Where To Eat When You Visit (Part 1)

So, it's been a month with no entries.

To be fair, I've been busy. So, let me bring you up to date....

The Great Plumbing Labors 

So, we had a leak. And by a leak, I mean a gallon every five minutes. Except, we couldn't find it, nor could we see any evidence of said leak aside from a spot on the wall under the second sink in the kitchen. That's right. Phantom leakage.

Four separate plumbers and days of Josh sitting through handheld jackhammers and accent barriers to explanation later, I think the leak is fixed, which is good, because it was flowing under the kitchen tile to the point that once it was stopped, we got to watch the water seep up through the tiles for a few days. Water bill made it look like Tesla Pete was having strippers up to the jacuzzi every night, which he denied vehemently, and I believe, just because, well, he usually falls asleep before the strip clubs open.

But I digress. The leak is fixed, but the plumbing saga continues: First floor half bath cold water faucet no work-y. And the icemaker is still Tango Uniform, but the appliance guy promises me that he's tracked down the issue and is waiting for a part, so someday soon, cocktail hour won't take three days of cube-tray preparation.

Other issues still to be resolved: there's a window in my room that was spidered up good when we moved in that we're waiting on glass for. It's not a big issue; I'm just concerned weather's going to hit and it's going to actually lose structural integrity on us. There's also a bad seal on the patio door here that is likely leaking AC like a sieve, but Tesla Pete says I'm worrying needlessly.

Oh, speaking of power bills, fun Tesla Pete fact: The Tesla Roadster driven two or three times a week and left on persistent parasitic charge adds less to our power bill than the garage dehumidifier. Take that, Big Oil! Now, if we could get Guam Power to stop schtupping us on the power bill, we'd be kicking some major bootie.....

First House Guest

We had our first house guest right before the Customer Visit. I think it went well. I'd tell you more about it, but we need to work out a moniker for said First House Guest that's actually appropriate. So, you have to wait. So there. 

What I can do, though, is tell you about the food. Since Pete and I are not often cooking, there was a lot of dining out going on, and I gave said First House Guest a tour of what Guam cuisine I knew. So, let me give you a sampler....

Places to Make Josh Take You or Go Yourself When You Visit Guam for Vittles

Roy's at the Hilton. Oh, get the blackened ahi. Seriously. Spicy soy sauce is amazing with the thing, and it looks like a piece of edible art. Go on Friday. Sit at the bar. If Jaime is the bartender (and he usually is), tell him you're a friend of mine, and he'll spoil you. Tesla Pete's Pina Colada is usually bottomless and technicolor by the end of the meal, and the place has ambiance to spare. There is an actual sit-down part to the place, but usually, the bar area has live music, including jazz flute. That's right. Jazz. Flute. Sometimes singing, too. I've run into local government legislators and the Guam Food Guy who does reviews at Roy's. The place is great even just for Happy Hour.

The Beach. It's on Gun Beach. And I mean right there on it. Philippine Sea is five or six feet from the end of the place. Open air, cabana style set-up. Fair prices on bevs. Friendly staff. Local folks hang there during the day on the weekends. About a mile's walk from my front door, to boot. Get your beach on. Food's pretty good, but just chips with the sandwiches, sadly. Great beach to walk, though. 

Shoreline. South on Marine Corps Drive near the Chamorro Village and marina. I stopped there just because, and have gone back not always by choice but sometimes by need. Again, ahi is the bomb here. If it were closer to my place, we might have to monitor me for gill growth. Fair prices, great tapas menu that was just redone. Friendly staff, good vibe. Great place. 

Meskla Dos, or, as Tesla Pete and I call it, The Dos. Best burgers on Guam. Period. Full stop. They even have the damn trophy by the register. Fresh-made lemonade. Milkshakes. A mile or two from our place down Marine Corps Drive. Oh, and TP swears the BBQ is the bomb-diggity, though I keep getting the burgers. 

Tu Re' Cafe. TP wasn't impressed with his sandwich, but the stir fry offerings are amazing. And then there's the view: you're literally a few feet from the edge of Alapong Cove. Beautiful vista. It's kind of like a jumped up coffee shop with classy food. You can even see Other Josh (aka Doctor Josh, aka Hugh Jackman Clone Josh, etc, etc)'s place from there. I'm sure he refers to me as Other Josh, too. :P

(Yes, there's another Josh here on the island. We first met in Augusta, Georgia. Small damn world. He's a dive medical officer with the Navy, and when he relocated out here, we caught up. It's good to have friends at the far ends of the world.)

The Hawaiian Grill at the Micronesia Mall. Don't judge. It's flipping wonderful. Think Mongolian BBQ, but with island flavor. Big portions, and it's just friggin amazing. 

I'll probably add to this as time goes by. There's so much good food here that I'm likely going to have to hit the gym twice as hard to get back to trim, but I just can't say no. The good news, though: It's all pretty good for me. Well, most of it, anyway. 

So, now, you're caught up, for the most part. 

Here's what the near future holds: 

Sunday (weather permitting): a five-to-six hour hike to Cetti Bay. This is supposedly one of those wonder hikes, but pretty tough. There shall be waterfall action, I am told. Old Spanish roads. Et cetera. 

Next week: First guest bedroom set will be ordered. Delivery time approximately one month. So, mark your calendars, folks.

More later this weekend. Hopefully with pictures and a few boonie-stomping stories....

A long delayed update...

Well, it's been busy. We've had our first visitors from the mainland, although they were staying at a hotel and only came over to hang out.

Last week and this week have been rough. We noticed a smell in the vicinity of the wet bar off the living room area. Turns out, there was a leak under the sink.

Then we looked at the water bill. It looked like we were running the jacuzzi all day, everyday. And Tesla Pete hasn't used the dang thing once (I'm beginning to think of suing him for jacuzzi neglect or invite a few girls from the strip joint over to use it to give him an idea or three, but those are topics for another entry).

