Going Forward, Facing Backwards

Last year at this time I was in Washington D.C. attending the national Association of Zoo and Aquarium Docents (AZAD) conference. But that was just my convenient, albeit worthy, cover story.

Let me see. How do I tie two story lines together? I'll start back in 2004. Was it really that long ago? I got an email from someone I've known since 5th grade. She had always been one of my most favorite people and one of only two friends who I had my picture taken with after our high school graduation ceremony. But after that night I lost contact with almost everyone.

Charlene was an exception, but just briefly. I was driving to work at my job as a travel agent in Salt Lake City one morning, scanning the dial for a radio station, when I heard her voice. She was doing the news for a country and western station. I was thrilled for a couple of reasons. First, I missed her friendship and second, it was great knowing that she was putting her exceptional talent to such good use. Her dramatic style, comic timing and delicious personality was what attracted me to her way back in 1968! In fact I thought it was funny that she was doing the news because I knew how hard it was for her to not be funny!

I called her radio station from work and we had a nice chat. But after that came a gap of some twenty five years. That's a long time. Five minutes is a long time sometimes. But during that long, long quarter-century when I managed to lose contact with essentially everyone from my childhood, came a marvelous invention: the Internet!

During those years I was blind to what was happening in the computer revolution. I was selling tickets, loading passengers and baggage onto airplanes at the Oakland, CA airport and working myself into a disabling condition in both arms typing furious using the United Airlines computer systems. One of my friends talked about buying a "Mac" but I had no idea what she was talking about. Other friends started having conversations including words like "email address" and "PC" but it just didn't register. But I do remember wondering why in the world anyone would spend hard-earned money on a home computer just to keep in contact with friends. Ha!

But, lest I digress too far, by the time I got something from Classmates.com in my "snail mail" I must have had some idea what was going on. It made me think about all the people from school and wonder what had become of everyone. But not so much that I felt like I needed to rush out and buy a computer.

Okay, now, fast forward about 14 more years. By then I owned a computer and had learned to search. I had found Charlene's name on Classmates.com but was too cheap to pay their membership fee to get her email address. And because she hadn't contacted me, I figured that: 1-She was as cash-poor as me, or 2-She would have contacted me already if she had cared to.

Those were rough years for me. I avoided class reunions because I was supposed to have been a big movie director by then but only ended up as a travel agent and airline slave. I didn't reach out to anyone because I was ashamed for being a big failure.

That didn't stop me from trying to find out about former classmates and friends though. And Charlene was the one I searched for the most. About two years ago I thought I'd zeroed in on her. But being unable to find a current photo I couldn't be sure. And it didn't make sense that she would be working for a radio station in the Washington D.C. area. I don't know why not, though. I had moved to the west coast.

And at that same time, one day out of the blue, I got an email from her asking me if I was the Jim Webb that she knew. I was so thrilled. And when she said that I was the only person from high school that she wanted to "reunite" with, it felt like blood was percolating up into my head and bringing the rest of my half-dead body back to life. And yes, it was the same person I had found in online searches and she was still in radio, now with an "abc.com" email address!

We wrote back and forth and chatted for hours on AOL Instant Messenger, covering just about everything. Weeks went by. And then came our chance to meet for the first time since that photo was taken.

I went along with Brad on a business trip to New York City and arranged for us to take Amtrak to D.C. afterward, stay with Charlene for a couple of nights and then fly home from there.

Well, that turned out to be a really great trip. And talk about a trip! Charlene's oldest daughter was about the same age as we were when we posed for that graduation photo. I think we both felt like we were in a perpetual commercial for Classmates.com. It was just that good.

When we left, she invited us to come back. At the time I felt like it would be highly unlikely that I'd ever be back in the D.C. area so imagine my surprise when I learned only a few weeks later that the AZAD conference was being hosted by the Washington Smithsonian National Zoo in just a few months! I immediately made plans to attend.

But only a few weeks before the conference I ended up in the hospital with pneumonia. It was my first hospital confinement since an emergency unilateral epididymectomy in the early 1980's. But three weeks later I was almost as good as new and flying off to enjoy the company of fellow zoo people, Charlene and her fabulous cats and human family. It was a great trip. (Except for the return flights but I'll save that for another time.)

Oh, I nearly forgot about the other story line.

