Austin city limits.

Erin likes to sleep, so we got out of our crappity America's Best Value Inn motel room at 11 am, right at check-out time. I got up hours before, got showered and visited the breakfast area of the hotel. People really like waffles here, apparently. An intricate waffle batter dispenser and waffle iron has been a feature at both the HoJo's and the very inappropriately named America's Best. Not a waffle-lover, I opted for coffee in the extra-large mug I brought from the room.

I didn't mind the room. Erin thought it smelled. In my mind, it wasn't bad. But it was HOT. The air conditioning didn't do the trick.

So I'm glad I caved and succumbed to Erin's wishes. She booked a room in the Ramada Inn. An extra $20 per night means so much when it comes to motels.

So enough kvetching about the accommodations.

Maybe our room has become so important because it represents a respite from the merciless heat.

So it's been established. It's hot in Austin - a different, encompassing kind of hot. I'm sure if I lived here, I'd get used to the heat. Logan mentioned yesterday that he doesn't even notice it now, after almost six weeks of being here. Adaptation is a beautiful thing.

San Francisco has its earthquakes. Portland has its rain. Austin has the heat. Otherwise, these are all among the most beautiful cities in the country. In other words, every city, like anything beautiful, has its down-sides.

At any rate....

Once we left our room spot on at 11 am today, Erin and I headed to Kerbey Lane for breakfast/lunch. My lovely friend Shawn, who used to live in Austin, suggested the place. It was fabulous, eclectic and totally tasty. Erin had a pancake, I had a fried green tomatoes BLT and sweet potato fries. Yumlicious, I say. There are a few Kerbey Lane locations, but I picked the original, aptly located on Kerbey Lane.

After acquainting ourselves with the city a bit, we found our way to the hiking trail along the river that divides one part of Austin from the other. It remains to be established if this body of water is a river or a lake, as Austin refers to this tributary as Lake Austin, but it sure looks like a river to me.

The path at the base of the river/lake is perfect, not only because of its fabulous views of the city, but because it's nicely maintained, fairly flat, and leads to several areas at which one can walk across a bridge, across the water. And dogs can go off the leash. Undoubtedly the best dog park ever.

The melange of mutts that were eagerly splashing about in the water and sniffing one another seemed like a canine version of what happens at any playground in any city anywhere. We met Olin, a darling pup I'd have happily and later regrettably taken home with me.

Olin was sadly more attached to his owner than us, so we continued for a couple of miles down the path, across the river on the footbridge. The views were striking.

I can completely understand why this path is so popular on a Wednesday afternoon. It was a great way to spend a couple of hours, and we got a glimpse of Austin that was spot-on gorgeous.

Here's the view from the bridge over the water. It's difficult to discern, but some folks had gone to great lengths to tag the next bridge with intricate messages and artwork. Lives were potentially lost. But the incongruity of the LET'S PRETEND WE ARE ROBOTS message and artwork was an interesting contrast against the downtown Austin skyline.

Erin and I were drenched with Austin sweat by the time we got back to the car. We went to our new hotel after a tour through the city, and decided to relax for just a bit before we met up with Logan and his friend Colton. Again on Shawn's suggestion, we're going to the Salt Lick for dinner tonight. We'll pick the boys up at 6:15 pm at Ballet Austin.

From now until then, it's time to relax. Siestas are fundamentally a good thing.

Deep in the heart of Texas.

We got the show on the road at 11 am, and found our way to Austin seven hours later. The topography gradually changed as we drove, becoming less stark and more lush; although the Recession Tour continued until we got to Austin.

The worst was Sweetwater, Texas. Boarded up buildings seemed to outnumber populated structures. Everything seemed hot, dry and beige.

There was a sweet spot in Sweetwater. We had lunch at the Amole Restaurant, and it was fabulous. The people were nice, the food was great. So obviously Sweetwater has its share of good people. Maybe we missed the hot spots that would have made the Sweetwater stop on the Recession Tour a bit less sour.

We finally made it to Austin, finally found our hotel that we'd booked on Expedia while lunching in Sweetwater.

Austin is cool. And Austin is hot. Wiltingly hot.

Once we were settled, I texted Logan. Initially, we decided to get together tomorrow night. But we headed downtown and figured we'd see where he was staying, we realized he was very close to where we were, and we gave him a call.