So, we've had the handymen by. They confirmed our assessment and went to work. This condo is built to withstand some nasty storms. The trouble is, that means the walls that are important to structural integrity are concrete.

So, there's been jackhammering. There's been cursing. And there's been a lot of time spent with successive plumbers. We have now graduated to the professionals. They just left this afternoon, and from what they told me, it's looking like while we've identified and patched a small leak, the real culprit is hiding even deeper. Possibly a two-day evolution. Possibly involving marble tile removal from flooring and fridge movement. Everybody's been understanding and helpful in this process, mind you. It's just the nature and complexity of the issue has had most everyone scratching their heads a bit.

However, we love the place. I've gotten a pub height, circular table with a built-in lazy susan and four matching chairs for the entertaining area in my room. Still need a privacy curtain for the room, but that's this weekend's task, I hope. Armoires are apparently at a premium right now on the island, so that's still on the "I'd like it but can't find it" list, so this weekend I'm rigging up a temporary stand-in, so I can empty the guest room closets and start preparing them for visitors. TP's still got a bunch of art left to hang, but aside from my small leftover items, we're beginning to get the place looking like it's being lived in.

This weekend, we're buying a grill. And I mean a grill. Something that chars meat on the outside, but leaves it red and bloody so that we can eat as men should.

I've been working on some side projects and actually getting some writing done, but mostly I've been babysitting handymen and plumbers. It's been a bit of a pain, but I think we've finally localized the problem (right where I said it was--Josh is a pipewhisperer), and, God willing and the creek don't rise, we'll soon have it fixed, hopefully without too much trouble.

TP and I each have a few boxes left to unpack in the guestrooms that we've been putting off. I'm going to be doing mine this weekend, once I get some storage containers. Hopefully, I'll have video (yes, this time during the day) to show you all by Sunday night.

I've been getting into quite a few heated political discussions of late, and while I don't want to drag that stuff into this blog, I do want to say this: I think friendships are about people. I think friendships are about trust, respect, and that takes precedence over other junk. I lament the fact that some days we let our political frustrations take precedence, as I think that's just plain screwed up priorities, and we'd actually probably get a lot more done if we talked as friends and hashed them out, as friends do.

And that's all I've got to say about that.

Our first houseguest will be here in a little over a fortnight. Since everybody in this blog needs an alias, we'll have to give her one at some point. I've got one that I'm toying with, but I'm going to wait til I've gotten approval (Yes, you might get to approve your alias if you get mentioned here, but I reserve the right to preemptively dub you with a moniker that I deem fit; it is my island, after all). I'm a little excited about that.

And it's not too long before the Time Traveling Birthday Crew will be preparing for their trip out here. This will go down in June, and will be the full-stage test of me and TP's abilities as hosts. This will also be a whole lot of fun, because the North Carolina Sisters (individual monikers to be determined at a later date) are always a hoot and two hollers.

Lately, I've been staying home a lot. Doing more cooking. It hasn't been because I'm trying to stick to a budget (although I am doing pretty well on that front), but just because I've been working on some stuff and not really feeling the yen to go out. So, tomorrow, I'm going down to The Beach on Gun Beach, having a few beers or cocktails, and reading a book, maybe snapping some photos. But getting out and seeing some stuff. There's a really nice beach to the south towards the main Navy base that needs to be checked out, too. And just north of that on the way back is a really nice local bar/restaurant called Shoreline. Wonderful menu, entrees and tapas...just amazing. Have eaten there twice and will definitely stop again on the way back from the beach.

Two big ticket purchases are looming on the horizon, and one I'm trying to put off and shouldn't, while the other is just danged expensive and shouldn't be put off: the new cell phone and the elliptical, respectively.

The pain with the elliptical is simple: I had a hand-me-down one from The Bear and Mrs. Bear back in Fairfax, but it didn't seem to work. Then, as the junk guys took the two Othello-furred-and-torn-to-hell-and-back couches away, and were preparing to take the elliptical away, the dang thing started working. But I'd already had my household goods taken away, and there was no way to just ship the thing out on its own that was affordable, so I let it go.

Now, I'm looking at prices on new ellipticals and wishing I'd worked a little harder at adding it to the manifest, even if it'd been a little extra cost. But, all of that is useless noise, the important thing is: Josh needs an elliptical. A former coworker swears by the damn things, and they worked for him. I hate treadmills, but I think the elliptical will be just right. Treadmills don't adjust to spurts of energy or allow for you to dog a quarter mile. Ellipticals do. And though I've been a decent runner since high school, I've never kept good pacing.

The iPhone...I'm gonna be honest, I want it for the internet functionality more than having a cellphone. Being out here and untethered from the Crackberry has been seriously liberating. I've got a landline, and I love the fact that when I leave, I don't have a leash. Trouble is, it's become so ingrained in my behavior to pat myself down for things--keys, wallet, phone, etc--that I still find myself looking for it. And, honestly, it'd be nice to be able to have it. This is the longest I've gone without a cellphone since I first got one. I'm surprised how little I miss it, and yet the ways in which I miss it are subtle and diverse. So...I've been putting it off.

There's one last thing I'll say before closing, a little bit of wisdom I've learned and unlearned through the years: be you. Just be you. It really does work. Well, unless you're cranky all the time, but then, if you are, why are you here? :P

Anyhow, here's to the start of the weekend out here. I hope yours goes well, and that I get some more accomplished around here. But, with luck, we'll see more shaky camera video of the condo here in a day or two. Watch this space....

Let's go to the video....

This will (hopefully, as blogger is being persnickety) be a very rough cut of a video tour of the first two floors of the condo. All very much a work in progress. If this link fails, I'll add a link to my facebook or youtube pages, where said video is presently being uploaded without persnickety-ness, but with much delay. [And here you should be:  http://youtu.be/Bcw0HyGZSww Let me know if this link is broken, and I'll replace it with one a little less broken.]