At the AZAD conference, Emily, the editor of our docent newsletter, was trying to get me to attend a workshop with her relating to editing or writing or something. I felt bad for not going after I said I would but the previous workshops I'd been to were incredibly crowded and overwhelmingly boring. I actually fell while asleep during one of them and if I hadn't been sitting next to a wall I might have hurt myself. But the International Spy Museum and just about everything else in Washington D.C. seemed much more worthwhile.

Thinking back now I have the feeling that Emily has been buttering me up for quite a long time. She just recently managed to get me to agree, without any resistance, to take over as editor of The Scoop after her last edition in 2006.

I should be petrified but I'm not. Just because my most recent practical experience was in 1976 is no reason to panic. All I have to do is learn how to use a computer program and I'm sure the skills I learned as Editor-in-Chief of the Tooele High School Buffalog will be just like riding that proverbial bicycle.

Okay, now I'm petrified. I haven't put that bicycle theory to the test either.

But all of this seems related somehow. All my old friends were so incredibly talented. I thought I was incredibly talented too until after I left Utah and got out into the job market with the rest of the poor cake-eating slobs.

Old friends, new friends - old skills, new applications - dreams of being a film director, making my own movies using a PC - loving animals, working at a zoo - Is it all coming together somehow? Maybe I'm actually going somewhere, possibly in the "right" direction, but just facing backwards.

Uncrowned

Around noon today I thought I felt something stuck between my teeth. Something didn't feel right and it was on my mind as we headed to San Jose for another visit to Macy's. If there's one kind of trouble I've had enough of in my life it's dental problems.

A few months ago I needed to have a molar "extracted." That means pulled out: tugged, yanked, twisted, pried and sometimes chiseled. Fortunately for me, only the first four techniques were used. It was not pleasant. For the curious, I took photos. They're in a set by themselves on Flickr.

People find it very hard to believe that when I was a kid and needed fillings, my Neanderthalian dentist didn't give anesthetic. I don't know how many times I had to suffer through sessions that seemed to last for hours as the cycle of drilling, screaming, sweating and crying would be followed by a moment of calm only to be followed by the startup of the drill and etcetera. All of this came rushing back to me years later during the movie Marathon Man. His excuse, I found out later, was that "kids are generally more frightened by needles than a little pain."

Asshole.

So I've been there, done that and don't wanna go back there no more. And I've had great luck finding new-age dentists who are more than willing to give as much anesthetic as an elephant would need and one who was very generous with the "gas."

But that's just it. I'm done, or at least I'd like to be. Today I put my finger in my mouth to see if I could figure out what was causing the strange sensation and a crown popped off. Yup. Right next door to ground zero from a few months ago.

I don't get all fainty or grossed out when that happens unless it stinks. Today it didn't. (Last time it did!) No, I see dollar signs and images of my wallet turning inside out and that cute little guy on the Monopoly board in jail - a.k.a. the "poorhouse." And that worries me because horizontal stripes are not flattering when you have a wider than desired torso. Ha! I know. That's out of date. But I positively hate orange clothing too.

With luck I thought I could just scrape out the old cement, clean the tooth, glue it back on and be done. I bought the junk at Long's and came home to work on it only to discover that the stump is a bit decayed. So I'll be calling UCSF on Monday to join the ranks of uninsured, common folk who go to the dental school as subjects for the students to practice on. Hopefully the cement I bought today will keep the loose crown stuck to the tooth until I can get there. I don't want it to come off and choke on it in the night.

Don't get me wrong. They're all thoroughly supervised. It's very refreshing and I have immense respect for everyone there. I just don't like the other patients. They're icky. And I don't like sitting in the waiting room with them. It's a relief when my student dentist comes to the doorway and calls me in.

So here we go again. Will I have it pulled? Crowned? One thing's for sure. I can't chew with two molars missing on one side, not normally at least. Stay tuned.

In other news: The current editor of the Oakland Zoo docent newsletter, Scoop, called today to give me a deadline for an article I need to write for next month's edition. I need to find a plant or tree that is or will be blooming in October to write about and have it done by Monday. Oh, and by the way, she wants me to take over her job in January for the next couple of years. Yikes! Somehow she thinks my ability to take a photo and my experience 30 years ago as Editor-in-Chief of my high school paper are good qualifications. I think she's just desperate to pass the torch.

Mystery: SOLVED

Last Saturday I decided I had to have a haircut and just let my car take me to Alameda since I'm more comfortable there than in San Leandro.

Anyhow, even though I wanted to save money and find a cheap but good haircut somewhere, I decided to go back to Tomo and get a haircut from whomever was available. It didn't matter. I called first and got an appointment with someone whose name I could not understand.

