You: Jail For Life

In late 1998 we were in Turkey getting ready to cross the border into Syria. Earlier that week at an Internet café while surfing the latest travel warnings for the Middle East, we’d hit the U.S. government’s page, clicked on “travel warnings,” and bright red letters appeared on the top of our screen:

“THERE IS A TRAVEL WARNING IN EFFECT THROUGHOUT THE MIDDLE EAST DUE TO THE BOMBINGS IN IRAQ. AMERICANS PLANNING ON TRAVELING TO SYRIA SHOULD ALTER THEIR PLANS IMMEDIATELY. THIS IS A SEVERE TRAVEL WARNING. DO NOT TRAVEL TO SYRIA IF YOU ARE AN AMERICAN!”

OK, maybe if they spelled it out for us…

We were…shocked senseless, to be frank. For the past few days we’d expertly carved out our plans for eastern Turkey and Syria, planning on spending at least another week in Turkey and then 10-14 days going through Syria towards Jordan. Now what were we supposed to do?

It seems that we timed our travels through Syria at the exact moment that President Clinton decided to bomb Iraq. In protest, locals in Damascus were furious and had stormed both the U.S. and British Embassies. It did not look good at all. Furthermore, not only was the U.S. Embassy in Syria closed, but also the Jordanian and Israeli ones for good measure in case anything was to start there. This was no good for anyone.

We read the rolling screens in complete numbness, not speaking and not knowing what we were feeling. Part of us was frightened because we’d have to forgo our precious plans and fall back on something that was less amazing. The other part of us was frightened for our safety and well-being. More “A” than “B.” I mean, I guess we’d just become realists by this point.

Knowing that we were going to have to make some difficult decisions pretty damn quickly, we sent a couple email messages to our families to let them know that we were aware of what was going on and that we were going to make the most intelligent decisions possible. It’s hard to explain why news back home is extremely sensationalistic and detached from the real world. Politics and the general population are almost always separate. While we knew that we’d have to assess this particular situation further and find out as much information as possible, we also knew that more likely than not we’d probably be just fine and not even sense any problems.

But there was also some validity to the notion, “better safe than sorry.” Plus, things could change in an instant; we’d have to really stay aware…I guess that’s what we got for not reading a newspaper for weeks at a time.

We finished our horrible surfing experience by locating a news article posted about how Islamic fundamentalist groups in the Middle East had threatened all visiting Americans in ten Gulf countries with violence and murder over the next 30 days based on the air strike. Wonderful. Their timing was impeccable.

Regardless, we were soon at the Antakya Otogar (bus station) near the Syrian boarder in anticipation of our 12-hour impending bus ride straight through Syria and directly in to Jordan. Soon, we boarded the bus and were off: twenty-eight Turkish (or Jordanian) men, Paige and me. Should be interesting.

An hour later we crossed the border and pulled up to the Pentagon-sized Syrian immigration building. We had arrived where we were not supposed to be. And we had U.S. passports. My heart was pounding.

The bus driver and his helper had already circulated through the bus collecting passports to bring into the Syrian immigration building, but when they saw that we were neither Turkish, Jordanian nor Syrian, you could see the panic in their eyes. They wanted nothing to do with this experience.

“You go in yourself,” the burly driver managed to convey as he shirked all responsibility for what might happen. I half expected him to tell me not to mention that he’d drove me here if something went wrong…

I grabbed Paige’s passport while she stayed behind (no need to tackle ancient religious supressionary beliefs between men and women at the very moment we needed an entry stamp into Syria), and hopped off the bus, following the driver and his helper – both carrying the lot of passports from the other passengers.

The whole Syrian thing had been questionable from Day 1 of planning the year before. After we had laid out our proposed course of travel based on our flights, we had diligently researched both border crossings and visa logistics. It was at this point that we had hit our first major roadblock: Syria. Besides the fact that it was iffy whether we’d even be approved for entry to begin with, the Syrian Consulate in Washington D.C. instructed us that upon approval they would only grant a two week visa that had to be used within three months of issuance. Even if we had gotten the stamp the day before we’d left the U.S., there was no way we’d make it to Syria within ninety days. We were screwed.