Some things to bear in mind: I have virtually no experience behind the camera. It's also a new camera, and handheld. So things like the auto-focus and the operator behind said camera still are in desperate need of calibration.

That being said, I think I caught most everything I could, barring one or two items: Fred and Ethel have a neighbor on my patio/balcony, who is named Lucille in honor of Melanie D, who's a big fan of Lucille Ball, if not spiders. Also, when I swing north (camera panning right) into the skyline towards the Westin, a little beyond it is the beach bar I've snapped photos from a few times already, appropriately named The Beach. Additionally, I forgot to mention the shooting galleries where one can shoot Thompsons and Browning .50 cals, among other things, and a I-kid-you-not magic shop on the main drag of downtown Tumon, which is to the south, down in strip club and southern bay hotel country.

As you guys can see, there's still a lot to do in terms of decor and just general unpacking. We've gone to work, barring visits from the handymen to fix things like plumbing problems, malfunctioning appliances, beeping smoke detectors twenty feet off the ground, and other assorted issues that stem from being the first tenants in a condo. Even getting cable, internet, and phone installed became a two-day ordeal. That being said, the majority of stuff is fixed, and the rest we're waiting on the handymen, who are waiting on other folks, and it's all relatively low priority for the most part.

I expect at least one of the guest rooms on my floor to be furnished next month, with the second one to follow soon thereafter. Finding stores on the island for certain things is a particularly interesting experience. At this point, I still don't know where the margarita mix comes from. Maybe the bars just make their own, or their distributor is off-island. There are no Targets or Walmarts. We have what may have at one time been or might even still be the largest K-Mart in the world, however. The Mall of Micronesia has a Macy's in addition to that lovely jewelry store with the scrap metal aliens I posted in the first entry, and a two-story mousetrap that I'll have to shoot for you sometime. There's also a Premiere Outlet store with a few other high-end shops, and then the Guam Duty Free Shops, which are down the hill below us.

It's less than a half mile to the beach. More like three and a half blocks downhill. I'll have to shoot during the day at some point so you can see Tumon Bay instead of all the blackness behind the hotels.

Another issue is that I think this place will survive a strafing run from anything short of a Spectre AC-130 gunship. The walls are concrete, in order to protect against even the worst of the typhoons, even though it's been eight years since a big one rolled through here (I know, knock on wood, Josh....), so hanging pictures on those walls that aren't just decorative is a bit of a bear-cat. There are special nails for this, I learned after going to the island's Home Depot.

I will also be installing a privacy curtain of a somewhat decorative nature, so that when I'm entertaining, people going up to see Pete won't be gawking into my room, and vice versa. Just being a good roommate.

This is a lot of condo. There are two more floors than what I shot tonight, one of which has the master bedroom (Pete's), what we're calling the VIP guest room (which is quite nice and pretty swanky, despite not having a view), and the master and VIP guest bathrooms, as well as three walk-in closets that would likely give my lady readers who are clothes-horses much to coo over. Okay, I'm probably putting some of my clothes up in the VIP walk-in, myself, but let's not get into that. :P

We're also in search of good grocery stores. Thus far, we've yet to venture out too much, but we're slowly getting more comfortable with exploring all Guam's got to offer, and aside from some limitations based on infrastructure and access to off-island goods (Yes, Cori, that's exactly what I'm talking about :P) we're finding stuff alright.

There are some technological limitations here. Even at its best, internet is substandard. FIOS users coming out here are gonna cry. HD cable is relatively new, and the infrastructure to support multi-channel HD within a household just hasn't hit yet, so only the downstairs has HD and a DVR (don't ask...Pete's an engineer, we asked the right questions, and we're looking into do-it-yourself solutions, just suffice to say there isn't an official work-around, and if you spend all day watching TV, you really shouldn't be on a tropical island, should you?). The whole island has one area code, so it's like time traveling back to childhood in rural Illinois, where you only need to dial seven digits to call anyone, which is actually pretty dang spiffy, if I do say so myself. Availability of electronics isn't too bad, although there's some limits on what you can get just based on the limited number of stores on the island. That iPhone 4S I plan on getting will likely be a longer wait than it needs to be, because it's only available from two groups on the island, and the less expensive one is actually supported with a plan, while the other place just sells factory unlocked phones with no support, therefore requiring full pricepoint to be paid. But, hey, this is minor stuff. Did I mention it swung between high 80s and low-to-mid 70s today? And I can pretty much put that on repeat for the next however-long, as this place really doesn't have much in terms of seasonal temperature deltas; just more or less rain.

I really am starting to enjoy living here. I'm not sure if it's just having my own stuff back, going from a whole apartment to myself to a more loft format open living style in this room, too much time cooped up in the hotel, or what. But it's really starting to agree with me. The evenings are so nice, I may actually start jogging in the evening, and just not get the elliptical I was planning on shelling out a wad of cash for (we'll see, it does rain here fairly frequently and often with no warning).

Also, it's with great sadness that I'm going to have to announce that the hydroponics plans are on indefinite hold. I may do a small garden in a long planter on the main patio, but the type of hydroponics I wanted to do is cost-prohibitive in terms of start-up gear, and it's just going to have to wait until other things are taken care of. But, like I said, I'll probably do a little gardening. Apparently the tomato industry on Guam isn't up to scratch from what I'm being told by some folks in the know, and since Pete and I both like hot peppers, well, I think you can see where this is headed.

Anyhow, that's the word from Guam. It's just after 21:30 local time here, so I'm soon off to bed. We're going to try going into work tomorrow for a bit, but will likely still find a way to enjoy the weekend a little. I know, it's still just now early Friday over there. At some point, we'll all get used to the time differential, I'm sure. I'll drop the link to the youtube video once it's done uploading (remember what I said about internet speeds), and then close. Good morning, America, and good night.

The Solitary Surfer

The last days have been spent doing condo stuff. Most of it was stuff away from the condo like arranging cable and internet, making some purchases of electronics and furniture, etc.

