Farewell Portlandia, 12.17.13

In a few hours I board my last leg of this "around the country" train journey. I'm sitting in the Portland Amtrak Union Station (every train station in the country seems to be called Union Station!) waiting to board the Portland to Bellingham route. I'll begin this final blog now, tweak it during the six hour train ride (as has been my habit), then post it tomorrow.

No museums today. No library loafing or drawing, either. Just wandering this interesting city shopping, eating, and fighting melancholia.

Psychologists have described an interesting phenomenon about perception. They say "how" one perceives the final stages of any endeavor colors the whole endeavor. A good mariage that ends poorly is colored poorly, as if the whole marriage had been terrible, which often it is not. A bad ending of a movie colors the whole movie. And if the last days of an otherwise terrific vacation are troubled they color the whole vacation with negativity. I will do my best to combat this phenomenon.

One of the last trips Vicki and I did together was a train trip to Portland. I hadn't remembered this until I deboarded my train from Sacramento last night and recognized the Portland Union Station. Prowling the city yesterday and today, like Vicki and I did several years ago, was emotionally troublesome. I shuddered to recall the difficulty she had navagating escalators, tripping over curbs, and finding the relatively simple city bus system very confusing.

I also had happy memories today as I visited Powell's City of Books (another of our life long loves was frequenting used book stores), the mall where we clutched each other in fear as festive trapese artists dangled and danced suspended from ribbons 100 feet in the air, and as I walked past the most plush movie theater she and I ever attended (we saw a film about a child prodigy artist years ago while sitting in overstuffed recliners and one of us drank a beer).

One of the goals of this trip was to come to grips once and for all with bereavement, aloneness, and grief. It turns out this is a fool's errand. One does not grieve "once and for all." It's a permanent condition one learns to live with. I wandered the streets talking to Vicki under my breath (I have a new appreciation for people on city streets who mutter to themselves), expressing my lament, loss, and love. I have no clue if she hears me (I actually belive not), but doing so reinforces my determination to live the rest of my days honoring her memory, behaving in ways she'd approve of, and being the guy she always believed in.

So after 30 days away from home, 30 days of shift in my role as primary caregiver to her and to my mother, and after waking up for 30 days with no agenda, no schedule, and no goal other than to experience the country again as a semi homeless vagarant (this time with a credit card), I am ready to reenter the world of responsibilities, wage earning, and life in Whatcom county.

This may entail teaching kids art, working with the homeless, creating my own art/pictures, writing my own books/graphic novels, inventing the great American adjustable round chart (in every museum gift shop I visited I envisioned displays of puzzles, games, and brain teaser wheels I've invented), or any of a hundred other creative endeavors.

The value of this month of wilderness wandering likely will not be fully appreciated until I've settled back in to my routines. Until then here are some random observations.

1. Art therapy works. Viewing and creating art, so the experts tell us, rewires our synapses in ways that relieve pain. It does. It also fuels imagination. When I was into vegetable gardening during the Nixon administration I memorized this poem, "A kiss of the sun for pardon, the song of the birds for mirth. One's nearer God's heart in a garden than anywhere else on earth." Seeing so much cool art inspired this bit of doggerel, "Lock me in a room with pencils. Feed me through a hole in the door. Provide me with reams of paper and still I will ask you for more."

2. A rail pass may not be cost effective. To get full advantage of the "twelve segments in 30 days" package one must either spend all their time getting on and off trains (and not see much of any one place), or spend extended time in different places and not use up all 12 segments.

3. I'd kill for a green smoothie. After 30 days without a blender my body is done trying to acclimate itself to donuts, sugar, and animal products. I'm going to invent the tofu and kale only diet starting tomorrow.

4. I'm no fan of noisy people. I am astonished at how inconsiderate others are. I never again want to hear one sided phone conversations, chatty train travelors' innane jabberings, or people who think others enjoy being their audience. A pox on all noise polluters. I'm tempted to cheer like the bus passengers in What About Bob? when noisy passengers get off my train. If I get off first I'll dance a little victory dance.