Long and short, we met a bunch of Logan's new ballet friends, got a gyro for dinner and went to the turtle pond at the University of Texas. Very cool. And he's very happy.

It's time to relax now. Tomorrow, we'll be looking for a different spot to land for the duration of our stay. I really don't care about where we're staying; I've been doing my share of camping this summer, so virtually any hotel visit is a lovely luxury. But Erin's not too fond of where we're staying, and we're here until Saturday. So it's fine with me if we find a new spot.

We've also decided that Logan, his Colorado ballet friend Colton, Erin and I will go to the Salt Lick for dinner tomorrow.

Other than deciding that, tomorrow's a no-agenda day. I think that going downtown is definitely on the docket. It's so cool downtown.

And so hot.

**I've tried to upload some photos from the day, but our crappy wi-fi has rendered that capacity useless. Another good reason to find a new hotel tomorrow....

Here we are in Lubbock.

Finally, we saw some Texas sky.

Which, after 10 hours, began to look a lot like New Mexico sky. Big and blue and white punctuated with lots and lots of nothing. Which turned out to be very, very good.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

We left Denver at 9 am. By the time we got to Pueblo, it was time to find a bathroom.

In an attempt to stick with the thrifting plan, we tried to find an ARC in Pueblo. After some searching, all we found was a donation station. I happened to trip across a Sara Lee Bakery Thrift Store that I thought might have a bathroom, so we stopped in and used the bathroom, bought a baked good and chatted with Lydia about how to get back to the highway.

I have yet to consume the cherry pie I bought in Pueblo. I bought it more for the box than for its interior; an undoubtedly tasty cherry pie. I just think it's wildly intriguing when a box advertises that the contents contain what one would expect, as if it's some crazy bonus. In the cherry pie's case, apparently it's some sort of boxed pie marvel that its contents contain Real Fruit Filling!

After a harrowing re-entry onto the highway and a lovely drive, we stepped out of our modern-day world and had lunch at a mom-and-pop cafe in Raton. Yes, we were in New Mexico.

Erin slept while I drove to Logan.

Not Logan Makis.

Logan, New Mexico.

It was 107 degrees when we slid into town, and I think the folks at the truck stop were kind of pissed that I didn't do more than just that at their establishment. Not much to see in Logan, New Mexico, aside from this completely intriguing sign for a store that no longer exists. I have no idea why not.

Kind of ambiguous, the Just Stuff. Just saying.

Now that Erin was fully awake, we had a compelling conversation, much of which I taped without her knowing. I'd provide a link to what I recorded, but frankly I'm tired, and this freaking slow "High-Speed" HoJo internet is bringing me down. So I might try tomorrow.

But I digress.

We passed a large, sprawling wind farm that was very randomly placed in large swatches of land outside of Logan, New Mexico. We postulated many hypotheses as to why these farms were just where they were. I think, at the end of the day, it may be because it's very windy. At least that was our experience.

Such was the case all day. The car was rocked by waves of wind and heat. And we successfully found our way to Lubbock, somewhere around 7 pm.

The woman who checked us into the Howard Johnson's (chosen simply for the kitsch-factor) was super-pokey, but we finally got access to our room, which upon entry was super-hot. So we went to dinner while the room cooled off.

Where does one go for dinner in Tey-Has?

A steak house, of course.

Google steak house and google restaurant in Lubbock, and you'll get more hits for the former.

Unfortunately, we lost an hour moving from New Mexico to Texas, so it was 9:30 pm by the time we were ready for dinner.

After a series of unfortunate missteps, for many of which I'm responsible due to my aging eyes and general spacial difficulty, we finally arrived at the Texas Land & Cattle Steak House, somewhere around 9:45 pm.

Erin had a wedge salad and a baked yam.

I had a dinner salad, a baked yam and steamed asparagus.

Not a steak in sight.

Welcome to Texas.

So far, it's been established that it has a big blue and white sky, dotted with a whole lot of what one might assume is not much.

But things aren't always what they seem.

It was a great day.

I drove the whole time, and while Erin was asleep, I had a very pleasant time in my head, all by myself.

When we were both awake, we talked about stuff.

We talked about how we seemed to be on the Recession Tour. Every town we visited had a number of boarded up buildings, vacant spaces. Maybe that's the case in a normal economy, but towns seemed somewhat desolate and sad, all along the way.

Including Lubbock. Lubbock on a Monday night seemed completely shut down. Like a Twilight Zone episode. One of those where everyone falls into some alternate universe but you, and you're the only one who doesn't know.