When I arrived, early, I was told that "____" was running late, which was fine with me, but I wanted to know who "____" was so I asked the receptionist to say and then spell the name.

"J a f e t."

Who? I've been going there for years and had never heard that name before. It didn't matter. I was just glad that it was a "he" because I've had bad luck with haircuts from "shes."

It never dawned on me that they'd hired someone to take Joey's space. But that's who Jafet was; his replacement. Things were working out.

I'm still a little concerned about his haircut but he gets big bonus points for:
1- NOT using the electric clippers
2- Having very specific opinions about his style
3- Giving a nice shampoo afterwards

Unfortunately he loses points because:
1- He continually sprayed my head with a bottle that spit more than it sprayed and the water was cold. The collar and back of my shirt (a polo) was drenched by the time I left.
2- My head was so wet with water and gel that I looked like I'd just gotten out of the shower when I left the shop. I don't do my hair like that.

But that's okay because it was his first time. I let new stylists do their thing at first and then let them know what MY specific opinions are all about later.

One of the reasons I told myself it was okay to go back to Tomo was I figured I could get more information about what happened to Joey. And I did.

Jafet told me Joey said he was "over" cutting hair and handed me one of his new business cards. It was one of those ceramics places at the former Southshore Center when you paint and fire your own mugs and stuff.

So the mystery is solved. And now I'm just annoyed. And hurt. Everyone once in a while in life I think I'm worth more than how I'm treated and I really thought I was a decent client and friend. Maybe I wasn't. Maybe it was all about exchanging money for service and nothing more. Boy do I feel stupid. Really foolish.

Joey, good luck with your new business. I thought very highly of your service.

A Major, Major Story

I'd been in that building before, walking in, limping in, floating in and often without any recollection of how I ended up there. But I haven't really been there in over three years. I only go there when I'm asleep.

A bit of unfinished business in the back of my mind sends a message to another part of my brain that I must return. But I'm asleep. So another part of my psyche panics and puts together a scenario so something is ready for me when I arrive at that place again.

Five years ago I wondered if I was still asleep but, except for one detail, things seemed fairly normal. My window was down a little and the radio tuned to an FM station that didn't broadcast much of anything but music. So it seemed strange that I was hearing people talking. And their words weren't prepared like in a chatty commercial. I turned up the volume.

It was the words "..there's a major, major news story coming out of New York City this morning involving an aircraft that has crashed into the world trade center.." I switched the radio over to AM news, curious about why they were calling it a "major" story. And that's when the music and the cold air on my cheeks left off waking me up ended and unimaginable words entering my sleeping mind took over.

What started in New York City that morning by the light of day replays by night on location in the office building on Powell Street in San Francisco where I worked.

The idea of writing about my dreams here, in this blog, came to me after my last bad dream. You can't really kill your enemy and be sure it's dead unless you face it and see its severed head.
Although the end of my career at United Airlines was probably already in the cards, the closing of our office and furlough of everyone there is indelibly linked to the events of 9/11. We lost planes and passengers that day in the most terrible way imaginable. Any time a passenger is hurt or killed or a plane crashes, the entire aviation industry "family" grieves as if it was their own customer or crewmember or airplane. It's the hideous opposite of what you work for every day.

The first time it happened to me, as an official member of the airline industry family, was just after I was hired by United. A former PSA employee pulled out a gun and shot people aboard a flight from LA to SFO causing the plane to crash and kill everyone on board who survived his rampage. The newsflash came across the TV while I was in the break room.

First I was sickened and then angry. And I was afraid something like that might happen at United. Within hours I asked the first management-type person who came by what we would do if something like that happened at UA.

So I guess the real nightmares started a long time ago, certainly a long time before 2001. My innocence ended when that PSA flight went down. And that overwhelming sadness happened many times between 1987 and 2001.

But 9/11 was all I could stand. It put me over the edge. It was over. I'd had enough. From that day on it was like the world had ended and I'd been left behind to suffer with the sinners.

For the first week most of us were drawing emergency power from an unknown resource somewhere deep inside that kept us functioning even though the world was in chaos. We reported for duty, put on the headsets and did our jobs or what seemed like out job should be. We talked, typed, reassured, listened. Dear God in Heaven above, how we listened! People cried, babbled, pleaded and screamed at us.

