Lizzi and I returned yesterday from a week’s vacation. Our time away was mostly spent in Phoenix and Boulder, punctuated by quick trips to Tucson and Breckenridge. Though the comforts of home are always easily greeted, the trip was an overall joy, save for the occasional bed bug attack and gradual loss of sanity arising from endless packing and unpacking.
In Phoenix, we spent most of our time catching up with my family. This involved plenty of eating (La Grande Orange was tops for brunch and dinner at ZuZu in the Hotel Valley Ho wasn’t too shabby), a quick trip to Tucson for a tour of the University of Arizona with my little brother (lunch at Pasco Kitchen was fantastic), a brisk hike up Piestewa Peak, and your standard moments of familial annoyance. There was also, of course, the obligatory philosophical debate with grandma. The impetus being that I promised to read her book on cosmic consciousness if she would promise to read my blog, which I’m pretty sure she considers heretic crap. What followed was a revelation that grandma, ever the mystic, exists in the fourth dimension. This makes it hard for her to communicate with spiritual infants who flounder aimlessly in 3D. My inquiries into how she graduated to 4D and who had decision-making authority to grant her such access were met with agitation. I therefore chose to bite my tongue and allow grandma her moment of spiritual condescension. Though we disagree wholeheartedly on many topics, I love grandma for her verve…and for the inspiration she provides a certain atheist blogger.
We also enjoyed making fun of “the best boutique hotel” in Phoenix, The Clarendon. The “best of” moniker is in quotations since it appears to be self-proclaimed (the “rewards” section on its website is mysteriously inoperable), kind of like how millions of coffee shops across the U.S. lay claim to the world’s best coffee. (A visit to the hotel’s website also reminds me that I should hold in suspicion any company whose web address ends in .net) Our stay started out strange enough. Upon entering the lobby (situated more as a hallway entrance), I was immediately overcome by the feeling of shadiness. It’s hard to describe why but let’s just say that I wouldn’t be surprised if there were multiple drug deals going down in the dark recesses of the hotel’s general areas. Though plenty friendly, the lady behind the counter spent an inordinate period of time explaining to us the very basic rules of hotel-staying. (“Yes, we’re well aware of all that, this not being our first rodeo.”) And she was infused with a special sense of pride given her role as keeper of the snacks (these were free, she’d have us know, several times over). She also made us aware that those snacks would for the evening be delivered by her teenage daughter, who clearly had nothing better to do over her winter break than to accompany her mother on the graveyard shift. This was as depressing as it was strange.
Once in our room, we were entertained by the overbearing scent of cheap air freshener, the blaring of an alarm from across the hall that was apparently set for 10 PM everyday, and a woeful attempt at art house decor. The bathroom was impossibly small, a situation made funnier by the fact that the faucet would only run cold unless the shower was turned on hot at the same time. On our trips to the elevator we had plenty of time to observe the pool scene since the elevator took twelve minutes to navigate four floors. The pool was set at the bottom of the hotel’s open air atrium, giving the place a seedy motel feel. This picture was made complete by the invariable sight of a floating, mustachioed man made buoyant by generous amounts of excess fat…nursing a beer…at 9:30 in the morning. On vacation, this is an acceptable – if not encouraged – move. But it was being executed with a level of nonchalance indicative of standard procedure rather than occasional indulgence. The image of this man perfectly encapsulates the Clarendon experience, not to mention the bed bug attack that Lizzi is pretty sure occurred during the final night of our stay.
Once in Boulder, we were granted a reprieve in both company and accommodation. Comfortably ensconced in the tasteful St. Julien Hotel, we spent most of our stay getting caught up with some very dear friends, two of whom were in town from Sydney and one of whom now calls the Denver area home. The former group represents for us the highlight of our Tokyo stay while the latter gentleman is among the funniest people I know. He’s the kind of guy who routinely turns otherwise problematic situations into cause for uproarious laughter. For example, having recently encountered some problems with Lasik surgery, he greets the staff upon his (many) follow-up trips to the eye clinic by playfully pointing out the nurse “responsible” for the mishap (“There she is! That’s the one!”, delivered with a shit-eating grin in a manner designed to exact maximum discomfort). He then proceeds to read a very clear and very large letter “P” during the eye exam as a “4″. Perplexed, the nurse explains that he should be seeing letters. To this my friend replies, “Then why are you putting numbers up there?!”.
