Notes on being a Heavy Metal DJ

I know I wasn't the first Heavy Metal DJ to raid some club and play loud and obnoxious music. There's no way. There had to have been some before me that played the likes of Iron Maiden, Black Sabbath, Judas Priest and so on and so forth. Wait, no, now that I think about it, I spent my 30th birthday in New York City in some race car themed bar somewhere in the Avenues with members of Fireball Ministry as a DJ spun vintage Metal on 45s. Was that guy the catalyst? It was for me anyway.

Back in San Francisco, a place where I lived for over a decade, there weren't any “Metal” nights in bars or clubs that didn't involve a band. Not that I knew of anyway. If I picked up the local free rags, checked the calendar of events and saw that some dive bar had a Heavy Metal DJ night, I would have been there. If anyone reading this that lived in San Francisco in the late 90s and early 2000s, please prove to me that I am wrong. If I skipped out on the Crowbar's monthly Metal event called like 'Painslave' or something, get back to me. Because, and I'm pretty sure I've done my research here, I've checked and nothing ever came up.

Not that we really needed any bar or club playing hard rock or metal. There were enough live venues offering up real bands each night. Heck, down at the Maritime Hall or Warfield, you could most likely catch a big time Metal outfit plying almost nightly. So why would a bar or club drive customers away while some dork DJ spun Slayer and Carcass as you tried to sip your beer and hit on that attractive person with the neck tattoo over by the neon Hamms Beer light up sign? It doesn't make sense right?

But, seriously, outside of radio play, I really hadn't seen or heard about an actual Heavy Metal DJ taking residence in a bar or club. So when I proposed the idea to the owner and managers of a great watering hole on Clement Street, the 540 Club, they agreed that it could be fun. My first night as Metal Mark was a rousing success. So much in fact that the fire department had to stop by due to over crowding. Amazing.

Now I just didn't show up, play a few tunes and leave. Oh no. If I was going to be the one and only Metal DJ in the Bay Area, I was going to do it big. I bought a big fog machine, some black candles, a fake gravestone with my name written in blood red neon paint, so I bought a blacklight as well, skulls and the whole bit. It looked really amazing. After the success of that first Metal night, the owner insured me that I would have a regular spot at their club. So cool.

This lead to being part of an all night extreme music radio show, Rampage Radio, on KUSF when some of the DJs for the show showed up to one of my nights. Then I got occasional gigs at other venues like the Arrow bar where I spun Metal and hard rock only when the Warfield, which was a block away, hosted a big Metal act. You know, to draw a crowd before and after the show.

This was all fine and dandy, but when I moved to Tucson I didn't have much luck as a Metal DJ. In fact, desperate for work, I actually took a job at a local “gentleman's club”, but didn't hold out because that scene just isn't me. Well, it is just...not as a job. So I ended up with a professional “entertainment company” doing weddings, proms and events and such. There I met a like minded guy by the name of Eric who, as it turned out, had his own DJ equipment. This gave me an idea...

We hatched a plan to be “Tucson's best and ONLY Hard Rock and Heavy Metal DJs!” and we actually landed a few gigs. This also came at the time when I had a regular Metal night at a now defunct club called Vaudeville. Things seemed to be looking up for me as a Metal DJ once again.

Yeah. Not so much.

When we started up the rooms would literally clear out. My nights at Vaudeville were notoriously dead. People just didn't seem to get it or care that there were Metal nights now in Tucson. And this is kind of a Metal town. Even through all the promotions, flyers, websites and such, no one seemed to care and they definitely didn't come out to see me, or us.

I knew my nights at Vaudeville were doomed when there were only two customers, both playing pool, and one of them came over and said “Hey man, we're feeling mellow tonight. Maybe just play some Sublime or something.” Ugh.

Here's another thing: I just didn't spin hard rock and Metal tunes and I just didn't put on a show. Dude, I got sponsorship. Back in San Francisco I was on the street team for an amazing Metal label, Relapse Records, and when I told them I had a Metal night at a popular club and was on the radio, they started sending me all sorts of giveaways, like stickers, sample CDs and even t-shirts. Then I got one of the magazines I used to write for, Metal Maniacs, to do the same. They sent over a huge banner that I always displayed behind me and sent out a bunch of merch to give away. How cool was that?