First the planes started taking off again, and we felt relieved. Then the cancellations started pouring in and it felt like our future was being drained through a huge crack somewhere. The schedules started getting cut. Managers moved about the office with pale faces, sometimes repeating what they'd heard in meetings about how much money we were losing every day.

Our survival was in question.

It took a few weeks but I started getting sick. Every morning as I passed the spot where I first heard those words, "..a major, major news story.." I became physically ill. My hands went numb and my head felt like it was floating in a lake at night, detached from my body. My stomach churned as the profile of the San Francisco skyline became visible and the horizon brightened with the approach of the sun and another day.

I don't know how many times I threw up on the way to work. The first time it happened I made it off the Bay Bridge and down to a city street where nobody could see me before hurling out my car window. But I didn't always make it that far. It became routine. I had to look for new streets to turn onto because I didn't want to start drawing an audience.

Did I tell anyone? Did anyone ask how we were? I don't remember. But I do remember management passing out a paper with lists of the warning signs of stress and depression. But airline people are tough and don't often seek help. There's a lot of pressure to just "handle it," especially at the airports in the customer service area.

Now it's the five-year anniversary of 9/11. And I don't care to make it a landmark sort of anniversary because I don't want to go through it all again. It's been regurgitated so many times by the president and his people that I want to scream. Something holy has been stolen and made to do to unholy things for the people that want to benefit from its power.

I only want the past to realize that it doesn't belong in my dreams any more. I don't want to go back to the building on Powell Street by day or night. My subconscious needs to realize that it's over. The job is done.

But like the other night, I end up back in that building. Sometimes I go back to get something I left behind and find other people secretly still working there. I've dreamt that I'm still working and nothing has changed except that I've somehow acquired the ability to levitate and I go happily about, floating from office to office only to realize my folly and suddenly lose my power and end up on the floor at the feet of a supervisor who offers me a piece of her retirement cake.

The other night I was there again and found a whole floor of the building I'd never seen before. I discovered what seemed to be a happy and comfortable apartment that looked like someone had just stepped out for a minute except I knew that it had been many years.

I snooped, just curious at first. And then I started finding things I wanted to keep. There were a couple of hand-made quilts rolled and put away in a closet. I discovered a chair made by a prominent Danish designer. It wasn't usable since the seat was at a 60 degree angle, but I wanted it anyway. And as I made plans to start collecting things I heard voices and realized I was trapped. A realtor was showing the place to a young couple. So I pretended to have the same idea in mind and looked for a way out.

Suddenly a woman burst through a back door and said "I know why you're here! You've come to see my snakes.." She opened up a large cloth bag and hastily brought out a fat grey snake and pushed its head toward mine.

I screamed and ran out the door she came in through, my heartbeat pounding so hard my head hurt.

That's when I woke up, heart beating just like it was in the dream. And I was sweating.

Now I sit here, writing down this nonsense with no obvious way to conclude. I must still sleep though I rarely awake feeling refreshed. The joys and demons of my waking life are still at odds with each other like adversaries on a giant Teeter Totter. At times I want to be dead and finished with all this. But I know there's still something still out there waiting to be discovered. I don't know if it's a person or belief or some kind of understanding. I just know that I'm still not finished here and if 9/11 happens a hundred more times before I figure out what it is, I'll have to survive them all.

Ha! I remember when I asked my mom if I could take something of hers to school for show-and-tell in second grade. It was a huge, rough garnet still embedded in stone. She told me "Yes, but if you lose it, don't come home."

Sometimes I feel like I'm searching for that garnet.

The Boys of Summer

After I learned that our friend was bringing her two young boys to the house for Labor Day, I had some time to let it all sink in and come up with a plan.

The youngest one never was too much of a problem but the oldest is another story. He earned the nicknames of "Damien," "Little Nicky," and others that I've forgotten because his behavior was so bad that he could only be the spawn of Satan. Only a child of such lineage could scream for hours on end, create havoc at every step and then perform a grand finale of such magnitude that I'm surprised the lights stayed on.

But things have improved. I suspect his mother is medicating him but it's possible that he's just growing up. In the old days I'd guess that Dad had "knocked some sense into him" but that probably isn't the case.

I guess my exposure to children at the zoo has had a remarkable effect on me. Now that I realize they're actually quite cute and fun and very, VERY precious, once again I'm back to wishing that I had some in my life so that I could experience at least a small amount of what it's like to have my own. It would have been easier when I was younger and I don't really like it when kids think I'm elderly, but I can't blame them. I move like I'm 95 years old.