But at the end of the day, I've usually been at the condo. There's a person one of the movers noticed on Monday and pointed out to me, a solitary surfer on Tumon Bay. I know, you're thinking, This is supposed to be the big hotel area and there should be all sorts of people out on the water, right?

Well, this surfer is out there after everyone else has come in for the day and returned their sail boards and paddle boats, and have snorkeled their last snorkel. The sun's come down, and the water's cooled, and everyone's back in their rooms, washing the sand and salt off in preparation for the evening, whether it's a trip out to the bars or a nice dinner or just bumming around. So, this man or woman's out there after everyone's gone home. The beach is his or hers, and they're the only figure out there. And, well, they're on a surf board, which in an of itself in Tumon Bay is kind of rare.

You see, at the mouth of the bay, there's this big coral reef. It's where the big waves happen, so it's probably dangerous and most people don't surf this bay. But this person has the last two evenings. He or she is either very good, very dedicated, very risky, or some combination of the three.

He or she simply is determined to surf, and has chosen to surf Tumon Bay, and damn the consequences.

I don't know who this person is. Part of me doesn't want to spoil the anonymity of the image by finding out. Because it's kind of nice to look out there and see someone with that kind of passion that outstrips caution, that alloy of recklessness and skill that lets them go out at what I have to believe is high tide and face the reef.

I don't surf. Just don't have the balance, really. But I've always loved the idea of it. The combination between balance and yoking the power of the sea to your will. The massive amount of physics calculations brought down to instinct and raw near-instantaneous reasoning.

I think I identify with that surfer in some ways. I'm out on the hairy edge of things, having taken a path most people wouldn't have. And there is a solitude to it, too, that I've spoken of once or twice recently. Often enough, I view it as a negative effect of the whole thing. But I look at how often the military had me packing up and moving, and I can't imagine anyone else going through it with me, particularly if it was because I was dragging them along with me.

But when I look back, I don't regret the decisions. Sure, sometimes I regret some things those decisions caused to happen. A friendship guttering out due to distance, a romantic moment doomed by deployment. A favorite restaurant or watering hole that's now a thing of memory (Yes, Bee's Knees, I miss you and your Pad Thai, and yes, Blue Iguana, I miss you for several reasons as well). Some of these places and people change or disappear in the lost time. They move, they close up shop, they get new management that changes the character of the place (I miss you, 1990s Cherry Street), and in the end, you come back to visit the old stomping grounds and you discover home isn't there anymore.

I think that's part of the reason I'm so rabid about keeping in touch with people right now. Clear over here on the other side of the world, I'm afraid out of sight is out of mind, and when I come back, everyone will have moved on. I think one of the first lessons on the path to adulthood is when we realize that stuff happens even when we're not in the room, that we are not the main character in some drama that unfolds strictly for our own entertainment. That first time a pet dies while you're at school, or you find out Gramma isn't going to be at Christmas this year because she passed away and no one told you.

I've noticed of late that some friends have withdrawn a bit, but are in small ways letting me know they're still there. A few have actually stepped things up a notch, whether because of recent reacquaintance or maybe just due to the topics of discussion. Some of it has to do with recent trips I've made, recent people I've seen in the flesh, as it were.

But sometimes, we renew a tie and take for granted that it's a two-way street. That the importance you place on it is the same importance I place on it. I wrote before about the importance I place on friendships. Even the little ones.

So, sometimes, I overdo it. I don't do so with any underhanded intent. I literally just want to be involved, to contribute. I'm the type of person who can eat lunch at the same place, the same meal, the same time, for weeks on end, then suddenly change and do the same thing someplace else. It's who I am. It's how I manage to deal with six or seven months out to sea on something hazed gray, or two years on the backside of the world, waking and working while you all are sleeping.

An aside here: At my last duty station before leaving the Navy, my name became a verb. To Gharst something up was to either 1) Dress it up in a very cool and ornate presentation, layered in big words when five minutes on a marker board with plain talking would suffice or 2) To over-analyze something to the point where you've got things backasswards.

So, don't Gharst it up, folks. Sometimes a comment is just a comment. If there's something I want to tell you, believe me I'll tell you. I'm not big on keeping how my thoughts or feelings on important issues quiet. I'm pretty much an open book in that regard.

That being said, I feel sometimes a little like this Solitary Surfer. Sometimes, I'm out there against the odds, and it's a thing to behold. This life has never been dull for me, in spite of the occasional losses along the way. But it's my path. It's my way. And while sometimes I run risks and those risks come home to roost, I also have some great rewards.

My tombstone's probably going to read Lived In Interesting Times. It wasn't just my decisions that brought me to and through those times, though, but it was also the friends and loved ones watching from the beach while I surfed over the reef.
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Now, onto less philosophical and reflective matters.

I bought a HD video camera yesterday. It's charging at the condo as we speak. It is my intention, sometime this weekend, once the laundry's been done a bit and the cluster-frak of move-in clutter has been reduced to something less than hideous, to do a video tour of the place, so look for that either late this weekend or sometime next week.

I also spent a good deal of time figuring out how to re-connect my desktop computer. Some folks have probably noticed I'm a little slow at certain times to respond despite having just been present in a conversation thread, or tried to skype me only to discover I'm quite choppy and poor quality. It's a combination of crappy hotel internet and this laptop never being meant for this level of sustained activity. The desktop is set up so as to afford me a very nice place to do my writing, blogging, and communications with family and friends, with a great view, and lots of horsepower. So, things will be improving in those respects.

We met our next door neighbors the other day. The wife and her daughters brought over some donuts while we were moving in, and yesterday we met her husband. Well, I re-met the guy, but he doesn't remember me from the five minute conversation we had last year. He's the owner of two of the nicer bars at the bottom of the hill, and invited us to pop in, grab a beer, and get to know each other better.

It's kind of nice to have a cool neighbor. I've only ever had one or two neighbors that I knew and got on well with (yes, Downstairs Sarah, you're numero uno), so it's still a novel experience for me.