It was at this point that Paige had basically begged the Syrian lady over the phone, explaining our predicament and pleading for some other solution. Finally, the lady acquiesced and told Paige that if we FedExed her our passports the week before we left and made sure that they got directly to her, she would personally extend the three month time period into six months, but no longer. And true to her word, when our passports arrived back at our house a couple days before departure, we had until February 28, 1999 to get in and out of Syria. It was now December 22, 1998.

After that near scare (because really, what were our other land choices to get from Turkey to Jordan where our flight to India left from? Iraq? Sail to Israel? It was either Syria or completely change our plans), we truly treasured our Syrian visa, especially when we found out from other travelers that U.S. citizens could not obtain them on the road, only back in the U.S. We had done well.

Meanwhile, here we were finally entering into Syria and looking directly ahead to our departure a scant 6-8 hours from now. Plus, with all the crap going on in the Middle East, who knew if the immigration officials would simply take one look at our passports and say “No, get out,” or “You: jail for life.”

Because, they could you know. There was that “x” factor.

So I followed on the heals of these two guys, entering into the mammoth building flanked with a counter running the length of our side, and quiet emptiness throughout. A good fifty yards away a small group of people were huddled around one portion of the counter where two Syrian officers dressed sharply in military uniforms were busy examining passports and people, determining their immediate fate. The three of us took our places along the outside of the group, even though the driver and his helper were strategically trying to make sure there was a well negotiated distance between me and them.
One of the officers processed a couple of people, handed their passports back, then sat up and took a bored look over the rest of the group awaiting his attention. His expression suddenly changed to bemused interest. In Arabic, he curtly stated something, pointed to me in the middle of the crowd and motioned for me to come forward.

Here we go.

The crowd hushed and parted freely to allow me to approach. I was pretty nervous, but completely at the whim of this guy and really had nothing to lose; I had the visas, I wasn’t the one who had bombed Iraq, I wasn’t smuggling anything, and I was a person who cried at sad movies. How could I possibly be rejected?

I handed over the passports as the officer carefully inspected my face. When it seemed that I couldn’t stand his penetrating eyes for one more second and would surely run screaming in pure madness the very next instant, he slowly tore his eyes away like Velcro and redirected them on the passports. For what seemed like hours, he examined the visas, and I was sure that he was trying to figure out exactly how I had forged a fake 6-month entry stamp. Only one time did he tear his eyes away from the visa to briefly read my face and then immediately return back to the passports. I was convinced that at any moment he would declare me a criminal and scream to have me locked up in some freaky dungeon. Instead, he got up without a word holding the two passports and disappeared around a corner behind him.

Sweat was pouring off my face as I took a breather and turned around to catch a glimpse of the free outside world…maybe for the last time. The rest of the crowd was visibly nervous and definitively quiet, but not one of them would meet my eye – including my own driver. Oh well, I was already committed; things had been set in motion that could no longer be stopped. I’d have to ride this thing out to its end.

Five minutes passed, then ten, when suddenly the officer returned with another, even more important-looking official. They inspected me again, inspected the passports, inspected me…all the time mumbling in Arabic under their breath, just soft enough so that the guys around me probably were not able to decipher what was being said. Finally, the more senior officer took one last look at me, nodded at the first officer, turned around and was gone.

“Is this your wife?”

I was confused; did someone just say something to me? Wait a second, was that English I heard being spoken? Oh my God – was the officer speaking to me? What did he ask again? My mind raced to remember and then assimilate the question into something meaningful. Finally I forced myself to speak up.

“Yes, Paige is my wife.”

“Where is she?” he asked.

“She’s waiting out on the bus,” I answered, forcing my voice to appear smooth and calm. But the fact that he was speaking in near perfect English was having a very definitive calming effect on my nerves. Surely people who could communicate in a common language wouldn’t send one of their own off to some screwed up dungeon.

“What do you do in the U.S.?” he asked. Was he being pleasant? Or was this some kind of trick?

“I’m a musician. My wife is a housewife.”