5. I am transfixed by others' creativity. I'm partial to paintings and drawings but well written fiction, nonfiction, or screen plays, elaborate sculpture, masks, or sky scrapers, ingenuity at addressing problems like homelessness, existential angst, or shuttling thousands of commuters by car, taxi, bus, subway, train, plane, or elevator leave me in awe. Travel exposes one to many new and beautiful novelties.

6. There's a difference between aloneness and loneliness. I've been alone, with the exception of four hours with Edward the homeless guy, for weeks but experienced loneliness only sporadically. When the demon of loneliness hits (and according to my lonely clients loneliness is a tragedy of demonic proportions), my escape has been an active imagination (think Walter Mitty), sketchbook, bookstore, and connection with others by phone, text, or blog.

7. Things to bring next time. Handiwipes. I'm no germophobe but I am aware of how many foreign objects I touch in a day. Extension cord. I watched The West Wing reruns on my tablet each night and I'm astonished how inconveniently located the plug ins are in every place I stayed. On trains outlets are everywhere, thankfully.

8. Things not to bring next time. Books. I've been lugging around two books and haven't cracked them in weeks. The conductor of my first train in Florida gave me a spy thriller (Black List by Brad Thor) and that's what I've been working on all this time. I'm determined to get 'er done before Bellingham.

Time to board my last train for a while. See ya!

Post script. The so caled thriller Black List was terrible, confusing, and convoluted. The only thing thrilling about it was finishing it.

Sleeping in Coach, 12.16.13

I boarded the train from Sacramento to Portland at midnight last night and chose not to use a sleeping compartment again. This meant another evening trying to adjust my inflexible body to immovable seats. Something's gotta give. Either Amtrak must design cushier seats or the human body must evolve to accommodate this hostile environment. I spent the last six hours contemplating what shape the human body must adopt to keep traveling by coach from making me crazy. Here are the designs I came up with.

Quickie Sketches, 12.15.13

Four works that inspire.

Crocker Museum of Art, 12.15.13

The church service I attended this morning ended at eleven. I then checked out of my motel, walked to an office supply store and bought a new pencil eraser (ahh, that felt good), stashed my duffle bag at the train station, and then walked to the Crocker Art Museum. I find the juxtaposition of uber wealth (Crocker was a Sacramento judge whose home and art collection are worth millions), and abject poverty (the homeless literally ate up the benevolence of Hipanics, Buddhists, and Salvation Army workers), oddly reassuring. I want a steady diet of life's weal and woe.

To the rarified world of art dealers I'm what's known as an outsider. I am not part of the elite. I am also one of those whom the insiders look down on because I don't know art but I know what I like. And I saw a LOT at the Crocker that I liked. Each of these pieces evoke nice feelings and deserve further elaboration but I'm typing on my tablet while riding the train through southern Oregon and am somewhat destracted.

In Defense of Chaos, 12.15.13

The warm up station of the Salvation Army church was small and felt jammed with ten people inside. Edward introduced me to John who said he wasn't going to the church service because he doesn't believe in that stuff. A woman in ragged clothes and runny nose (I actually saw very few people who didn't have runny noses), spent ten minutes perusing the free literature rack. I recognized not one of the books. It looked like they were all Salvation Army titles.

People in SA uniforms busied themselves walking through the warm up station and into the locked chapel area. It wasn't ten o'clock yet and they were still preparing the service. Two guys in uniforms and instruments, a cornet and a tuba, walked tnrough. Another uniformed lady walked outside and shouted, "You can't do that here. This isn't a park!" I have no idea what they were doing.

John eyed me suspiciously and said, "You don't look homeless."

I said, "I'm not. I'm here as Edward's guest."

Satisfied, he went gack to staring into space.

When the doors finally opened and church goers entered the chapel Edward apparently forgot I was there and sat alone in the front row. I sat speechless in the second to the back row for the next hour while cacophony reigned. Despite a bulletin and order of service, the schedule was thrown off in the first three minutes.  Here are the ingredients that assaulted my senses for 60 minutes. These are not sequential, they are synchronous.