I'm getting pretty psyched about finally being done with the hotel thing. I think part of what's been quietly driving me nuts is that sense of being unsettled, and last night I started figuring out where the photos and paintings would go, set up the bookshelves, etc, and the place started feeling like my own.

It isn't done yet. Not by a long shot. But it's damn close. And I don't mind telling you, it's like a weight's lifted.

Running in the early morning or late evening is the vogue around here, as the runners thereby avoid the worst of the heat and humidity. I reckon once we're settled, I'm going to have to pick out a route and get my jog on. Not sure which time of day will be the best for me, but we'll see.

Nobody decided to put forward names for the condo as yet, despite some serious readership upticking. Either I've got a few new readers or some folks think the previous entries are worth a re-read.

Tomorrow, vehicle inspection for Slavka the Jeep, followed by DMV for registration, tags, and license. The drivers licenses over here are...colorful. If I can find a way to blank out personal info and thereby prevent identity theft, I might share once I've got it. Tonight, maybe dinner at the Brazilian steakhouse. We shall see....

Baggage and Other Encumberances

For basically the last month and a bit here, I've been living in hotels here on Guam or back in Fairfax.

Today, I have the keys to the condo. The keys themselves are high tech, I'm not even kidding. But for more than 40 days, I have been living out of luggage. I had to keep some Virginia weather work clothes, and a weekend's worth of winter wear for my trip to Chicago. Yes, that means I arrived in Guam with a big heavy winter top coat over my bags. Yes, I did get some odd looks. Yes, I probably should've planned better.

Suffice it to say that I originally thought this was going to be a cake walk. Like camping out, only with electricity, turn down service, fine dining, and cable.  Tesla Pete, who came out a week later than I did, told me it was going to get old fast.

I came out here with the only other people I knew on the island being a guy at the site, the hotel bartender (it's me, guys), and our realtor. It was pretty weird. I felt kind of like Bill Murray in Lost in Translation, and no, that's not a knock on the Japanese tourists, I really felt alone, out of synch. William Gibson has a great line in Pattern Recognition where he describes jet lag as one's soul being delayed in transit, hanging back from the body via a tether, and that the sensation only ends when the soul has caught up to the body. It felt that way, like a soul lag.

So, at first, I tried to get out and do some stuff. Everybody was doing the holiday thing, and I was looking at Christmas and New Years alone. It sucked on Christmas, I'm not gonna try to put a spin on it. New Years I got out to the bars, met a few folks, took in a couple new businesses. But that disconnectedness from everyone back home, that I was literally separated not just by distance but time, that I was in 2012 and they were in 2011, that lag was still there.

At times, I forted up. I brought a bunch of DVDs with me, had hulu overheating my laptop like it was Chernobyl (yes, it's still way too soon for Fukushima reactor jokes, and I had friends there, so it may remain too soon indefinitely), and I worked on this blog a bit. I also spent a lot of time on facebook and trying to get skype to work so I could pester even more people and try to temporarily tug in the tether, as it were.

But you can only live out of a suitcase so long before you've worn everything in every combination twice. You can only watch so many reruns in a day, or reread your favorite book on the beach. Or, apparently, talk to people via social media so much (maybe someday I'll find a way to tell that particular gem of an anecdote, but today I'm leaving it at this: Friendship is founded on trust and communication, as I mentioned on here sometime before, I think.), and then you start getting a little cabin fever.

Pete and I were driving up to get lunch today, and Pete was grousing about room service screwing up his pasta. He said he felt like he'd permanently crushed some guy's ego down in room service, and I jokingly accused him of schaffhausening the poor guy (verb: to announce and act as if one were dead to you), then went quiet while we waited for the light and then added, "You should have ordered the pasta at the Marriott. That stuff was better. Somewhat." We both looked at each other, and it was like we knew we were both thinking the same thing: I'm sick of living in a hotel.

Well, like I said, that's nearing an end. Furniture arrives Monday. We get to move in. I get my stuff back. I get a sense of home again.

We also get the vehicles on Monday, probably. So, no more rental car (another lovely anecdote there for this weekend), either.

But I caught myself thinking about my stuff and questioned if I was too materialistic, too encumbered with things, kipple as Philip K. Dick called it, stuff that just accumulates. And it got me thinking about what I chose to bring with me, and what I chose to ship. And what I discovered is this: I schlepp around some seriously weird and useless stuff.

Old letters from people I don't talk to anymore, but whose words were formative.

Copies of poems that I hack to pieces.

A small pewter angel I picked up somewhere in my travels.

A small figurine my first love gave me when we graduated high school and I presented her with a badly-written novel that I am now re-writing.

None of this stuff has any practical use. It's not like I need to re-read the letters or re-revise the poems. The angel and figurine could easily be lost and should have been packed away and shipped for safe keeping. But I brought them with.

What we carry, our freight, as John Berger once called it, is what defines us. And it applies to figurative baggage as much as to the literal.

Something to dwell on a bit, and maybe I'll return to this in the near future. Right now, I have someone else's baggage clogging up my thought processes, however, and I don't want to try to avoid that and continue down this path, as I'll be tempted to clear my throat and go Old Testament.

Instead, let me say this: it will be good to finally start making the condo into home. To be able to come home. Even if home is now a place I never thought I'd ever be.

Met an interesting couple of locals last night. Saw a light on under Ball Scratchers (a pool hall, I kid you not, located downstairs from a strip club called, I kid you not, the G Spot) and it looked like a bar, so I rolled in. Bartender, a lady at the counter, and a guy playing guitar. Turns out the bartender, who I guess we'll call Waif, and her mom, the lady at the bar, own the joint. I asked for a Sierra Nevada, and Waif asked me if I wanted the Torpedo. I knew I'd found a good place.

I stayed for two beers, and Waif, her mother, and I exchanged stories. Got to know a bit more about Guam. Got invited to join some yoga and hash run stuff. Pretty awesome.