But again, I digress.

We had a lovely dinner. And now we're back at the hotel, ready to span the space between here and Austin tomorrow.

Today was a beautiful day.

How I'm Spending My Summer Vacation.

Obviously, I'm not spending my summer vacation blogging.

It's been a quiet and fast summer so far. Quiet because both kids have been conspicuously absent. Connor's working and living with his dad, and I see him in brief blurs when he rises or descends here at home, on his way to or on his way from spending time with his girlfriend. It's as it should be, and he's happy.

Logan's been in Texas for the past month, dancing at Ballet Austin. He very occasionally checks in, I'm sure more for my sake than his. He'll be fine navigating this crazy world. 

I'm reminded of when the kids were in grade school, and I'd join them for lunch. Connor would see me wander in the lunch room and his face would light up. He'd make room for me among his friends, and they'd greet me just as warmly. 

When I visited Logan, he'd have a "what the hell are you doing here?" look on his face, and he'd tolerate my presence as long as it took to consume our lunch.

Both responses are just fine. And nothing's really changed that much.

Logan's approach to my presence in his life has been tempered by good manners and time, so I assume he'll be a bit more excited than he used to be when he saw me in the lunch room in elementary school. I'll be wandering into his current lunch room when I find my way to Austin a week from today. I'm leaving next week to pick him up from his 6-week ballet intensive.

And, like most of life, I'd like to think it's about the journey; not the destination. I'll be traveling in my crappity POS car down to Austin in the midst of a hot summer with my friend Erin, and I'm determined to have a great time along the way.

Erin, like most of the people with whom I surround myself, is fascinating. She's simple, and she's complicated. And I can't quite figure her out. That seems to be the common denominator that weaves through the pattern of people I tend to retain. I just don't get them entirely. 

I've known Erin for a dozen or so years. If I ask Erin what she did today, her answer would be banal and rote; the kinds of answer most of us would give. 

So I've learned to not ask that question. 

I ask Erin about concepts. About ideas. About ways people are. And then I listen, and we chat, and it's usually completely compelling to hear what she has to say, to hear our conversation evolve.

She's hard to pin down. And I was completely shocked when I mentioned I needed a traveling companion to go to Austin to pick up Logan. And Erin said she'd go with me. Oddly, her answer came as easily as if I were asking her if she wanted to go to the grocery store with me. 

Game on, I say. It doesn't hurt that Erin thinks the world of Logan. And the feeling is mutual. Logan loves Erin. He's said more than once that she's his favorite among my friends.

So that means our trip back might be fun. It might be more of a party and less of an "oh. My mom's here to have lunch with me (eyeroll)" experience.

I've determined that I'm going to blog about our trip to Texas. 

Maybe the trip and the blogging about the trip will reinvigorate my desire to blog. I've kept my interior on the inside over the summer, and it's been nice. But I've missed this format of personal expression. 

I've lost sleep, actually, wondering if my relevance is gradually deteriorating by keeping my tender thoughts on the downlow.

The world continues to spin without my supply of observations. But that's going to change next week.

I'm back, baby.

And I'm headed to Texas with Erin, with the intention of picking up Logan, and having some fun.

Watch out.

The dysmorphia of happiness.

I've been on both blunt ends of my own game of happiness tug-of-war lately, and the whole swirling idea of happiness compelled me to attempt a bit of deconstruction.

Why does my happiness tend to shift, despite the fact that very few actual differences have occurred from Happy Day to Less-Happy Day? Situations and conditions are the same. But one day I'm happy, the next I'm kind of blue. I prefer happy. So how can I stay there? Why does happiness seem so dysmorphic?

Seems like a fairly simple question.

I started at the most obvious place. It's a subject that can cause certain levels of stress in almost everyone. Money. How we see it, value it, are controlled by it, how money plays into the happiness game. Specifically, I referenced an article I'd heard about that attempted to shed light on the perennial dark question that lurks in the murky minds of most folks who struggle every month attempting to balance income with outgo. Does money really buy happiness?

According to a recent TIME magazine article http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,2019628,00.html, happiness may come at a price. It's an interesting study, this link between income and happiness. Although there are many components to happiness, this research has found that "every 10% rise in annual income moves people up the satisfaction ladder the same amount, whether they're making $25,000 or $100,000."