Before we’d left on this trip and during the research mode of it all, a couple of important things had stuck out in my mind when crossing potential serious borders. First, when asked what your religion is, always answer with one of the widely accepted versions: Islam, Hindu, Buddhist or Christian (although this last one may not be such a good idea some times…better to stick with the first three). Never, never say “agnostic,” or “atheist,” unless you want to ensure immediate rejection from their country and possible persecution. Upholding your values is not always the best course of action…especially when crossing international borders.

Second, when asked for a job, never say “writer,” because they may think you are a spy who is interested in writing something horrible about their country, or even worse: a journalist. Never say “traveler,” because they don’t understand this concept and will think you are hiding something. I’d stuck to “musician,” and at times, “brewer,” just to add a little excitement to the situation, but no one ever seemed to understand what that meant.

“You’re a musician, eh? What do you play?” OK, he was definitely being animated now.

“Mostly guitar, although I play a few other things too,” I responded, secretly wondering if we were having an actual conversation. Heck, maybe he was about to offer me a beer.

He was obviously interested, “And you make a living that way? That’s great. My brother in law is a musician, he’s really good too, plays all over, but doesn’t make a lot of money. But he loves to play. I’ve always wanted to learn…maybe sometime.”

Wow, talk about me overreacting. He had totally put me at ease, and now here we were rapping nonchalantly and building a friendship. I was feeling like I should…share, or something.

The group of guys surrounding us was totally confused. They’d been convinced that I was a goner, and then suddenly the situation had shifted and the official was actually smiling at me. The fact that none of them spoke any English just seemed to further confuse the issue. Finally, the officer stamped the passports, handed them back with a huge smile and instructed me to enjoy my stay in Syria. The group looked at me with a mixture of awe, jealousy and disappointment.

Hey, I’m an enigma.

I practically skipped back to the bus. We were in! Granted, only for the next few hours, but still, it was the thought that counts. It still took another thirty minutes for the driver and his helper to make it back and redistribute all the passports again. And then finally, we were off, heading straight south for the Jordanian border in the falling light.

But very quickly the almost giddy joy of being admitted into Syria changed into reality, and we remembered that we’d actually eliminated the option all on our own. Traveling through the country was only rubbing salt into the wounds, so we’d have to find a way to enjoy the experience for what it was. The other difficult part was that night was approaching rapidly now, and once it fell we wouldn’t even be able to enjoy the Syrian scenery. Plus, we were on a damn bus. Reality started to sink in, and then suck.

But all of our negative thoughts were washed away when the sun began to set. It was absolutely spectacular. Across the green vastness of the countryside, the oranges, yellows, pinks, reds, blues and purples saturated every open space and hypnotized us. This alone made our decision worthwhile. A spiritual moment.

Perhaps it's this example of a sunset washing away life's stresses and annoyances that gives me piece of mind as this season's Survivor winds down. It will soon be over, yes, and we can look forward to the next sunrise in February.

With only the finale left and five subpar Survivors, we are forced to rally behind...someone. I know, I know, those of you reading this who could give a crap about Survivor are saying, "If it sucks so bad this season, why even watch."

You just don't understand.

We're powerless to this reality. We must watch. When the bad is good and the good is great, it's a paradigm that resides deep in our soul. Our escape from reality comes with the very real feeling that these contestants can at any time get redemption, revenge or "jail for life." It's a tremendous possibility.

So let's quickly review the final five:

Dan (odds: 80-1) - Dan has no business being here as his life is purely dependent upon the fact that he's zero threat to win a challenge or get a vote (unless it's an embarrassing sympathy vote or a vote against someone else - which is almost worse). His balsa wood knees are like those 99 cent toy airplane fliers that you used to get for xmas, quickly put together, throw once...and then get broken on that first throw. He or Holly will go next.

Holly (odds 75-1) - Although Holly could garner votes at a final tribal council, she won't have the chance. The only thing she did wrong was sink Dan's shoes like a mob body in the Atlantic. Beyond that she's been helpful, strategic and successful. It's fantastic to see Jane gone, and her childish tirade with putting out the fire and bagging on Holly simply proved she didn't deserve to even go that far. Holly was SMART to vote out Jane - but without the luck of another immunity win, she is likely next to go.