A TV up front played a Christmas themed DVD.
The brass duo played.
A man with a mop wiped up what I hoped was spilled coffee.
People shouted nonsense utterances.
People, including Edward, chatted noisily while helping themselves to free coffee and donuts off to the side.
Through a glass window up front I could see another meeting going on, people standing, walking, talking. I suspect it was for those unwilling to attend the church service, perhaps an AA meeting.
Someone read John 1:1-14.
Someone preached.
Derelict men and women wandered the aisles.
For special music a lady in her seventies with tatoos, pink hair, wearing tons of jewelry including an LED flashing ring, brought a child's doll up front that, when you pushed her button, sang a Christmas Carol. "I bought this on sale after Christmas last year and now I finally get to use her." The singing doll was her musical accompaniment.
Another person read John 1:1-14 again.
A guy with a guitar sang Christmas Carols.
Those who could track with all this loved it. When one of the many speakers said, "Jesus is the reason for the season," whoops and hollars went up.
The MC asked, "Does everyone have a bulletin?" When she learned we did she shouted, "Praise the Lord."
Several women stood with raised arms.
They lit the third Advent Candle.
They took an offering (another five dollar donation).

What struck me about this cacophony was the joy it brought so many people. Edward sat in the front row eating it up. He asked clarifying questions. The message was the same message everyone has heard who has ever been to an evangelical church. Salvation Army workers all deserve medals.

In a previous post I mentioned the energy and dynamism of New York city. There was a spiritual energy in this noisy church service. It's not something I'd enjoy week after week--tuba has never been my instrument of choice--but such a meeting is a labor of love by the long suffering and harried officers.

When the service ended I walked up to Edward, thanked him for the invitation, and said godbye. He never asked where I came from, where I lived, or where I was going. He was plotting where to get his next meal.

Sacramento, The Non Museum Crowd, 12.15.13

I woke up today interested in attending either the Greek Orthodox church I passed last night while walking from the train station to my motel, or the Presbyterian church I found on Google maps which was in even closer walking distance. It seemed appropriate to engage in sacrament while in Sacramento. Instead, I accepted an invitation to go the the Army of Salvation church from a cross eyed, toothless, homeless guy wearing a skull cap, hoodie, dirty sweat pants, and carrying all his possessions in a plastic bag.

My first visit to Sacramento was in 1972 as a hitch hiking, semi homeless 19 year old vagabond. My second visit to Sacramento involved befriending Edward, a full fledged homeless 40 year old. It's a circle of life kind of thing.

This morning's breakfast meant donuts in the shop across the street from my motel. As I sat at a small table enjoying a bismark and coffee I noticed that all the customers were single black men, all in varying degrees of mental illness or hangover. The exception was the two white, fully grown, skater dudes wearing chains, steam punk boots, ammo belts, Magritte bowler hats, and leather. They rode across the parking lot and up to the front door of the donut shop like pros, flipped their boards into the air and caught them with deft one handed grabs, waltzed right in, politely ordred three donuts each, stuffed the bags of donuts into their back packs, and rode off into the morning sunshine like this was normal behavior for thirty year olds.

Two black guys sat at the table next to me, one of whom had a big Twelve Step book. The guy with the book turned around and said sweetly, "Good morning, sir, God bless you. Would you like to join me for church this morning?"

I asked, "Which one?"

He said, "The Army of Salvation church. I walk there every Sunday after I stop at Safeway and this donut shop."

I said, "That's kind of you to offer, but I think I'll pass."

He said, "Okay," and continued to talk to the other guy at his table.

A few minutes later he shoved his Twelve Step book into his clear plastic bag and got ready to leave. I'd done some calculating and figured I really had no other plans and besides, this was the first friendly invitation I've received from anyone to join them in any social activity in three weeks (if you don't count the Hasidic Jews in New York who asked me to buy a manorrah or the hawkers in Times Square trying to get me to attend a Comedy Club).

"When does church start?"

"Ten o'clock."

