Any experienced insomniac will tell you to avoid watching Monty Python's The Meaning of Life and then reading certain livejournals, such as Jaclyn's. Doing this, while very pleasurable, will undoubtedly lead to much more thinking than you typically do on a Monday evening/Tuesday morning.


Ah, well. I like the nighttime.

The quiet is different here in this town with no stoplights.


There is a thickness to the air that persists despite the gentle breezes that carry in the smell of the freshly-cut hay in the surrounding fields. I wonder if it is the soul of this place. It is a peaceful quiet that could be a despairing acceptance of the inevitable.


I imagine an elderly hunter-gatherer sitting alone in the falling snow because he can no longer keep pace with the rest of the tribe.


Some cows escaped from the pasture today. Brian and I tried to herd them back into their enclosure. It was going well but we ultimately failed because we couldn't figure out how they had gotten out in the first place. Without a destination, our valiant attempt at herding cattle quickly degraded into just a couple of city boys chasing some cows around.


A sad farce played out under spacious skys amidst amber waves of grain.


There is a mountain in the distance. It is white, not purple. I believe it is Mount Hood.


The neighbors keep goats in a large field. The goats eat the grass in the field. I presume this frees up a lot of time for the neighbors since they no longer have to mow their field or justify their poor landscaping skills. "If you don't like my field, feel free to complain to the goats."


I remember something in the Bible about sheep going to heaven and goats going to Hell. I guess nobody is off the hook.


There is a donkey along with the goats in the field. Every now and again he will stand in the middle of the field and bray and bray as if something terribly exciting were about to happen. Which, incidently, it doesn't.


Or perhaps he just forgets that he is a donkey in a field with a bunch of goats and then suddenly realizes it again. Hence the brays of dismay.


I don't remember where the Bible says donkeys go.


Wherever it is, I doubt they deserve it.

Smokey the Bear is, in fact, a real bear. At least, he was. After a forest fire, a bear cub was found horribly burned. He was nursed back to health and cruelly named "Smokey." He was the direct inspiration for the anthropomorphic, shirtless bear who still intimidates children and adults alike.


Regardless, I snuck in and out of the Grand Canyon without a problem. So much for Homeland Security.


Brian, Kelly, and I arrived at the East Rim at 1:00 am after a car ride filled with Cheeze-Its and laughter. We didn't want to wait until morning to hike into the Canyon, so we shouldered our packs, donned head-lamps, and were on our way. We arrived at the campgrounds around 6 am. The Reservation Checkpoint had yet to open so we just hiked right past it and I was in.


Brian and I stayed until Sunday evening. Kelly was driving back to Phoenix with her friends and had left very early that morning. Brian and I had no such commitments. We hiked out around dusk and somehow made it to the East Rim in 3 hours and 45 minutes. It was hardcore. Bats were flying everywhere, kingsnakes were slithering about, and squat, brightly colored lizards bobbed their heads threateningly at us.


We got to the top, rested for 20 minutes, hopped in the car, and headed towards San Francisco.


San Francisco was awesome. Josh and Laura's apartment is a block away from the beach. Next door, less than thirty seconds away, is a little grocery store, a bar, and a pizza place.


I was in heaven.


I did a lot. I went to the zoo, the Legion of Honor to look at art and sculptures, an art show at an art gallery which was more like a party with live music, I ran along the beach, I saw an amazing band called Loquat where I fell in love with the lead singer and got her to sign my chest, went wine tasting in Napa Valley, walked all about the town, talked to a multitude of colorful characters including a Korean War veteran and a magical musical bum, and ate a lot of pizza.


Saturday was the wedding of Josh and Laura, which was the whole reason we were there. It was a beautiful ceremony and a great reception. I love those two.


The wedding reception and events afterward is a story in itself, but Joey's blog already puts it pretty well.


Brian and I left San Francisco Sunday afternoon. We arrived in Merril, Oregon at 8 in the evening at Brian's grandparent's house were we are staying right now. I like it here. Which is good, since I'm not returning to Phoenix until the beginning of July.


Well, I gotta go; I'm on borrowed time.

So as I'm sure everyone expected, I'm now off to break into the Grand Canyon for the weekend. From there, I'm jaunting off to San Francisco for a week. The rest of June will be whiled away in Oregon where I will be exploring caves, wildlife preserves, reading, and trying not to get bitten by any more ponies.


I should return around July 4th.


Unless I get arrested by Smoky the Bear or whatever forest creature is in charge of that sort of thing.

On Thursday, I had my final day at work. As expected, I did about fifteen minutes of actual work, allowed myself an hour-and-a-half lunch, and then jack-assed the rest of the day away.