But when I moved to Tucson all of that stopped. Even when I contacted them about my spots in vaudeville and the Metal DJ company Eric and I started, which was called Valhalla Entertainment. Nothing. It all just stopped. So I focused on other things and moved on...

About a week ago, Eric hipped me to this Metal DJ show at a biker bar called the Bashful Bandit. Great. I'll be there.

So She-Ra and I show up about a half hour before the show begins. There's a screen off to the side of the “stage”, which is really a small raised platform, with the DJ crews name, Blackout, written kinda metal-ish. Over the speakers, the house jukebox ones, some kind of lame techno music was playing. Which then segued into (blorp) Nickleback and some other douche rock tunes.

When Eric finally arrived I had to ask his what this was all about, this Metal DJ show because, so far, it wasn't very Metal. He said he knew the guys that put it on and that I should come and see if it gets the Metal Mark seal of approval.

Well, one thing it did do was make me miss those nights at the 540 Club and even Rampage Radio. I mean, it's fun, or...it was. I put on a show, I banged my head and jumped around, I played classic hits alongside new and very underground songs – it was a blast! Thing is, the guys of Blackout didn't seem to be having any fun.

They were just kind of moping around, dressed in black (of course) and there wasn't any lights (I forgot to mention I had a big strobe light too...and a Castle Grayskull) or fog machine or anything. I don't know. So far I wasn't that into it.

Plus they started late. When the DJ finally got behind his laptop and hit “Play” what he produced was your standard “Metal” fare but nothing revolutionary. Half of the trip of being a DJ is introducing people to new sounds. We had already heard System of a Down, Tool, Disturbed, etc etc way too many times. Heck, play an AC/DC b-side. “Inject the Venom” is a really great song.

Now, I'm not trying to come across as some bitter, old, washed up former Heavy Metal DJ, it's just that as a guy that kind of started the whole thing (in my tiny universe that is) the only way to get gigs and to keep folks coming back is to not only give them something to listen to but to look at as well. All we had were bored dudes and dudettes and some guy in a blue Tropicana shirt that started boogieing to the noise of Machinehead with another chick that was far drunker than he was.

And it's not that I didn't have a good time, I did, but only because I was with friends and we made it fun. Let's face it, if you're going to pull something off like a hard rock or Heavy Metal night at some bar, run by DJs none the less, you're going to have to do something special. It's like the guys that do air guitar competitions; half of them aren't even keeping up with the shredding, they're just dressed over the top and jamming around the stage like a cracked out jackrabbit. You just can't mix Iron Maiden into Slayer (I always liked “Children of the Damned” into “Reborn” myself) and yawn at the same time. It's just not happening.

Plus they weren't even mixing it all together. Songs actually faded out before they got to cue up a new one. That's a big DJ no-no.

Still, I was pleased, and a bit jealous as well, that Tucson has embraced something along the lines of what I used to do. I gave it the ol' team try and through the years, the gimmick faded and now it's up to the next batch of Metalheads to take it to the next level.

But you're gonna have to get yourself a fog machine kids. Because that's where the real fun begins.

Good luck!

My two obsessions: Books and Heavy Metal (and the odd links between them)

There is nothing I enjoy more in life than curling up with a good book. Or thrashing madly about listening to a great metal album. These are two things that have been a focus and obsessions of mine basically my whole life. Just as much as I was excited to get a hold of the newest Slayer record, I was looking forward to the bookmobile's next visit. As a kid I wore KISS t-shirts and would listen to my friend's older brother's Black Sabbath records when I did sleep overs. I also hung out in libraries and wrote strange stories about warring faction leprechauns and what if Skeletor and Darth Vader both went for the last piece of bacon in the buffet and who would win the fight? Books and Heavy Metal. Two great tastes that go great...well, I do like it quiet when I read so, and I guess that example is out.

Thing is, I never really gave it a second though, my love of seemingly two separate worlds, that is until my friends got involved.

“Hey Mark, what're you reading a book for? It's summer.”

“Um. I dunno. It's fun. I guess.”

“Fun? Dude, skateboarding is fun...”

“It is.”

“...books are just...boring.”

“No they aren't.”

“Yuh-huh.”

“Nuh-uh!”