"It's only eight thirty. What do you do until then?"

"I get free breakfast at the stand down the road."

"I'm not hungry for breakfast but I think I will  join you for church."

"Okay, follow me."

I don't normally do stuff like this (never) but the sun was out, the guy had a guilelessness about him I found compelling, and I couldn't wait to learn more about the Army of Salvation church. I'm a glutton for oddball religious meetings.

During our twenty minute walk I learned his name is Edward, is a crystal meth addict in recovery, has been homeless for sixteen years, and spends every day walking. Walking, walking from place to place to place. He woke up in a park this morning but I didn't ask where, nor did I ask how he gets money for donuts or if he's still using drugs. He did quit tobacco five years ago. He gave me a long involved lecture on the dangers of cow liver and turkey gibblets. One of the reasons he stops in Safeway, if I got the story right, is because he talks to the butcher. There's something about the color of those organs that make him suspicious. He also confessed he's done things that make God unhappy and doesn't want to get condemned for them so that's why he's seeking God.

I asked, "Is this church service going to be weird?"

He laughed and said, "What do you mean?"

"They're not going to do anything to me that will be embarassing, will they?" I was in no mood to be harangued about tongues, donations, or missions but it turns out my fear was unwarranted.

He assured me no and then asked about me. I told him my wife passed away three and a half months ago and to be frank, that I find myself somewhat lost. He offered sincere condolances and then went off on other tangents about health care, cancer, the love of God, and not eating meat with blood in it.

When we got to the neighborhood for free breakfast my eyes widened. The streets in this warehouse district, single story plants and empy fields surrounded by chain link fences with razor wire, were loaded with homeless people. And I mean loaded. Tents, blue tarps, mattresses on the sidewalk (one of which had a teddy bear propped up on the pillow), shopping carts loaded with stuff, and men and women ambling about. Dozens and dozens of them. It reminded me of what Tent City in Seattle must look like, though thankfully, without the kids. Every person , like Edward, was wearing the dirty clothes they slept in.

I am almost certain the department of health would be horrified to see the trash, garbage, and unsanitary condition of this neighborhood.

Our first stop was a free hot chocolate station set up in the road by Hispanics. We both got a hot chocolate.

Our second stop was a sandwhiches and clothes donation station set up in the street by, according to the sign, Compassionate Buddhists. One hundred men and two women (if I did the math right) lined up as we stood for an hour while Buddhists made vegetarian sandwiches. I only took a banana (and donated five dollars). I talked to the organizer who runs a foot massage business during the week but has been driving two hours to Sacramento every Sunday for years to cordinate the twelve volunteers who distribute food and clothing. Later I met a guy named John who received a free sleeping bag and he groused about how small it was. I shamelessly took pictures of this astonishing line up.

During our hour long wait I learned that Edward was raised by hs grandparents, his father was "selfish" (which I took as code for having done something nefarious), and is a bona fide "homeless newspaper" distribution guy. I bought a copy (another five bucks) and can't wait to read up on the problem of homelessness from the point of view of the homeless. He also described with utter confidence his belief that he sees dead people, that the tall Environmental Protection Agency building in the distance had, according to him, appeared out of nowhere, and that it's againt the law to electrify fences.

Our third stop was the Army of Salvation warm up room which turns out was really a Salvation Army church. More about that service later.

For now let me conclude both how shocked and moved I was by the plight of the homeless masses. I've been groping for a new ministry in this new chapter of my life and after this morning I am ready to sign up for Bellingham food and clothing distribution. If a guy is going to be homeless, there's no reason why they shouldn't at least be warm and fed.

Photos from the train, 12.14.15

Somewhere between Denver and California.

Sleeping Compartment Redux, 12.13.13

What to my wondering eyes should appear but sheets and blankets hidden on the top bunk of my second stay in an Amtrak sleeping compartment. Last time I used my coat to stay warm. Tonight I get a sheet and a blanket. To add to my delight, I learned how to raise the top bunk so I quit bonking my head. And to top off my list of worldly pleasures, I've discovered there's a matress that fits on the lower bunk. Things just keep getting better and better.

