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.