Tonight, I'm grabbing these keys and taking in the skyline from the condo. Yeah, it's silly--the place is empty, and I'm gonna be living there--but there's something about a place before it's got stuff in it that I want to experience, then see and feel the difference Monday night, when all our stuff's been brought in, we're situated, and the moment where you realize you're in a place where you live settles in.

But, hey, I'm a writer. This shit doesn't work without a title, right?

So, I'm taking suggestions. Either post them as comments below, or suggest them over on facebook. I have jokingly called it Argon Pacific and Pete's Home for Wayward Strippers a few times, but those aren't really rolling off the tongue. Winner gets kudos in the form of everyone else thinking their idea was better, and most likely a thank you from me. Probably via facebook. So, uh, yeah. And stuff.


Disclaimer: Void where prohibited. Not safe for children, small animals, or color fabrics. As with all Josh Gharst products, ingredients are highly combustible, and should be treated with full protective equipment. Contestant winner is not entitled to Tesla Pete's jacuzzi unless otherwise informed, but may possibly receive sauna privileges. Please recycle. It's my island.


Additionally, what are some of the not-useful things you take with you on your journeys or when moving, and refuse, forget, or just never manage to pack away? We can dwell on my figurative baggage later, let's talk about what doesn't go in the luggage rack, but what stays with us.

Addiction, Temptation, and Rebellion

The last cigarette I had was at some point between 0130 and 0230 hrs, 01 January, 2012.

It is 2006 hrs on January 3rd. I have still not had a cigarette.

A coworker smoked thrice in front of me today. I didn't mind; I wasn't tempted. The only part that made me uncomfortable was that my nose has already stopped being a smoker's nose and started being a possible-smoker's nose.

Let me explain to the non-smokers reading this. My tobacky isn't actually whacky; smokers hate the smell of cigarettes, when they can actually smell them. But the smoke before we smoke? It smells of campfires and s'mores. It smacks of fireplaces and fine wine. It's tied to memories of someone else who at some point made us want to smoke, even if we didn't then.

It never smells like a hot ticket to lung cancer. It never smells like a sure-fire way to never get kissed. It smells wonderful that first time.

The third cig I smelled today was when I got back to this point. Psychologically, this is a bad place; I should have den-mothers surrounding me or somesuch.  But the two reasons I started smoking were so stupid, I think I'll be able to hold out.

I started smoking to piss my father's ghost off. And I started smoking because the woman I idolized smoked, and I thought it was part and parcel of being a writer.

Smoking is a lot like what I imagine marrying a movie star might be. You pour your heart and soul into it, and they're just there for the hot minute where you love them the way no one else can, then they're back to basking in their own ego-centrism.  It's not about you; it's about them. It's not about you; it's about how much nicotine you're getting. In the end, pick your metaphor: either way, you're killing yourself slowly.

My father always told me if I ever lit a cigarette, he'd break both my hands.

The first cig I ever had was two days after my father's funeral. I'd love to say it was motivated by something other than "sure, come break my hands, pops," but I was pissed at him for dying on me.

There are seven leftover cigarettes in the NYE leftover pack.

They're in a bag somewhere in this room.

I'm not sure which one. But there's a lighter with 'em, and another in the toiletries bag.

I'm starting to think those smokes should be float-tested. Cortez upon reaching the new world, burnt his ships. Some say it was to prove to the enemy the depth of his commitment to conquer them. Others say that it was to motivate his own men, to show them that there was no going back: victory or death.

Cortez would break each cigarette and drop it in the toilet or over the balcony right now.

I kinda like the way Cortez thinks.

I'm not smoking tonight. I'm not sure if I'm flushing those last seven smokes. Some part of me is actually stronger knowing that the temptation to stray and qualify the straying is there; it somehow prevents me from doing so, strange as that might seem.

Do not, do not ever, let someone you love start smoking. It is the most insidious poison I have ever known. And trust me when I say that I've done some exploring and interviewing.

I am thankful for chantix and willpower tonight. I am thankful for peer pressure and self-critical thinking.

I am grateful to some beautiful person who has no idea how they feed into this, but they're part of the reason this is an imperative for me.  Not because it was a request, but because I've been acting like a fool this long, and it's time I acted my age, or at least somewhere close to it.

For the record: Nicotine is a vice. Emotive force is nature. The two are separate. And obviously, I believe one trumps the other.

The Ties That Bind

Every time I sit down to write this entry, something changes the underlying theme. Well, it was supposed to be done Christmas Eve, and here it is the 27th. Despite the Heisenberg Effect surrounding this topic, it's time to put words to page.

I often tell people about Georg Hegel's treatise on interpersonal relations, called "Lordship and Bondage," from his book Phenomenology of the Spirit. I know, title sounds racy, but trust me, no whips and chains--maybe we'll talk about Michel Foucault another time, though. "Lordship and Bondage" is one of the favorite things I took away from my failed attempt to double major in Philosophy. (I know...that's even more useless a major than English (Writing), but let's just roll with it. As an aside, I was one credit short: Symbolic Logic never struck me as logical, nor did I really ever think it was symbolic of much....) Hegel was a phenomenologist, someone who believed that the only way to confirm the world around us is via sense data--what we can see, hear, smell, touch, taste--and that everything outside of the self is an object unless confirmed as a subject by the self.

Hegel postulates that when two people interact initially, they are trying to convince the other of their own perception of themselves, to externally validate. And that, sooner or later, one person is more successful than the other enough that the other is turned into a mirror, or slave, and the "more successful" person becomes the "master" of the relationship.

But see, it doesn't work out so nice and neatly, Hegel explains. Because the master sooner or later realizes that an object like the slave cannot confer subjecthood and the confirmation of the master's self-perception as valid. Mirrors don't validate; they just reflect. And, at the same time, the slave usually figures out they're supplying the master with something the master values, so they start rationing those morsels of external validation out. So, at some point, the master must confirm the slave as a subject, lest the master become the slave and the slave the master, doling out that confirmation of self-perceived self like crack to the addicted master.