It's 3:30 in the afternoon and I'm still on the train, currently stopped in Grand Junction, Colorado for fresh air; some folks use these 20 minutes as opportunity to smoke.

I'm also using this 32 hour confinement to feed my yen for modern art. Hard when the train wobbles. But then, maybe that adds to the effect.

Making Peace With The Problem of Evil, 12.13.13

I woke up in my Denver motel today and watched TV while eating my complimentary breakfast. News of devastating weather, random traffic accidents (why they feel compelled to show clips of people getting maimed or killed by out of control motorists is beyond me), and fatal stabbings after some damn football game last night in Denver put me in a surly frame of mind. Skip this post if you want more photos of cool art. They'll come later. Today (at 8:30 in the AM) I wax philosophic as I enjoy Colorado scenery during my 32 hour trip to more museums in Sacramento (then stops in San Francisco, Portland, and beyond).

The problem of evil is nicely summarized by this bumper sticker, "God is love. God is powerful. Evil exists. Pick two."

New atheists would have us believe that the problem of evil is the nail in the coffin to theism. And to be honest, Christian, not to mention Jewish, apologists have grappled with this issue for millennia. Having read a good number of those writers, and having written about this subject myself as an amature theologian (my master's thesis was on this topic), I sympathize with attempts to untangle this theological conundrum.

To be frank, I do not believe an answer exists. I have yet to discover a theodicy that works. Apologetic arguments run from the ridiculous to the sublime but not one that I know of makes the problem go away.

Since I'm not willing to become an atheist I must somehow live with this nagging bumper sticker. Here is how I am making peace with the problem of evil.

My #1 observation about the problem of evil is that it's not as problematic as detractors of faith in a providential God would have us believe. The problem of evil has existed for as long as benevolent monotheism and yet the number of believers continues to grow. Believing Jews are exemplar in this regard. They live with a holocaust. Either believers are deluded, irrational, and in denial, or the problem isn't quite the death knell to faith unbelievers claim. If that bumper sticker was a slam dunk we'd all become atheists. And since believers continue to believe there must be something at work which propels faith beyond the rational quandary posed by that bumper sticker.

My #2 observation about the problem of evil is the relativity of evil.

Natural disasters. Stepping in a mud puddle is irritating but not evil. Being splashed with mud by a passing motorist, if intentional, is somewhat evil. A flood that destroys one's house and all of one's possessions is evil, and a tsunami resulting in loss of life is a horrendous evil. The same goes for fires, earthquakes, volcanoes, hurricanes, and meteor showers.

Medical disasters. A paper cut, mild headache, and sunburn are irritations but not evil. Debilitating migraines, paraylysis, and chronic pain are evil. Death of a child, random accidents, and unredeeming suffering (suffering that offers no possible benefit to the sufferer) are horrendous evils.

Social disasters. Lying about Santa Claus, playing harmless practical jokes, and cutting in line may be inadvisable but are not evil. Gossip, slander, cruelty are evil. Abuse, murder, and genocide are horrendous evils.

Religious disasters.  Boring sermons, monotonous traditions, and fattening pot lucks are repellant but not evil. Judgmentalism, shaming, pressure tactics, and guilt mongering are evil. Holy wars, witch trials, inquisitions, and baptizing at knife point are horrendous evils.

Animal disasters. A scratch from a playful kitty hurts but isn't evil. A cat who toys with a mouse before eating it is (for the mouse) evil. A parasite that lives off its host by slowly digesting it from the inside out is more than gross. It is evil. And what of the poor Bambi burned alive in a wild fire? Google animal suffering if you dare.

Acknowledging the relativity of evil belies our innate sense of justice which, Christians argue, is a mark of imago dei. Our unavoidable habit of evaluating levels of evil is a strange habit indeed if there are no moral absolutes.