Another TIME piece from a few years back goes into a bit more detail about the specifics when it comes to happiness http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,1015902-1,00.html. Apparently our education, age, religion, marital status and so many more elements are woven into the fabric of our cozy statistical happiness blanket. It seems that happiness itself has been nicely quantified, studied, tucked in and put to bed.

But is it really that easy? By understanding and implementing all of these very cogent bits of data about happiness, would my disposition become inherently, fundamentally and consistently sunny?

Happiness may be a bit less easy to quantify, actually. Like an anorexic who looks in a mirror and sees a fat person, the layers of happiness look a bit dysmorphic.

Take, for instance, the TED talk on the paradox of choice by Barry Schwartz http://www.ted.com/talks/barry_schwartz_on_the_paradox_of_choice.html. It's his contention that people are generally less satisfied - less happy - when they have more choices. According to Schwartz, "The more options there are, the easier it is to regret anything at all that is disappointing about the option that you chose."

To sum his talk up in a teeny nutshell, the secret to happiness is low expectations, according to Schwartz.

This theory adds a delicious, fatty layer to the concept of happiness dysmorphia. The element of perception.

How we see things - how we value money, act our age, perceive our station in the world, how we treat people - can be just as important to the process of perceiving happiness as all the data that suggests happiness is an outside job.

Consider this list of "15 Things You Should Give Up to Be Happy" http://www.purposefairy.com/3308/15-things-you-should-give-up-in-order-to-be-happy/.  Of all the information I've referenced, all the data I've considered, this particular list is the most compelling.

Give up the need to always to be right. Give up complaining. Give up your limiting beliefs. There are a dozen more items that add yet another comfortable layer to the idea that the dysmorphia of happiness is perception. How we see what we have, how we treat who we love, how we see what we do, what comes out of our mouths, how we navigate the world, directly correlates to happiness.

And those delicious elements have nothing to do with wealth, status, age or religion, blah, blah, blah. It's most likely much more simple.

I've asked several people how they perceive happiness, and those conversations were compelling. Themes emerged. And almost every theme ultimately led back to perception - how we see ourselves, our circumstances and the world - as the source of happiness.

It seems to be as simple as that.

So, like my recent tug-of-war happiness battle, the Quest for Happiness seems to be an ongoing game that requires my participation. It seems to hinge on how I see it in the mirror that's my life. Like that very thin person who finally sees their quest for perfection will never be attained and a sandwich sounds like a good idea, the dysmorphia of happiness is a choice. A perception.

That idea makes me happy.

Identical cousins, a chair update.

When my kids were young, I would walk them to elementary school. I walked with them to junior high, too. And as is my thing, I sang songs as we'd walk. One favorite number was the theme song to the Patty Duke Show. It goes something like this, but of course it sounds better while walking with children:

But they're cousins,

Identical cousins all the way!

They look alike, they talk alike, at times they even walk alike - you could lose your mind!

When cousins

Are two of a kind!

It came as a sad reminder by one of my way-too-smart kids that there's no such thing as identical cousins. Apparently, as I was reminded by my kid several years ago, that's just not possible.

And I was reminded of that song again the other day when I visited the chair I found at a thrift store in Greeley that's currently being recovered. After doing some research, I found that my chair was the spitting image of The Chair by Hans Wegner. This chair is credited as an iconic example of Danish design history. 

It's such a long story, kind of like how Patty and her cousin got to looking so very identical. I've written a few times about this chair, and I'll leave it up to whoever feels so prone to find the entries about The Chair.

After a few crossed wires which were sparked by a friend who called Ackerman's to contribute to my chair's restoration as a gift for my 50th birthday, I learned that not only had Mike and his team not started caning the chair I thought might be done a few weeks ago, but another identical chair had come into the shop for a bit of a joint repair.

Mike A. (Ackerman) wanted me to come in and take a look at my chair's identical cousin.

The woman who owned this chair had a crap-ton of chairs just like this one at home, and they're all as identical as it gets. Mike wanted me to come in to see how this original caning had been crafted, in order for them to get the go-ahead to replicate the design on the seat of my chair.

But like Patty and her precocious twin cousin, there were differences between my chair and this very obvious original.

At first glance, my chair looks just like this chair, without the caned seat, which is fairly typical. Retaining caning after 50 years is kind of like keeping one's face completely line- and fault-free after a half a century. It's very rare, and if it looks original, there's a high probability that it's not.