Ernest Hemingway believed that all relationships were transactional. He'd go into a wine peddler's shop and introduce himself, Ernest Hemingway, the novelist, perhaps you'd heard of him, and suggest that he was writing a novel about the area, and everyone told him this was the place to buy wine in the area, and he was wondering if the guy would mind being placed in the novel. Oh, he'll fuzz the details just enough for sake of anonymity, but fans will know how to get there still. The merchant would usually sell that old drunk Papa vino at a tremendous discount right then and there.

A play I saw, called Art, is all about these old school chums who get together each Christmas. They've been friends for years, but this Christmas, a painting exposes them to the scary question they've been avoiding all those years: If we share nothing in common anymore, then why are we still even friends?
 
So, yeah, now that we're all depressed thinking that everyone precious in our lives is merely there because they're out to get something and I've shown off my college edu-ma-cation, let's dispense with the liberal arts hoighty-toighty, leather elbow patch crap and start talking about my friends and family like they're something aside from lab rats.

The oft-repeated line I use goes something like this: I think my friends should be entitled to hazard pay, and every once in a while, possibly fire zone pay as well. The suggestion being that it's tough and sometimes dangerous to be my friend. And while nobody's shooting at me (usually), it sometimes can be. But oftentimes, even the best of us are a little lazy in our relationships with other people. Even the best of us can be a little selfish little tyrants. We're like the kid who comes to the playground with the ball: if you want to play ball, we think, you gotta play by my rules. Nobody goes through life wanting to be the co-star in someone else's movie life. We don't want to be the sidekick. We want to be the guy who gets the girl. The girl who becomes the celebrity. The person who makes a difference in someone's life. We want to have meaning. We want validation that yes, I am a good and worthwhile person. I do deserve these wonderful things that have happened to me, these wonderful people in my life. Because, if you look yourself in the mirror long enough, somewhere deep down, we all feel a little like we've gotten by sometimes, that we've floated a check that should have bounced, metaphorically speaking, and that sooner or later, the jig will be up, the masquerade will be revealed, and everyone will know we didn't deserve these wonderful things, these wonderful people.

When they banned smoking (I'm in the process of quitting, so it's on my mind) in British pubs, the texting traffic in the UK skyrocketed. The smokers, feeling left out of the conversations they left inside to puff their cancer sticks, were trying to connect, to touch another person. They were feeling guilty about their smoking, and trying to make up for it.

Guilt is a big motivator in our lives. Confidence in ourselves is sometimes as hard to find as faith in a divine order to the universe. When the two come together at cross purposes...oh, brother, have we got issues....

This is me coming around to a point: For a long time, in my private moments, I have felt truly unworthy of the wonderful people in my life. It's made me feel guilty sometimes, like a liar, a sham, a fake. Conversely, it's led to trouble at times.

For instance: a lot of my friends over the years have found themselves in a jam, and I've swooped in to the rescue, sometimes from halfway across the country, sometimes at seemingly great sacrifice on my part. They always think I'm doing it because I care about them that much. And, yes, I do. But somewhere deep down in my subconscious (and in yours, too, maybe, if you root around in there long enough) there might have sometimes been a guilt-ridden need to do it, so that when the truth that I'm undeserving of their loyalty and affection comes out, they'll take pity on me and remain my friend.
 
Someone with a problem usually denies the problem, then avoids it when there's no more denying it. Then things can get combative. It's like the stages of grief almost. And at the end of the steps of grieving, there is acceptance.

I'm not saying I'm there, but I'm a helluva lot closer than I was last year.

These crises of confidence are simple human failings. We all have them. Yeah, me being me, I tend to over-analyzing them to the point that they're so clinically vivisected that they don't even resemble emotions anymore, but that doesn't make me any different than the rest of us, really. Alright, it makes me a little OCD, despite the usually cluttered chaos I prefer to work and live in, but otherwise, I think I'm not that different than anyone else.

We want that person to validate us. As a good worker. As a good son or daughter. As a good parent. As a good student. As a good mentor. As a good leader or follower. As a good friend. As a good lover. Sometimes, when we're missing one of these, the very suggestion of criticism makes us rabid. Someone who has been single a long time suddenly grousing about a couple in love being annoying isn't always complaining about the public displays of affection; they're often enough complaining that they're not receiving any public displays of affection themselves. We covet when we lack. That's as human as the first neanderthal moving into a cave and the second neanderthal wanting to move into one to keep out of the rain, too.

But let's bring Hemingway back into the equation. All relationships are transactional, Papa says. So, in theory, there's a social contract between me and each of my friends. Did we actually have a written and signed document, like my friends Spider and Willow jokingly made when they dated, enumerating exceptions and clauses, and designating a third party (you guessed it: yours, truly) to arbitrate all disputes or possible breaches of contract? Of course not. We've got more of an oral agreement to broad terms, like Hemingway's idea that stories are like icebergs. Sure, we don't know the exact shape, but we have a general notion of shape. (Note: If anyone does have any line item stipulations for our friendships going forward, I'd be amused and eager for you to express them.)

Sometimes, we fail to hold up our end of the bargain. We're human; shit happens. We don't compliment you on an achievement. Our support is absent at a critical crossroads in your life. We leave the toilet seat up. We don't do this stuff on purpose; sometimes our own lives got in the way, or we had other people--other contractual obligations, if you will--that took precedence. Like I said, shit happens.

What's dangerous is when shit willfully and wantonly happens. When someone takes that contract and uses it as a manipulative tool. When someone plays on our emotional investment in a relationship to get what they want out of you. When someone reduces you back to Hegel's slave, and plays at being a master.

We've all had it done. We've maybe all done it a time or two, if we were going to be honest with ourselves. Not our finest hour. Probably another cocktail of guilt on the bar tab there, Ernest.