My #3 observation about the problem of evil is that without this problem we all become nihilists. If nature and history are determined by genetics, chance, probability, or randomness we have no sound rationale to fight evil. Might makes right, the fittest survive, and choosing one's purpose is arbitrary. Benevolent atheists can choose to become philanthropic and humanitarian but who is to say a malevolent atheist (Mao, Pol Pot, Lenin) has chosen poorly?

My #4 observation about the problem of evil is that it keeps us honest. It is for this reason I love Ecclesiastes and why I balk at popular evangelical reinterpretations which attempt to defang Qohelet's doubts. Every Christian can site examples of answered prayers, special providences, and miraculous deliverances. Those are the hits. What few evangelicals acknowledge (other than Qohelet) are the misses--the unanswered prayers, the bizarre and pointless acts of depravity, and the random acts of violence, stupidity, devastation, and oppression. It's a sure bet neither I or Qohelet are going to be invited to any easy breezy televangelist show soon.

My #5 and final (for now) observation about the problem of evil is its role in a life of faith. It takes no faith to believe 2+2=4. That fact is self evident. The goodness and power of God are not self evident when we watch TV news. And since faith is germaine to all human endeavor, whether doing scientific research, choosing a school or major or spouse, or riding a train in Colorado, it stands to reason that our connection to the ineffable, the unseen, the transcendent also requires faith. In my moments of weak faith, and I have plenty, I'm haunted by Jesus' question, "When I come back will I find anyone with faith"? Curiously he did not say love. The problem of evil fuels my faith.

Okay, enough of this. Back to sight seeing in the beautiful Colorado Rockies.

Denver Art Museum, 12.12.13

After arriving in Denver this morning at 8:30 I sat in the train station as usual and pulled up Google Maps to see how far my motel was from my current location. It was less than 2 miles and the weather was glorious so I hoofed it.  My duffle bag keeps getting heavier with stuff but I needed the exercise after being cooped up for 18 hours.

Once checked in I showered, changed clothes, and got directions from the motel clerk about bus travel. Two dollars and twenty five cents later I'm in downtown Denver with a whole day to kill. I bought a muffin, visited a book store (forced myself to stop adding weight to my luggage although I found some dandy items now duly recorded in my Evernote list of "books to get some day"), and wound my way to the Denver Art Museum.

It astonishes me that throngs aren't lined up to ogle these works of brilliance. There's a football game in town tonight, and jazz clubs, restaurants, businesses to run, and buses to catch. I can't expect everyone to gasp at the things that make me gasp.

Here are some treasures, top to bottom.

Item 1. Graphite on 8' × 10' paper. Breath taking detail all with a pencil!

Item 2. Photo realism paintings 1' × 1' of grass. A dozen paintings of grass!

Item 3. Buddhist sand painting, covered least any one sneeze near it.

Item 4. Roy Liechtenstein of a violin.

Item 5. Bouguereau.  Stunning.

Sketches, 12.12.13

Malcolm Gladwell argues convincingly that researchers have determined it takes 10,000 hours of practice for a person to become proficient in their chosen field. I'm too tired to do the math but I think this means I better live to be 100 if I wanna become a museum or gallery artist.

Life in a Railroad Sleeping Compartment, 12.12.13

When the guy in the compartment across the hall from me first saw his living quarters he said, "It looked bigger on the web site."

I, however, was not discouraged by the size of the sleeping room. Having pulled two all nighters in sit up coach, my experience resembling that of a caged Tasmanian Devil, I saw this compartment as positively palatial.

It's now five AM and my views have changed. The motel I stayed in two nights ago gave me a king size bed which felt like the Ponderosa, like the Louisiana Purchase, like Einstein's infinite universe. After six hours in this box I feel like Jaffar trapped in a genie's bottle.

On the bright side the ride last night was so turbulent (is that the right word for motion on a train?), I felt secure,  swaddled in cushions and steel and glass. The train was so wobbly, so rocky, so frought with centrifugal forces that I kept muttering, "Look up, your derailment draweth neigh." I took consolation that my coffin would be sleek and cherried out with chrome and heavy curtains.