Anyway, I thought taking the kids to the pool could be fun so I called up their mom the day before and extended the invitation. This would accomplish a few things:
1- Give their mom and our other guests some relief,
2- Increase the chances that our "things" would survive their visit,
3- Be a right nice thing for me to do,
4- Give me the chance to prove I can be trusted.

As it turned out, they couldn't wait to go and from their point of view couldn't get ready soon enough. Their mom told them I had her authority to "spank" them if they misbehaved and I added "or hold you under" quietly so she couldn't hear. And off we went for the fairly long walk past all the garage doors, through the three locked gates to the pool, the two boys talking simultaneously and incessantly the whole way.

I didn't ever intend to get in the water with them. I am too white, jiggly and hideous to be seen without clothes. But once we arrived I did pull off my shoes and socks and sit with my feet in the water. It was a beautiful day and the pool refreshingly cool. The kids didn't waste any time getting in but almost immediately I realized there was a problem. Those damn wasps that are plaguing the complex right now are also landing in the water. And I don't blame the kids for not wanting to get into the water with a bunch of floating bugs.

The youngest didn't have much of a problem. He was restricted to the steps where he could hold on anyway. But the older of the two was kind of a sissy about it. (I think he's going to have a full resume of issues for a future psychologist.) I took a couple of dead wasps out with my hands and promised that was all of them, something I realized at the time I had absolutely no authority to do, and told him to git swimmin. But the older boy kept saying there were still more bees in the pool.

And, yes, they both just kept talking. Talking talking talking talking until I nearly started belting out an Ethel Merman song as loud as I could.

Realizing that he was right and my eyesight was pure crap, I found the pool cleaning net and started plucking live and dead wasps out of the pool. It was a losing battle, though, because the stupid things seemed to land in the water as fast as I'd pluck them out. So I gave up.

I was sad about being so self-conscious because I really wanted to shed my clothes and get in the water. I don't suppose the kids would have said anything about my scary body. I even fantasized about being in such great shape and so totally uninhibited that I would pull of my shirt, drop my pants and jump in wearing only my cute black briefs. (Who would care about that?) I've known and admired people who are at ease with themselves like that.

I took some photos of the kids (but can't post them because their mom said "no") and several of half-drowned and dead wasps. The youngest boy didn't understand what "don't put your grimey little fingers on my lens" and "you splash this camera and it'll be the LAST thing you do" meant. (tee hee hee, not really) Finally I got the younger one to get out of the pool, got them both dried off and we went back to the house. They were then back in their mother's custody after a report on their excellent behavior.

Later, we were all in the kitchen. Their mom (who also just kept talking talking talking talking talking) was helping with dishes and stuff and the kids started to get in the way. The litle pre-schooler got caught throwing fridge magnets at the cat. (bad Karma!) That's when I amazed even myself. Brace yourselves, friends who know me well. I took him into the living room, hugged him and said I loved him just as much as I love my cat and would never throw anything at HIM. Then we plopped down in front of the TV and watched cartoons.

A little while later he held my hand, hugged me and said "I love you."

When they were gone and the house was quiet again, it felt empty. I found myself thinking, for a while, that maybe my life has been a big selfish waste of time. But I just couldn't live a day longer if I believed that to be true. So, true or not, in the interest of life I will deny it.

PROUD TO BE FROM UTAH

There's a title you don't see very often unless it's accompanied by a photo of some big-haired woman or a family of 96 gathering for Sunday dinner.

On Thursday, the mayor of Salt Lake City spoke the truth while George Bush was there, playing it safe in a safe place in a safe state. If I still lived anywhere within driving distance to SLC I would have been at the protest where Mayor Rocky Anderson gave a passionate speech that "tells it like it is."

I know what it's like to be on both sides. I understand completely the notion of being a faithful follower. But what so many people in Utah and elsewhere have forgotten is that when the leaders have strayed off course, it's up to the people to do something about it. NO BLIND FAITH.

Usually a reference to Utah is a joke. I've lived with them all my life. You can hear them coming after "you're from Utah?" People have all kinds of wacky ideas. After today my attitude is "YES!"

Please take a few minutes and read what Mayor Anderson had the guts to say with the president just a few blocks away. It's brilliant.

http://www.slcgov.com/mayor/speeches/2006%20speeches/SPdemonstration83006.pdf
or watch it here:
http://kutv.com/video/?id=18850@kutv.dayport.com

Thank you.