The thing is, friends forgive. It's part of who they are. I'm not saying rush out and confess your transgressions. Jimmy doesn't need to know that you met and had a fling with Sally after twenty years of silence and four years of marriage on the subject, but he might definitely need to know if that math comes out a little differently. But we aren't perfect, and we really shouldn't expect our friends to be perfect, either.

Lemme drag one more metaphor into the mix here to make my point, and then we can move on: I always fall for women with flaws. The girl I couldn't ever kiss quite right. The girl who when she gets up in the morning has no sense of balance for the first five or ten minutes. Yeah, Helen Hunt is an off-beat beauty, but there's a girl out there right now that when the light's right and she looks at me a certain way, I always think she looks like Helen Hunt, and it always makes me feel like she's Helen of Troy. Not because I've got a thing for Helen Hunt, but because it's a psychological tick, a neurological cross-fire in my brain that always happens, that might annoy most people, but I for some reason can't get enough of. I mean, go back to that mirror, give yourself a long look, and admit it: your present or past lover had some little flaw that you just couldn't get enough of, and while they might have hated it, it was/is part of what made you fall for them as hard as you did.

It's similar, but not the same, with friendships. I have friends I made back in the college days that were so close that I turned to them when my father died, and now, we've got nothing in common. But they're still important to me, despite the fact we sometimes each probably wonder why the hell we're still friends, like those guys in Art.

And then the right hits, and we remember.

I have been fortunate in my life. That old Chinese curse, May you live in interesting times, has been a beneficial one so far, and a little mantra I jokingly reflect on when I'm looking at the shape of my life thus far. There's a poem I wrote back in college, "Rachel," in which I refer to life as a "house half-built." (Rachel, who is sadly not with us anymore, probably never read that poem, maybe never even knew she was the type of woman that could inspire a poem, and I really wish I could have shared that with her. She might still be with us if I had.) It was literally a metaphor I wrote without really truly appreciating its meaning or import, but of course, my mentor, R, seized upon and gushed over. It's become the way I look at my life ever since he explained to me what my random literary misfire meant to him.

I find it appropriate that, now, on the cusp of moving into this big, presently empty condo, and having to re-situate all the kipple (Thank you, Philip K. Dick, for that lovely bit of poetic license) that constitutes my household goods, that I'm talking about the half-built house of life right now. Because those rooms of the house, they're not filled with furniture. They're filled with memories, with these "cold social contracts" I referred to before, re-fashioned in warm, pleasant ties that bind me to those people.

I always joke that girls at a certain age plan their weddings, and that boys around the same age instead plan funerals, with the unspoken nod to Tom and Huck popping up at their own supposed funerals. And it's true, as far as it goes. But there was a moment when someone got me thinking about a wedding, too, and I had a realization. And that realization led to me actually cobbling together the first part of a wedding toast to the as-yet-unidentified-but-hopefully-soon-but-not-too-soon-to-grace-us-with-her-identity Mrs. Josh, or maybe even part of our vows if she's into cooking up our own. I've never shared it with anyone, and I won't say who inspired it, as she'd most likely die of terminal embarrassment, or at the least kick me firmly in the teeth for never telling her she inspired such a thought. Well, it's appropriate to the occasion, so I'm going to share it.

In our infancy, we are swaddled. We're bound up tightly in blankets, and we find comfort in that. As we grow up, we do everything we can to be free of any such bondage, to be unbound in the truest, purest sense. It's when we find someone who makes us want to be bound, to be tied to them, to be re-swaddled and cast aside that need for freedom, that we truly know what love and life are all about.

Now, that's love. But these ties between us and our friends? They're probably lesser expressions of something vaguely similar. These people I've surrounded myself with? You all had a purpose for being included at some point. Don't worry if you don't know what it was, we're past that. And I likely don't remember either. We don't need to have purposes to our friends. We just need to be us, warts and all.

A friend will give you an alibi, the old joke goes. A best friend will help you hide the body.

I'm lucky to have the folks I do in my life. And this whole philosophical and psychological run-around was me making sure that I took the time to say it. Oh, I probably made a hash of it, and at some point or another bored you to tears before we got here, but, would I be me if I didn't?

Now, one more thing I need to say, then I'm hitting publish and considering hitting pubs.

Family. I lost my father at 20, and while there's a lot to say about him, I'm setting Dad aside for another time (Believe me, he'll get more than his due down the road). I am lucky enough to have my mother and three brothers, one of whom has been lucky enough to bring a daughter into the world to add to the family. We aren't the best family. We aren't the typical family. We are likely dysfunctional and a little scary at times. But I love them. I cherish them. We've had more trauma and drama than a lot of families, but we've weathered most if not all of that hardship together. And while every once in a while I say "your mother" or "your brother" when I'm upset, I wouldn't trade them for anyone else's family.

A few years after my father died, my youngest brother and I were playing catch. He was ten. He was tossing the ball well enough that I didn't have to move the glove. I put a little more power on my tosses, and he naturally did the same out of reflex. I told him we were going to try something different, and got down into a catcher's stance.

Damned if he wasn't the starting pitcher the next season for his little league team. I got a lot of secondhand parental experience, my dad passing as early as he did, but that's the one memory of paternal pride that if I died tomorrow I'd take to my grave.

Every one of my brothers has a moment they're a part of that I treasure. Alright, Mom, too, but don't push. They're not the same. Hell, they're not even close. But they're moments that when I think of them, I feel the warmth of family, even over here on a tropical island in the afternoon while they're on the other side of the planet sound asleep (except for the pitcher; I think he's got insomnia again).

So, this holiday, I wanted to thank them for being my family, even if they didn't have a choice in the matter.

We now return you to our regular programming already in progress. I'm not sure if all this rambling meant anything to you, but I hope it did. It's one of my promises to myself to recognize my friends and family's value to me a little more often, and to be more worthy of them going forward from today.