I guess to most kids in the pre-Harry Potter and Twilight era, books could seem boring. I mean, you're just sitting there, eyes skidding along letters that eventually form words, words that become sentences, with one light on, in relative silence, alone. But what they don't see is the huge universe spinning in my head. Thanks to a very active imagination (one of the big benefits of being an only child) I wasn't alone in that silence, I was in Hobbiton hanging out with Bilbo and Gandalf about to start another glorious adventure, or on a spaceship soaring off to Altair-4 about to do battle with an invisible astro beast. It was never quiet or boring at all, as it is with metal. You don't associate either of those words when the subject comes up do you? Quite the opposite if you ask me.

Here's the thing. Recently I was awarded the ultimate job for bookies and nerds, a position with the public library. Now that I am in my 40s, a bit calmer and focused (sort of) landing this job was a dream come true. One afternoon while talking to some co-workers, I mentioned the fact that I used to be a heavy metal DJ and writer for some prominent metal magazines. This raised some eyebrows.

“And now you work in the library.”

“Yes.”

“For a guy like you isn't this kind of...boring?”

Again with that word! No, silly, it's the coolest thing ever. Libraries do so much more than just lend books to homeless people. It's the shining beacon for any community offering up so many services I can't even begin to go on about. I like the fact that I am pretty sure I’m the sole employee of the Pima County Public Library that has stage dived, threw mayonnaise packets at Cannibal Corpse and watched porn with Lemmy of Mötörhead. I love that on my way to work, which is usually a very quiet environment as libraries usually are, I'm blasting High On Fire or Neurosis, because the duality always makes me smile. Books and metal are awesome!

Then one day I started to think about the connection of the two. There had to be some sort of link to make myself a bit more clear about why my obsession with reading and listening to heavy metal is a valid one. So I sat down, jotted out a list and this is what I came up with.



(1) Both mediums are the ultimate escape.



Think about it. Am I buying a DIO or Dragonforce record because I want factual information about the economy? Do I read Suzanne Collins and James Dashner because they provide sound advice for my income tax returns? Heck no.

We have to deal with so much crap, us “adults”, on a daily basis that those of us not cut out for the grinding routine of working, consumerism and being a responsible member of the community have to have some sort of eye into a world where dorks like us don’t suffer so much, paper money could be a laughable concept and “working” can be considered something along the lines of stirring bubbling cauldrons or “laser tech” on the USS Nerdship.

Heavy Metal, when done correctly, takes us/me away to a place that invests in the fantastic. Sure a lot of it is violent, but…isn’t the daily news? When you pick up the paper or turn on channel 4 at six pm, aren’t you embedded into a landscape of hate, dread and intolerance? Of course you are. But when you listen to Slayer, do you really think demons are coming to get you and will drag you off to the latter boundaries of Hell? Probably. But it’s richer and more fun that the actual happenings that continue to chisel down the morale of the common thinking and feeling person. And you know it’s all fantasy. You do right? C’mon people. You really think Manowar writes from a perspective of “Oh yeah, this is really gonna happen”? Um, no. Viking slave girls chained to the floating warships of Valhalla while beefy guardians of Odin fight the fire giants of doom is not common thought of what real life is all about. But it makes for great entertainment and killer lyrics.

Same goes for books. When the real world keeps spilling into our happy little spaces and tree lined landscapes of wishes and squirrel wizards, aka the innocence of our brains, the best possible escape route is that of a good book. Heck, I’ll take Danielle Steele over the 6 o clock news any day. Well, not really but…you know what I’m getting at here, right?

One of my favorite books as a kid was the “Choose Your Own Adventure” series. This came in light of my full time job playing Dungeons and Dragons when I wasn’t in school. After peaking interest in the game when I was 11, I was told that before I am truly initiated into the realm of lost weekends spent deliberating over tomes such as the Dungeon Masters Guide and the horrifically illustrated Fiend Folio, I had to complete the Lord of the Rings trilogy and The Hobbit as well. It took me a while to get through it all, seeing as I was still in school, played video games and skateboarded so, yeah, I say I finished those things when I was almost 13.

But the “Choose Your Own Adventure” books were awesome. They were similar to D&D but not as long as what Tolkien can dish out. If I wasn’t playing D&D or doing homework, I was reading those books. I’d get lost in the maze of characters and situations then, before our hero takes another turn, there were options. If you wanted him to go down the stairs where the large oaken door was, turn to page 119. But, if you want to go right and follow the strange sound and weird smell, turn to page 85. Weighting my options, I chose the sound and smell. So I turn to page 85 only to find I walked into a nest of Kobolds having some kind of party. I am soon outnumbered and eventually become the main course.