Chase (odds 50-1) - What an idiot. Although some would say at least Chase has used his brain more than say, Vecepia (the black hole of Survivor winner personalities), I would have to disagree. There is a difference between using your brain with the insinuation that it's in a productive manner vs. "using your brain" as Chase has done: with pure idiocy. And besides, it's not his brain he's used, it's his heart. Nobody wins Survivor by using their heart - it's NOT THE GAME. So is he a good guy? Well, no. C'mon, he's so gutless he can't even take responsibiltiy for looking Jane in the eye and telling her, "Sorry Jane, but you're a threat just like I'm a threat to win; I'd be an idiot NOT to vote you out." Instead, he whines and blames Sash. Lame.

Sash (odds 8-1) - Sash has a real chance here. Yes, he's a douche. But that's OK for Survivor. He's played the game, he's been strategic, he's made enemies - which I believe is important - and he may have garnered respect from some of those enemies for the chances he's taken and the lies he's concocted. The flip side is he's waaaaaay too cocky. So, regardless if he has a chance, I personally prefer the final choice:

Fabio (odds 3-1) - ...For one simple reason: did you see his mom? Holy MILF!

Tune in Sunday to prepare for the glorious sunset...

The Good Kind of Scum

Last week I invested the better part of a long afternoon crafting a unique gourmet meal. I'm a realist when it comes to committing my time and energy to concoct something new and difficult, particularly when it comes to my kids. In other words, nine times out of ten they rely upon any of their senses, aside from "taste," to determine if they like it or not, so it's imperative to keep this in mind as I flambe/blanche/infuse.

In all honestly, it's their sixth sense that they rely upon most of all. Unfortunately, relying upon an abstract sense when they haven't even mastered the other five yet is pretty futile and fruitless.

As a result, it's pretty tough to compete with mac 'n cheese.

However, over the years we've worked hard to get the kids to at least pretend to appreciate the effort. My ideal responses from them in prioritized order are:

1. Actually taste the damn thing (yes - unrealistic, I know...)
2. Smile and say, "Thanks for cooking!" Then continue smiling through the meal. Without eating. Quietly.
3. Not wail, "THIS IS DISGUSTING!!!"

Believe me, I'm ecstatic when they can even manage #3.

As they've gotten older I can absolutely see they are trying harder and harder to remember not to denigrate my efforts, but sometimes their efforts come out not quite as they intended. We now have a zero tolerance policy on meal preparation denigration in the hopes that any time these kids are guests at someone else's house, that host will be spared the brutal barbed insults. 

Last week as I set the incredible looking meal on the table, steam and complex aromas wafting among us like a benevolent miasma, both girls managed to keep their faces non-committal. Blank. Quiet.

Tremendous.

Reese, magnanimously working hard to show her appreciation, even went as far as to proactively take a spoonful and place a droplet on her plate. She took a long look at it, brow furrowed...finally and conclusively formulating an opinion.

"This is scum," she proclaimed.

Paige and I looked at each other. 

Sigh. 

"Do you understand how offensive that is to dad after spending the past four hours cooking for you?" Paige said, purely for her own benefit, as she knew only too well it was a rhetorical question. 

"Good-bye," I added, "we're having dinner without you tonight; no need to ruin everyone else's meal." 

But strangely, Reese was honestly shocked at our responses. Her eyes went wide and I could instantly tell she felt the highest level of injustice had just been unfairly inflicted upon her. 

"But-but-but..." she started; we weren't having any of it.

"Nope - keep it to yourself," we added, "just leave."

Defeated, she got up and slowly trudged away. I could see her mind working overtime - trying to determine how things went so wrong, and I was starting to get confused... 

Finally, just before she was gone, she turned around one last time with a broken, misunderstood look on her face and loudly pleaded, "But, I meant the good kind of scum!"

Ah. I should have known: not only was it not an insult, it was actually a compliment! Silly us.

Still, to her it was simply a misunderstanding, and obviously in the end it was more a discussion about understanding the meaning of the words she chose to use rather than intentionally spewing disdain or pointed insults. 

Perhaps she really meant crumb.

Sorghum.

Yum-yum?

Look, in all reality, I'm all for the good kind of scum when the intent behind the words is pure. Otherwise, scum is just scum: nasty. Impure. Evil.

