casa Rafter.
He’s been grinding away at that dreaded first year of law school, but he pointed us to some classic bars and venues. Nate and I did the best we could, but we were running on fumes. Nate departed the Great American Road Trip Monday afternoon, having endured my punishing schedule and the unforseen fiascoes with class and vigor. I rode up to Vancouver for a night on the town with couchsurfer Sarah Berman and her crew. I was only in Vancouver 20 hours, but I liked it plenty. Then it was back to Seattle for a much needed night of rest.
Wednesday morning I took an easy bus to Portland, which I absolutely adored, though there were some major couchsurfing complications. In search of one neighborhood during the afternoon I lugged my heavy bag up a giant hill on my back, and today my shoulders burn with soreness. This morning’s exploration of downtown Portland was a little disappointing, and at 2:30 I was ready to ride. My seatmate reminds me a lot of Yoda, which is ok. San Fran, here we come.

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That’s Why There Aren’t Amtrak Liveblogs…

Posted on October 21, 2010 by Janos Marton

Apparently there will be no wi-fi on the 18 hour Amtrak ride I’m about to embark on.  No worries, I’m sure books, writing on my laptop, spider solitaire, email on my phone, articles I’m saving on my computer right now and the view from my window will be enough- we’re only 11 years removed from the 90s, after all.  But seriously, Amtrak, get some wi-fi.

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Great American Road Trip: Day 6 (The Ride to Spokane)

Posted on October 21, 2010 by Janos Marton

When Rick hooked me and Nate up with a ride to Spokane, no one was more excited than his son, our driver, William.   William bubbled like a Yellowstone geyser, maybe at the chance to leave Idaho ever so briefly, but more likely because he hadn’t seen characters like us in quite some time.   “When I’m older I want to be like you guys” he ventured early in the ride. He was 20 years old, born and bred of the west, though a relatively recent emigrant of Idaho, which he considered dull, except for the lake parties in the summer.   He was as earnest as they come, but also easily twisted around- when I asked him for a cool music venue, he started stuttering about Mapquest and lost track of what city we were talking about.  But he pursued. “Mapquest is great- you just put in your address and then it tells you where it is.”  I didn’t have the heart to tell him that Google Maps left Mapquest behind several years ago.

We tried to get his read on Spokane, a city that Nate and I knew absolutely nothing about.  After running through the basics, he turned cautious.  “Just be careful. I want you to be safe. There’s a lot of weird people out there.”

“How are they weird?”

William took a deep breath.  “Man, they’ll come up to you, and just start talking to you. Especially at night, they’ll come up to you and just start talking to you about strange things.  And they’ll act like they’re your friends and all, but they aren’t your friends.”  The topic seemed to stress him out, so we let it go, and went back to William’s gentle narration “four exits to go…three exits to go…”

By the time he dropped us off he was having trouble determining his directions.  I told him the way back to Idaho was to make a right at the first road and take it straight.  In searching for right he began pointing at various directions, including the motel.  “Nah dude, just down the hill, and turn everything to the right at the light.” I hope he made it back all right.

I’ve never been so happy to just rest my bones as when I sprawled out in that Motel 6.  My duffel bag was packed to the brim with junk from the car, some of which was essential, like car paperwork and Hands On memorabilia, other was trashable, like a cordless charger that charged a specific type of cell phone one time for 60 minutes, in case you ever remembered in advance that your battery would be low, but weren’t going to be somewhere with an outlet.

For dinner we went to the only food option within walking distance from the Motel 6, a Mexican restaurant pumping loud Mexican music, where we were the only customers. The servings were huge, and we needed a power nap after.   I woke Nate up to Eric Cartman’s version of “Come Sail Away”, had a whiskey and coke, and prepared for the night.  That’s when we encountered the first of the Three Spokane Taxi Drivers.

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