Let me briefly remind you that this is my chair.

It's strikingly similar. 

Mike and I have looked at these two chairs, side by side, like a forensics expert would look at a dead body.

My chair has been refinished, and we chose a lighter grain. The other chair may have started its life a bit lighter, like just about anything that was created 50 years ago. The other chair, which is what I'm apparently calling it, has had 50 years of use without being refinished.

I have no idea if anyone thinks this is as fascinating as I do, but it's fun for me, so I'll continue.

I compared a few things while I had a moment with both chairs. Like the joints of the arms. They're very similar. I didn't have a way to measure the width of the arms at the time, but in hindsight, I wish I'd have done that.

It was kind of like missing a blood spatter, if you were Dexter.

The height, width and joinery looked identical in person.

But there was a very obvious difference.

It was all about the zig-zag joint. No, let's not go there.

I'm talking about the chair.

This was called the jigsaw joint, and it was defined by Mr. Wegner as The Way to connect the back to the arm of The Chair. This defines the real deal.

This is the Patty Duke. The original. 

But what of my chair? 

Did you take photos of the joinery of your chair, you ask?

Yes, I did. And I did a bit of research.

Because this is the joinery of my chair.

Notice the straight line. No jigsaw puzzle. 

Therein lies the conundrum.

I know this chair was made in the 1960s, based on information I found on the chair (Compelling, I know. Kind of makes you want to find those earlier entries, but I'm too lazy to add a link, so you'll have to find it for yourself.).

I did a lot of research to try to find prototype design ideas by Mr. Wegner. I looked for age-appropriate reproduction resources. I've found a few leads that I'll pursue, but at this point, I have to assume my chair might be a very early knock-off.

But I haven't lost hope.

There's that lead I'm following. A missing drop of blood.

Until then, in my mind, these chairs are beautiful, illogical, identical cousins. 

Revisiting the vortex.

It's time to dig through the garbage.


I'm working on a few different writing projects at present, so I thought in the meantime I'd post a blog version of a summer television rerun, with a bit of an update.


I wrote about the Great Pacific Garbage Patch (also known as the Pacific Trash Vortex), two years ago. This vortex is essentially a huge trash dump floating around in the Pacific Ocean. 


Start with a filthy base of degrading plastics and other man-made trash, add a dash of cruise ship debris (each luxury liner generates over eight tons of solid waste every week), mix in a bit of oil we keep spilling here and there, stir it up with a compliant ocean current, and voila. Like attracts like. 


I was hoping to provide an encouraging update, but I read this morning that the vortex is still estimated to have created a mass twice the size of the continental United States.


So taking it from macro to micro, it may be a good time to think about what you throw away. 

This photo looks like surrealism meets impressionism, with a trashy twist.

I didn't see the man in the canoe right away, but he's there.

It's not a pretty picture. And imagine how it must smell from where the man in the boat is sitting.

The picture illustrates that we as a culture generate a whole lot of trash. And once the items we buy are consumed, we don't seem to have any problem dissociating from the remains of what once was important enough to actually buy. 

Then we end up with the Pacific Trash Vortex.

I hadn't heard about this crazy mess until yesterday, when my lovely friend Cara mentioned it. We were talking about the oil spill, and Cara casually mentioned the Trash Vortex.

Look it up! Google it! There's a crap-ton of information about the Great Pacific Garbage Patch, which sounds so benign, as if little Garbage Patch dolls float above the mess with endearing, plush, refreshing cartoon smiles.

It's not so bucolic in the Garbage Patch, though.

We knew it was coming, as early as 1988 when NOAA identified it as a threat. This slow, clockwise current in the North Pacific is an oceanic desert, which dissuades big fish from making that area their home. Instead, this North Pacific tropical gyre attracts trash.

The Eastern Garbage Patch is so not patchy. It's a big mass of plastic and gunk and crappy-crap trash between California and Hawaii, and it's reported to be two times bigger than the size of Texas.

And that's only the Eastern Garbage Patch. There are a few other pieces of this trashy trash patchwork that rival the massive width and depth of the Eastern patch.

So when we're getting all "speed it up, BP!" - which is of course a perfectly legitimate sentiment - maybe we should take a peek in the mirror and look at how we each cumulatively affect this big blue ball we inhabit.

Before I learned about this from Cara, I didn't even know this watery mass existed. 


I had no clue that my trash might be getting sucked into the vortex.