This entire season of Survivor is just plain scum. From the booting of the only interesting players to the inane, imbecilic tribal council votes (and lack thereof), from the human embarrassment quitters to the complete lack of strategy and foresight from a single contestant, this is the bad kind of scum in every sense of every meaning of the word. 

With 21 seasons nearly under the belt, we've seen the best of the best (the last two seasons in particular), and the scum of the scum. It's frustrating - no doubt - but we also know that each season is fleeting and brings with it the promise of a new beginning in a few short weeks. There can be beauty. There is hope.

Are we spoiled having experienced Russell twice in a row? Having experienced brilliant strategy executed covertly and to perfection via delicious blindsides and bold declarations of giving it 100% no matter what the odds? Having experienced meaningful and pleasurable abs and fuzz-outs?

Yes, yes, a thousand times yes.

So is it fair for us to be irritated - nay, offended that we have to be subjected to this scum for another week before someone supremely undeserving gets crowned "Survivor" and is handed a check for a million dollars?

Yes, yes, a million times yes.

They owe us.

Damn right they do - and at the very least we should demand nothing less than the good kind of scum.

The MOAB In Your Soul

After graduating from college, some friends and I were extremely reluctant to "grow up" and enter the real world. In lieu of adulthood, we unanimously agreed to prolong adolescence, rent a gigantic four-bedroom beachfront apartment in Venice, and continue living life day to day without looking toward the future (other than ensuring that our libations were properly chilled).

Those first few months of life in Venice Beach were incredible: endless parties, midnight frisbee football on the beach, and a conscious disregard to utilize any productive component of the degree I'd just spent four long grueling years to earn.

The "real world" wasn't real to us at all...at least until the real "Real World" - MTV's show - rented the house two doors down from us, fixed it up, and were suddenly filming the 2nd season of their show: Real World Los Angeles.

To us, this was fantastic! We'd loved their inaugural season in New York a few months earlier, now the Real World would actually be in our neighborhood, on our block - we were their peers!

So on their first night of filming we grabbed a 12-pack and knocked on their door to welcome our new neighbors to the neighborhood - just as our neighbors had done to us a few months earlier. We had visions of sharing their rooftop hot tub and toasting our shared prolonged adolescence...

A gruff looking Production Assistant answered the door, "What?"

We held up the 12-pack, "Just want to welcome everyone to the neighborhood - we live two doors down."

"Beat it," he replied, adding a split millisecond before the door slammed in our faces, "and don't bother us again."

We were stunned, was the Real World really not real? Was their environment completely contrived? Controlled? Manipulated? And - more importantly - we were really not going to be allowed into this perfect world?

We were a nuisance. And as we departed the front entrance with our tails between our legs, it felt like our own fantasy world suddenly had a major chink in its armor. Our fantasy world was vulnerable.

Over the next few weeks, more attacks on our fantasy world began to appear: I got salmonella poisoning and was hospitalized...without any healthcare (an unbelievable bill), my best friend/roommate had to move back to New York, and my girlfriend of three years and I broke up. My fantasy world came crumbling down.

Rudderless, I too moved out, moving back home for a couple months until I could find a "real" job: a sales position with a large international company managing a Central Valley territory, and living smack in the middle of the heart/vulva of California: Modesto.

Now, with all due respect to the town that proudly touts the birthplace of the infamous MOAB restaurant (Meal On A Bun), unfortunately it's the LAST place you want to be single and liquid while in your early 20's. I was lonely, isolated and sad...and couldn't see any way out. My enjoyment of life had switched 180 degrees, and I couldn't bridge the chasm between fun and responsibility.

Even a MOAB technically couldn't fill the chasm...

A lot of this had to do with my single status. Breaking up after a long relationship is always difficult, and it became unbearably compounded in the glaring lack of nightlife on the streets surrounding MOAB. I soon lost all self confidence, basked in awkwardness, and struggled for any meaningful interaction whatsoever with the opposite sex. I was set up on a couple double-dates with friends through work, but nothing was clicking, as my low self esteem wasn't allowing me to relax and enjoy the moment. My blunderings became so desperate, that I found myself - twice - asking out waitresses because they were being nice to me (in the hopes of making a decent tip....). Both of these requests were met with, "Aw, that's so nice...but I don't think my boyfriend would allow me to go..."