When I turn to page 119, the door opens to a large treasure room and I walk home filled with riches. Next time, I’m going with the door option…

No matter that I didn’t fit in with any real clique at school, that wars were going on, somewhere, racial tension was still happening, kittens dying and McDonald’s still insisted on making those god awful Shamrock Shakes every March, I had books and their stories to help me get back to the place where I did fit in and where I could help with some of the ills of society. In those “Choose Your Own Adventure” books, I was the hero. Back at school, I was just a zitty heavy metal loving nerd with a B+ average.

So thanks to the library and my collection of thrash metal, I always found a way to smile at a new day.



(2) The darker the place, the better the result.



It’s true. You think Bukowski was really any good once he found fame and success? Did you read “Pulp”? Yeah…not so much. Same goes for Clive Barker. When he was a young, closeted, hungry author of fantastical horror, his stuff was good. I ate his books up like the undead devouring flesh in one of his short stories. But when that guy started making movies, making money and found happiness with his life partner, he literally started writing about rich people and fame. Sure, they had a sinister take to them, but the old Clive Barker that I knew and loved had progressed into something you might purchase at a Costco.

I mean, heck, Truman Capote just stopped writing all together. Caught up in the flashy upper crust scene of the rich and famous, his writer’s block would literally follow him to the grave. What if Breakfast at Tiffany’s and In Cold Blood were moderate successes forcing him to continue typing to make a decent living? Imagine the works we could have been privy to if that were the case. I really don’t want to think about it.

This is also the case of Heavy Metal.

Dee Snider of Twisted Sister fame said it best: “So here we were, sitting by my pool next to my million dollar house, with Porsches in the garage and diamonds on our fingers, trying to write our new album thinking, ‘Hmm…so what would a down and out teenager feel about being an outsider?’ We knew our time was up. We just had to quit.”

Christ, Motley Crue wrote “Girls Girls Girls” surrounded by blondes and cocaine and that album is literally one of the worst pieces of crap out there. But then, THEN!, they saw what excess was doing to them, found sobriety was a scary and difficult place and produced, bingo!, “Dr. Fxxking Feelgood”, easily one of their best works filled with more hits than any other release from them.

Then grunge hit and, well…there you go.

Kind of like Bukowski and Barker, two of the big guns in the Metal family, Slayer and Metallica, both of which are my all-time favorite bands, started to put out albums that were less than satisfactory. After “Divine Intervention”, I kinda had to give up on Slayer when they almost went ‘nu metal’ on us here and there. And Metallica? “Load”? “Re-Load”? Are you kidding me? I don’t even want to go there with that phase of the band. So horrible.

Point is when the artist is hungry and driven the final outcome of their work will be a true piece of art. Sort of like that ‘diamond from coal’ aspect of comparison. This is probably why authors such as Jim Knipfel or even Sloane Crosley won’t change much. They are who they are. Sloane is witty and writes about quirky issues in New York and, well, so does Jim. Even if mass fame came to those kids it would probably make Jim more contemptible and Sloane gigglier. That I would like to see. I mean read.

And all those Nordic Black Metal bands or Grindcore outfits? Yeah, I would like to see those guys getting seriously paid. If Gorgoroth had more of a budget, they’d just put on bigger shows and could afford actual sheep for sacrifice. But, alas….



(3) Books and Metal have multiple sub-genres.



We can all agree that Metal, officially, started in Birmingham, UK with the band Black Sabbath. Right? Yeah, I know there’s a bit of controversy surrounding this because some say Iron Butterfly, others Blue Cheer, etc etc, but that deep down toned register we all know and love about modern Metal, really started with Sabbath. Please don’t send me hate mail if you feel otherwise.