My fear of crashing is not too far fetched. While in New York city two weeks ago a subway conductor fell asleep at the wheel and as the train reached speeds of 82 miles per hour it did not negotiate a curve and derailed with devastating results. As I was jostled and shaken last night worrisome train noises wormed their way into my brain: clattering wheels, creaking compartments, loud chugging motors, high pitched whines. Oh wait, the whining was me.

To the credit of the designers of these tiny sleeping rooms, they've utilized every space wisely and put shelves, movable beds, hidden coat racks, and tiny trash baskets in unusual places, although if the trash includes more than a bottle cap I'll need to call room service which will be problematic; there is no room service.

I am certain these designers played with Transformers as kids. They've made this place a giant toy. Flip this, push that, release that nob, twist that gadget and voila! You can now sleep in a thing that's been flipped, pushed, released, and twisted. Performing these actions, however, requires the litheness and flexibility of a contortionist. One must grab a cushion with their left hand, press down on a peddle with their right foot, and pull out the seat with their right hand all while balancing on their left foot in a moving train. And that's just to find the trash can.

To make the bed one must open the sliding door, put their rump in the hallway, bend at the waist, move the trash can, and play Twister with an octopus. Providing one doesn't lose any fingers with crashing heavy metal objects one is now ready to read before going to bed.

By propping up one arm with the two pillows Amtrak provides, by leaning the other arm on the extra pillow the passenger must provide, and by angling one's torso just right, one can position their paperback book in a dribble of light particles with just enough lumens for cats, bats, or Navy Seals with night vision glasses.

Amtrak has a marketing quandary. On one hand they entice guests with promises of beautiful scenery, gorgeous sun rises and sun sets, and purple mountain majesty. On the other hand they offer sleeping rooms which, once arranged, provide nothing ouside worth viewing but pitch blackness. I thought I saw Polaris but that could have been a distant Arby's sign.

It'll be breakfast soon. I have a hard time tracking time zones so I'm not sure if breakfast will be served 7 AM Central time, Eastern time, or Amtrak time. When I came back from dinner last night I went to my room number five, slid open the door, and there was some guy in his underwear fiddling with my seat cushions. Turns out I went to the wrong room. There are two rooms numbered five. I apologized and continued my wobbly walk to the next car.

Interestingly, the car I am in is the last of the lot. No caboose, just receeding tracks out the back window. To move from car to car one walks up to a steel door with window and big black button that says, "Push." Once pushed the door whooshes open like in Star Trek, although in Star Trek the door whooshes with ease, with a flawless gliding motion which oozes with techy confidence. On this train when one hits the "Push" button one hears a rattling,  grating noise like sand in a fishing reel. Then one steps into the netherworld between moving cars and hopes the laws of physics remain consistent and things don't start uncoupling randomly.

One also hopes there are no sleep walkers in my car least they take a wrong turn, hit the "Push" button at the rear of the train, stumble out the back door and find themselves in the middle of nowhere. That Arby's sign is long gone and can't be used for navigation.

Train Travel Reaches A New Level of Luxury, 12.11.13

After two overnight train trips that nearly pushed me into neurosis, psychosis, and fibrosis I upgraded to a sleeper compartment. This entitles me to preferential treatment in the Amtrak lounge. This bodes well for my psyche as I look forward to an 18 hour trip to Denver then a 32 hour trip to Sacramento. I may survive train travel after all. 

The Travel Lodge in Chicago had washer and dryer so I'm all fresh and minty, there's a Dunkin Donuts every 30 feet, and after a frigid mile walk in the ice and snow to Union Station (which included a phone chat with my guy friends in B'ham) I am now warm and toasty. I'm feeling pretty darn good.

I'm adding photos of Chicago's famous L train made famous in While You Were Sleeping and The Fugitive.

Art That Tickles My Funny Bone, 12.11.13

Not all world class art is sonorous, lugubrious, or heavy. Nor is every piece serious, inspirational, or rapturous. Some just make us woozy with delight. Take a gander at these masterpieces. Funny, no?

Confession time: these are the works that tempt my inner shop lifter. Not sure how I'd get that last one in my suitcase.