I came back on Friday for my going-away/birthday party which I had been touting as "My Final Huzzah." I told everyone that the theme was "East Coast vs. West Coast." I showed up wearing a blue bandana, a wife-beater, one pant-leg rolled up, and a temporary tattoo of a dragon on my neck along with a couple of other tattoos my sister drew on with Magic Marker that said "Thug Life" on my shoulder and "Anya" (the name of my neice) on my clavicle.


I'm not sure which coast I was representin', but I am certain it was to the fullest.


I had reserved one of our large training/seminar rooms with multimedia capabilities. It was easier than I thought. I just told the person in charge that it was for a "team building activity" and I neatly skirted mentioning that I would no longer be an employee at the time of the event.


I highly recommend learning some meaningless bureaucratic terms. They're very effective with people who don't want to admit they don't understand what you're talking about.


When I entered the training room in the building that I used to call work, I was not surprised to see that no one else had put much effort into the theme. I understood. I'm sure they had opportunities to dress up as gangsta rappers at work all the time.


We had pizza, cookies, chips, brownies, and soda. We had chess, dice, cards, and Hungry Hungry Hippos (thanks, Jake). I brought down the projection screen and slipped Office Space into the DVD player. I laughed at the movie. I also laughed at my supervisors as they cringed and fretted during some of the racier scenes in the film and whenever the movie blasted explicit gangsta rap music. To their credit, none of them made me stop the film. This confirmed what I had long suspected: the disciplinary problems I often presented them with had not been covered in any of the corporate training, rendering them essentially powerless as long as I remained polite and exuded confidence.


I'm going to have to put that on my next resume'.


So now I'm free as long as my bank account holds up. It is a strange feeling. I think it's like when Neo touches the mirror in the first Matrix movie. There is this little blob of freedom on my fingertip and it is spreading, slowly at first, but gaining speed.


I think I'm starting to feel like myself again which is good because, all things considered, I really liked me.

So I never explained what happened during my Italian presentation on The Inferno.


I walked into class carrying a whole bunch of posterboards and a gasoline can and lighter hidden in a spare bag. I took my seat and waited patiently.


My name was called, I stepped to the front of the class, I began my presentation began, and everything started off smoothly. I had essentially made a giant slide show with posterboards depicting the Dante's journey through Hell. Oh yes, many-a wicked stick figure was shown suffering plethora of poorly-drawn tortures.


After all my descriptions, I set up the posterboards around the classroom in order of the levels of Hell. Then, I held up pictures of well-known people and asked the class where in Hell they belonged. Einstein was in Limbo (virtuous non-believer), President Clinton was in Level 2 (lustful), Ruben Stoddard was in Level 3 (gluttonous) and so one. The last picture I held up was one of myself. I was curious to see where the class would place me. I was thinking Level 5 (Wrathful and Gloomy) because I was usually in a bad mood when I was in class, since it was at 7 pm and I'd been working all day and I probably hadn't eaten.


They couldn't come to a consensus so I placed myself in Level 2, since that's where the Dante's Inferno Online Test placed me. Although, to be fair, I scored very high for almost every level except Limbo.


After that, it was time for my big finale. I grabbed all the posterboards and my notes and dumped them in a pile.


"Now what would a presentation on Dante's Inferno be without..." I rummaged in my bag and pulled out the gasoline can and the long barbecue lighter. "Without the Inferno?" I finished. I started pouring the can's contents onto the pile of papers. When it was empty I tossed it to the side. I held up the lighter high over my head and sparked a flame. I stole a glance at my audience. There was a variety of facial expressions. Some disbelief, some shock, and (my personal favorite) a good deal of morbid fascination.


I let the lighter extinguish and lowered my arm. "You were all just going to sit there and let me do this?!" I yelled. "What's wrong with all of you?!"


The liquid in the gas can was water, of course.


I was disappointed with my class. I had been bracing myself to be tackled to the ground or at least been hit with a chair. But no, nothing. I guess for some crazy reason, people trust that I know what I'm doing. I appreciate that, of course.


I can, however, see a very large downside to that.

"What are you going to do now?"

Ben, I can't tell you how many times I've had to answer that question. Whenever people around here hear that I'm quitting, the first question is usually "Why?"


My answer to that question is "Because it's my one-year anniversary. When I started I gave myself one year to play grown-up and then I'd leave."


That answer usually leads to blank stares. After the person stops trying to figure out whether I'm joking or serious, the second question is "What are you going to do now?" The answer to that question is another I greatly enjoy giving and, coincidently, the same thing I'm going to have chiseled on my tombstone:


"I don't know."


Most of the people around here have a very difficult time hearing this, and if I were to judge by their facial expressions, for very different reasons.


In general, they look at me like I'm a fool. This only reinforces my belief that I'm doing exactly the right thing.


Well, I have to go. I'm at work. That's right. Let them catch me. What are they going to do to me that I haven't already done to myself?