Twas the Night Before Roadtrip

Chicago, IL

This morning I bring the car to Dmitri to install the power brake assembly but we decide to call it off. Turns out I’m missing part of a mounting bracket and he’s a little short staffed; also we need to cut some new brake lines in to add a valve to regulate the pressure. I’ll order some parts but hit the road with the jam jar and hope I don’t have to ever stop the car.

Tomorrow I’m off and I’m so stoked there are no words. I doubt I’ll sleep tonight. My insomnia is pretty unforgiving to begin with (particularly since I gave up caffeine and sleeping pills this summer) and the night before a “big day” I get all anxious, afraid I’ll sleep in, and wake up at like 4 in the morning. I hope I get some rest. I call Borders and Barnes and Noble to ask them to set aside Route 66 guidebooks; so far they only have the same Adventure Handbook (sound a bit gimmicky) but I figure when I check out their inventory they’ll be stocked with oddly named maps and paraphernalia to get me started. Hell, I bet if I go to Adams and Michigan to the one-way starting point I’ll find a Route 66 souvenir stand with everything I need. I found the “Here It Is!” complete map of Route 66 online and I wish I’d have ordered it through Amazon weeks ago. But then could have brought a Garmin if I wanted an efficient trip. I want my own little Adventure. With a gimmicky handbook, of course.

The problem with the brake assembly kind of chaps my hide. I mean I love Cherry, but damn if she doesn’t feel like a big puzzle that doesn’t have all the pieces. What shocks me is just how thorough the aftermarket is for replacement parts; if I had three days I could get maybe ninety percent of anything I want from a distributer like CJ Pony Parts or Mustang Fever, wherever. There were a million [one fucking MILLION] of the ‘64½ to ‘66 body styles sold in America (in 1967 they redesigned the car and extended the chassis) and many of them wound up as southern farm paperweights only to benefit from the boomer rejuvenilization restoration craze of the 1980s. Countless fathers bonded with and vicariously experienced high school through countless sons, all framed around an original Mustang restore. Cherry was a father’s restore handed down to a son who had a weak spot for Barracudas. Go figure.

But the puzzle pieces don't really fit the way I'd expect. Sometimes we have a lot of flexibility. Material is malleable and rough edges can be smoothed, imperfections masked. That’s the drywall in the kitchen, or dad’s lake home, or painting the brake booster black to match the engine compartment. Other times material is rigid and a specific four-bolt pattern has been imprinted onto a brake assembly bracket or the hole in a window assembly is too small. Now, with the right tools anything rigid can be made flexible. Dynamite makes things flexible because it applies an enormous amount of destructive force. Disinterest makes things flexible because it provides the option to turn your attention elsewhere.

Think about just how much tools and technology matter for making things happen—for making things flexible. The other day I drove to the FedEx package office by Midway (the airport I should have taken to pick up the car in the first place) and notice my gas tank is low. As I pull a U-turn across traffic I think, “Right now gassing up at airport prices will cost an extra dime or so per gallon. But it beats the hell out of running out of gas on the Stephen’s Expressway and getting hit by an overly aggressive and self-centered Chicago commuter.” And if I do run out of gas, imagine the sheer manpower needed to push the car to the next filling station; contrast that with the horsepower of the right tool: a tow truck. The right tool for the job makes a difference.

It’s funny because when I “render imagination in material form” the shape and scale and purpose all drive the choice of material. Drywall is pretty easy to cut apart and repair; it's lightweight and takes paint. Terrific for wall covering, terrible for car fenders. Wood can be sanded and smoothed and its flaws hidden with stain and paint. Even the precise angles of a car…I don’t know how much time I’ve spent twisting metal and skim-coating Bondo to get what I thought would be a simple body bolt-on like a door skin or an emblem delete to blend. Metal can be remarkably flexible. And paper remarkably inflexible (if you’ve ever seen one of my hobbled mutant origami cranes you know what I mean).

So we have puzzle-fits, where the parts fit in one specific way and the secret is knowing how to unite the components. And we have flex-fits, where the parts may fit or may not and the secret is to know what rough edges to ignore because they’ll get smoothed over. And of course we have force-fits, where we ruin each other’s lives trying to insert the square peg of personal interest and habit into the round hole of a new relationship to create conflict. The secret is not to accept things as they are—it’s far more fun (i.e., unnecessarily dramatic) to fix problems (such as the values and beliefs of other people).

Surfaces, flexibility, and fit. These mean different things with regard to inanimate physical objects compared with interpersonal relationships. But not that different. Beneath the surface is a hardness or softness that suits the purpose; imperfections are covered at the surface but can rise to reveal deeper factors (think of stains seeping through the wall as outbursts of anger or inappropriate behavior). And what we sometimes call chemistry is essentially a kind of interpersonal fit: compatible tastes, complimentary strengths, insensitivity to minor differences. A four-foot by two-foot piece of particle board might look like the same size piece of drywall, but if you make a shelf from the drywall it’ll break in an instant and if you patch a wall with the particle board it will be rough and uneven and crack in time. The two may look the same but they aren’t quite the same.