Boulder is a great little spot, boasting lots of cool shops and great restaurants (I recommend Salt and Kitchen). Being a college town, it’s a blue dot in the middle of a red state. It had a sort of Bohemian vibe to it, reminding me slightly of Berkeley. Notwithstanding my fiscal conservatism, I feel awfully comfortable in these towns. I even find the preponderance of street performers and beggars charming. One young lady had the word “love” partially spelled out with loose change and would ask passers-by if they’d help her make love on the sidewalk. I found this clever, which suggests to me that my socially liberal tendencies win out in the end. Or maybe I’m just open-minded and intellectually flexible, as evidenced by my willingness to visit Lefthand Books and leaf through literature celebrating Che, anarchism, and collectivism. Of course, I also chuckled at the notion that the store exists through the efforts of volunteers that are ironically in short supply (judging by various announcements on its website and doorway).
We left Boulder for a day-and-a-half to hit the slopes in Breckenridge, about a 90-minute drive west. Thanks to some pretty heavy snowfall during the drive out, our journey was a rather precarious one that left me thankful we opted for the Subaru Outback as our rental. Given the poorly marked roads, mountainside curves, and absence of artificial lighting, I wouldn’t be surprised if Colorado leads the U.S. in highway fatalities. Having left in the early afternoon, we made it to Breckenridge with just enough time to catch about an hour’s worth of skiing. This being my first time on skis, I acquitted myself rather well and managed to feel moderately comfortable by hour’s end. This gave me a false sense of confidence heading into the next morning when I felt compelled to follow our group of advanced-skier friends along the Blue route to meet up with some other friends at One Ski Hill on Peak 8 (we were coming from the Hyatt on Peak 9). I somehow managed to survive the trek though not without the occasional face plant. One wipeout was particularly good, falling just short of a full yardsale (I learned that this is ski slang for a crash involving the loss of both skis, poles, goggles, gloves, and hat). On this particular fall, I managed to shed both skis along with my pride. For some reason, my instincts force me to always cut left when attempting to stop (a technique I picked up while watching skiing on television). This is perhaps because I’m right-handed and therefore have more confidence in my right foot/leg serving as the brake. I happened to arrive at this attempted stop at what I perceived as being breakneck speed, a term for which I’ve developed a newfound appreciation. Upon cutting to my usual left, I immediately lost the plot. My body’s momentum kept going downhill while my feet tried to stay planted at an angle. Physics being what they are, my feet lost that battle, which caused me to somersault uncontrollably a solid 15-20 feet as my skis quickly departed from my boots. My head snapped back pretty violently when I hit the ground (thank you, helmet) and I was certain that I bit off the front half of my tongue (luckily that was not the case). As fate would have it, this all occurred in front of our friends, all of whom were parked at the bottom of the hill graciously waiting for the idiot beginner in the group to catch up. I figured the least I could do was reward their patience with a first-rate wipeout.
I left Breckenridge with only a moderate appreciation for skiing. It is plenty fun as an activity but the build-up is draining. First, you spend lots of money on gear (gloves, goggles, coat, pants, socks, long underwear, hat, etc.). Then you pack all that gear into an overstuffed bag and head for the airport. Then you drive a couple hours from the airport to the resort. Then you spend more money renting skis, boots, helmets, etc. Then you spend fifteen minutes putting on all that gear. Then you waddle out to the nearest ticket office and spend silly money for a day pass. Then you find the nearest gondola, which takes you ten minutes up the hill where you then wait in line for another ski lift to take you to some such run or another. When you’re finally at the top, you spend a few minutes actually skiing before waiting another 10-15 minutes in line for another lift that will take you 10 minutes up the hill again for another 3-5 minutes worth of skiing. For me, I didn’t derive enough utility out of the skiing itself to justify the premium spent in time and money. I’m told the above frustrations are a function of choosing a popular destination like Breckenridge. In which case, I look forward to visiting a less cumbersome spot in the future. For her part, Lizzi did great and managed to escape the mountains with nary a spill. And I’m pretty sure she got a kick out of my wipeouts, so I suspect her experience was more of a net positive.