I left both of these interactions feeling embarrassed. Sad. Broke. By the way, here's a helpful tip: showering a waitress with a gigantic tip to overcompensate for awkwardly hitting on them is like salting a gigantic, festering open wound. Just so you know...

For the next couple months I hid inside my shell. No way was I going to expose that soft underbelly and risk pain again. I plowed through my work days putting in 12 hour shifts, and pouring all of my physical and mental energy into anything and everything that would keep my mind occupied.

Then one day I stopped in at Tony Romas (the rib joint) to pick up some take out, and was met by a cute hostess about my age. Conversation flowed easily as I ordered my ribs and she started talking about her college work...

Later, hardened and distracted with both work and my calloused emotional state of mind, the scintillating aromatic vestiges of the smoky BBQ sauce that had penetrated the nooks and crannies of both the interior of my Grand Am company car and my head shocked me into awareness: that hostess and I had just kind of...hit it off!

I tried to shake it off and disregard the interaction, but couldn't. Tony Romas immediately became a staple in my lunchtime portfolio, and soon the cute hostess and I had quite a fun banter going on.

But I just couldn't get past my own pain and take the risk of asking her out. What if I was rejected? What if I misread the signs? What if she thought I ate too much pork?

A couple weeks of this back and forth continued until one day I gave myself a pep talk in the parking lot and demanded that I grow up. It was time to stop hurting. Time to earn some self confidence back and regain control of my life again.

It was also time to get some ribs: let's head in...

Of course, with this decision tucked in my craw, my interaction with cute college hostess suddenly became...bumbling again. Conversation stifled. Awkward pauses sprang up like asparagus shoots in the  early Spring. This was not how I was hoping it would go...

But I forged ahead; I had a plan, it must be executed...

Unfortunately, "executed" is probably the correct word to use in this case. I finally managed to spew out an invitation to "get together for a MOAB or something...", and her previously effortless smile suddenly and tangibly became forced. My mind raced as I prepared for the worst...

"Oh, that's so nice..."

Ugh.

"...but I already have a boyfriend."

Such a gemstone in the tiara of life may have broken a lesser man. But instead, I left Tony Romas feeling strangely calm. Focused. Controlled. My path was suddenly clear and I could see what was ahead: whatever I wanted.

I had needed to reach rock bottom to realize that my tenure there was 100% self-imposed. This was insane; what had I been doing to myself? Wallowing in pity. Basking in shame. Drowning in BBQ sauce.

I look back now and it was clearly at that point that I decided to grow up. Immediately things changed. With my self confidence back in tow, I saw the world differently and it saw me...for the first time in a long time. Soon after this change in demeanor, Paige and I started dating - and none of it would have happened without my decision to grow the f up.

I never looked back. (I also never went back to Tony Romas again, but perhaps that goes without saying. MOAB, however...well, I could never permanently abandon that forbidden sultry diva...)

This week's Survivor clearly brought back that experience to me.

Why? Because it was PITIFUL.

Two contestants quitting with a week and a half remaining? Lame squared.

I'm disgusted in this season. Disgusted in these contestants. Disgusted that Jeff didn't extinguish their tribal torches with a violent unbroken stream of his own urine. In reality, even that would be too good for them.

Although DanOnka is a despicable character, as repulsive as her personality and "character" are, blame has got to go to whomever brought her up. She claimed to have no regrets, wouldn't have changed a thing, defended her decision to screw over her tribemates, take advantage of them, steal from them, lie to them, seek pity from them...but she is at the nadir of her being. She's a shell whose words are empty. Even she can't believe them any more, but if anyone back home is supporting her decisions, god (or whatever): help us all.

Good riddence - to both her and Purple Kelly. They didn't deserve to be there, and they surely didn't deserve to take up valuable space in my brian.

...And yet, as callous and dismissive as I am about them...I also secretly hope that they see the mistake of their decisions. Right their sinking ships. Jettison that BBQ sauce that is weighing them down.

There is another option girls - and it's even more satisfying, brimming with nutritional prowess and empowering to the fiber of one's being...

Just look to the bun in your soul:

...The MOAB in your soul.