While I’m not in a hurry to rush through the trip I do have a general goal to be back in Chicago by Monday the 24th because today I start attending a weekly seminar on the origin of life, the universe, and everything (it may even touch on aspects of religion and spirituality, things that make the frustrated narcissistic materialist in me cringe…and want to know more). The launch of the annual speaker series is thoroughly engaging and gets me thinking more about how we take in information and sense the world. An astronomer makes the point that we’re limited by our observational tools (which used to be telescopes, then observatories; that grew into radar, orbiting telescopes, Hubble, massive radio telescopes, etc.). Our awareness of and interest in extra-solar planets is a direct result of observations: we’ve detected “strong evidence” for over 200 planets based on spectral shifts in star charts and expect to find maybe 10,000 in the next few years. This is the “money shot” for contemporary astronomy. Well, as a reformed science nerd I love this stuff and find someone whose furious note taking suggests something of quantity if not quality so I ask her to fill me on the series I’d miss when I get back. Jesse, a Master student in Theology, is an Arkansas transplant newish to Chicago and itching for a Ph.D. Hope she’ll be able to fill me in on the week I miss…two weeks and I think I’ll lose the benefit of the series. Still, no excuse to rush the trip. The only reason to rush I can imagine would be to get away from that gawdawful California liberal hippie cult/ure.

Just as interesting to me as the origin of life is the nature of our social and sexual relationships, and when I’m confused I turn to a good friend named Kareim, a type-A financial executive who knows everything about people. Or so he tells me. He is a regular ladies’ man: unlike me, Kareim has girls figured out…or maybe he’s simply committed to figuring them out. For example he told me about going through a “routine” scripted approach where he talks to girls on the street, just walks up to them and starts talking to them, about a planned topic of conversation. I don’t know about most people but I figure I have no business talking to random strangers, and he says that’s the whole point. If you can talk to random strangers think about how easy it is to talk with people you really connect with. There’s a logic there I find appealing: at the seminars and conferences I’ve attended it’s easy to talk with people because the context is relevant and simple social skills carry the day; when I’m at a car collector rally I relate to everyone in terms of “more committed than me”/”less committed than me” and try not to write anyone off but gain the benefit of the insights of the more committed. That’s how Kareim is with girls; if I can pick up a few pointers I might meet the woman of my dreams in the supermarket or serving drinks at a bar (Lord knows it’s not in my constitution to pick up staff but you never know….).

Kareim and I speak for a while in the evening, and as we talk it becomes crystal clear to me that I construct my social world out of shared interest (maybe it’s job, maybe it’s hobbies, maybe it’s girls) and he socializes around arousal (maybe it’s job, maybe it’s hobbies, maybe it’s girls). It’s the difference between intellectualizing and emotional engagement. Kareim has the discipline to stay funny and light, he’s easy to be around. People find that attractive and by contrast I find myself becoming cerebral and condescending and sarcastic, which works for some people but is simply harder to penetrate in most settings I find myself in. Think about it: being generally attractive will appeal to more people than being niche awesome where maybe five other humans get your Andy Kaufman-esque riff on life. For someone who has the goods then, the generally attractive can lead to niche awesome after a little “getting to know you.” It’s a question of mass appeal and I’d like to understand it more, because that’s the kind of thing I like out to do.

Kareim doesn’t drink (personal preference rather than a recovery vow). Having been out with Kareim a few times I’ve noticed the completely different “speeds of experience” between being sober and drunk. A few nights ago we went out with some mid-twenties friends with plenty of life and reputation to spend down. They got shittied and drunk-dialed a bunch of ex-girlfriends, high-fiving the while time about how hilarious it all was. My only thought was how socially expensive it was: if a Friday night is spent pounding beers and making an ass of oneself, think of what life might be like if one drank in moderation (as the liquor companies lovingly refer to as) and got to know some cool, fun, fascinating acquaintances or strangers at the corner pub. I mean the cost of blowing off all that steam…I guess someone might as well pay it because I find that bill too high.

That said, last Friday was wicked fun as much for their drunken spectacle as for the sheer spectacle itself. It’s getting late but I’ll talk more about socializing and events, being where the action is. Because a fundamental factor in keeping one’s interest is being at that center of attention, being where the action is, not feeling the real show is somewhere else. It’s funny how little activities (going out to the bar, seeing a concert, watching a football game) derive their importance based on the company we keep. Have you ever felt completely isolated in the heart of a city with millions of people? I recall my first visit to the Bay Area, being on Market Street in San Francisco during the after-work rush and thinking to myself, “All these strangers seem so distant and closed. I’ve never been quite so alone.” And yet the foothills of South Dakota contained all eternity despite the fact that for miles there was not another living soul around. Well, exactly one other soul, the beloved soul in whom I could find all eternity. That’s precisely the point.

Tomorrow will be a long drive so I turn in early. At dusk I noticed the temperature outside was 66 degrees. Coincidence or a lucky sign?

Next stop: Gentlemen, Start Your Engines