I got a fair amount of reading done over the break. On our flight out to Phoenix, I read “Farther Away“, Jonathan Franzen’s fantastic contribution to the New Yorker from last April. In it, Franzen remembers his old friend, David Foster Wallace, while ruminating on Robinson Crusoe and the concept of solitude during a trek to one of the world’s most remote islands. This notion of distraction-free individuality providing fertile ground for creativity has long been espoused by Franzen, whose collection of personal essays is entitled How To Be Alone and whose rules for writing include “It’s doubtful that anyone with an internet connection at his workplace is writing good fiction.” It just so happens that my Sunday NY Times greeted my return with an OpEd written by Susan Cain about the “Rise of the New Groupthink“. Among other things, the article talks about how people are more creative when they are alone and free from interruption, that “solitude is a catalyst to innovation” and that “we’re often so dazzled by charisma that we overlook the quiet part of the creative process.” So the fact that I usually blog with the television on, music in the background, and dozens of open web pages probably explains why my writing is such shit.
Despite my mediocrity, I intend to write a book this year, so the above resonates with me as I attempt to crystallize my own thoughts on the creative process. Seeking inspiration during our trip, I sequestered myself away in the Boulder Bookstore for a couple of hours one day. I spent my time there reading snippets of Franzen, Wallace, Salinger, Bolano, Pynchon, Fitzgerald, Heller, Mitchell, and Klosterman. An eclectic collection of voices, I was looking for help in understanding tone and rhythm, whether in essay or novel form. I was also secretly hoping that surrounding myself with such genius would somehow imbue me with magical abilities of my own. But instead of becoming more learned and inspired, I left feeling somewhat defeated. Reading the work of these brilliant writers brought about a wave of insecurity in my own abilities. How could I possibly have anything to add to a world already gifted with such talent? This feeling of desperation lasted about an hour before I convinced myself that what I just did was akin to an aspiring singer listening to Ray LaMontagne or Aretha Franklin and deciding to pack it in. When instead they should be looking to Brittany Spears as inspiration. If the entertainment industry has taught us anything, it’s that mediocrity is often handsomely rewarded. For every Louis C.K., there’s a Dane Cook. For every Conan O’Brien, there’s a George Lopez. For every Bill Clinton, there’s a Barack Obama. (Zing!)
While perusing the bookshelves I came across the author George Saunders, about whom I vaguely recall hearing in the past. I picked up The Brief and Frightening Reign of Phil and read it on the flight back to Chicago, along with a couple of chapters from his collected essays, The Braindead Megaphone. Phil was fun as a quirky, Vonnegutesque form of social commentary. But I’m enjoying more his collection of essays. The first story in Braindead is where the book takes its name. It’s a brilliant treatise on today’s media and echoes many of my own sentiments on the topic (save for the leftward lean). This is something I’ve blogged about in the past and come increasingly close to doing again with each viewing of those sanctimonious “Lean Forward” ads on MSNBC.
But if we define Megaphone as the composite of hundreds of voices we hear each day that come to us from people we don’t know, via high-tech sources, it’s clear that a significant and ascendant component of that voice has become bottom-dwelling, shrill, incurious, ranting, and agenda-driven. It strives to antagonize us, make us feel anxious, ineffective, and alone; convince us that the world is full of enemies and of people stupider and less agreeable than ourselves…
In a time of danger, the person sounding the paranoid continual alarm will eventually be right. A voice arguing for our complete rightness and the complete wrongness of our enemies, a voice constantly broadening the definition of ‘enemy’, relieves us of the burden of living with ambiguity.
I also managed to read some of Jonathan Safran Foer’s Eating Animals, which did its part in keeping me on the road towards a plant-based diet. By the way, I had a partner in all this reading, as Lizzi could be spotted at any given time curled up with her Kindle devouring The Hunger Games trilogy.
So here I sit, the evening before my return to the office, feeling less stoked than usual about getting back to work after a long break. Unless there’s a huge market for mediocre writing out there, this better be a fleeting feeling.