Today, that style of Metal Sabbath put out would be called Doom. It’s slow; it’s heavy, ominous lyrics, all that good stuff. Doom Metal, now, can go as deep as Ambient Doom, or Funeral Doom, or even Stoner Doom. Each one has one finite aspect of their style and arrangement to garner them a sub-genre of a sub-genre. After the huge New Wave of British Heavy Metal hit in the late 70s, that sparkled into so many factions I can’t even begin to fully describe. Out of the original NWOBHM, Power Metal was born which begat Speed Metal, which begat Thrash Metal which soon turned into Death Metal which morphed into Grindcore and so on and so forth. Basically the list I just mentioned is just a progression of speed. Music just kept getting faster and more extreme. Nowadays when I hear a blast beat (which is literally a snare drum roll using one hand while the legs are rapidly double peddling on the kick drums and the cymbals are trying to keep up with the snare…like mind-blowingly fast!) I don’t even blink because stuff has gotten so out of control I can literally nap through an entire Napalm Death record. It is that ominous and strangely comforting.

Books are no different.

Sure you have romance novels but then have you tried homo erotic romance? Fetish homo erotic romance? Blow up vinyl bodysuit fetish homo erotic romance? Well? Have you? Yeah, it’s out there and luckily I have been exposed to such things during my time in Los Angeles and San Francisco, where I worked in a prominent bookstore on Haight Street for a spell. If boring ol’ Sci-Fi isn’t enough, have you trained your eyeballs to skim across the letters of a Hard Sci-Fi book? Or Horror Sci-Fi? Homo erotic horror hard Sci-Fi? It just keeps on going. If there is an audience for it, someone right now is at the computer writing “Then the zombie princess granted the gay gnome king immunity from the aroused toilet now that the severed head of Vince Vaughn cooked a fine meal (recipe to follow) for all the handballs in Zip Zop Zoopy water park and blood pharmacy.”

The End.



(4) Censorship and being banned.



Dude, Harry Potter isn’t allowed in over a dozen cities here in the US. The Hunger Games was pulled from the shelves of prominent bookstores deemed too ‘violent’ (well, yeah) and even, get this!, ‘Satanic’. In 1980, Missouri banned Brave New World by Aldous Huxley, pulling it from classrooms across the state and it is still a huge issue of controversy out there. Heck, you can’t even buy Alice in Wonderland in most parts of China because they don’t like the fact that animals are polymorphic and a little girl is obviously taking drugs.

Don’t even get me started on Judy Blume and John Steinbeck. For real, still, today, 21st goddam century and those cats aren’t allowed in some schools and libraries. Judy fxxking Blume. Are. You. Serious?

Yeah, sure I can see some places going nuts over Stephen King; giant dogs attacking a helpless mother and child, a young girl setting fires with her mind, a boy that can read thoughts while his dad goes on a killing spree. Okay, I can basically understand where some are coming from on this one. Sort of. But when you have, literally, historical documents by the mind of Mark Twain still being hailed as ‘racist’ and ‘inappropriate’, we have stepped into a realm of fear and ignorance that I can’t even begin to understand.

On the other hand, I can sort of agree with you there western Europe; not allowing Cannibal Corpse to play anything off of their first three albums. I mean, snazzy tunes like “Necropedeophile” and “Entrails Ripped from a Virgins Cunt” just don’t go over too well with the family units, do they? Still, it’s just entertainment and, really, those guys are too old with their own kids to properly rip their trousers these days. But who takes kids and grandma to a CC show anyway? Now that is a family I could hang out with.

One thing I have to give thanks for is Tipper Gore.

Ah! Slow down. Hear me out.

When that woman started the whole PMRC and began putting warning labels on albums, dude…sales went off the charts! You think some dorky metalhead is not going to purchase the latest Autopsy album because a little sticker says it contains “foul language”? No, I want to buy that thing, take it home and crank it way past 11 just to be shocked and awed and hear the naughty words. I mean, the album I just bought by Cancer has a guy with a hatchet sticking out of his head. You don’t think I know that this thing has “shocking” lyrics and “tasteless” content? That’s exactly what I want! I don’t buy a Cattle Decapitation album only to find they are singing cookie recipes and humming the tunes to old Robert Frost poems. I know right then and there that those vegan grinders are going to hate on the human race and explain in gory detail how to get rid of us all. Shocking? Oh yes. Tasteless? Well, that’s only an opinion. Foul language? Oh mais oui. I love it and that’s what I want from them.

It’s Heavy Metal. It’s loud, it’s outrageous, it’s stupid, it’s stupid fun and most importantly…it’s entertainment! I know a bunch of poo poo heads out there that take this crap too seriously, but, more often than not, the Metal community is one of the tightest and smartest scenes on the planet. Most likely because they grew up reading Judy Blume and were punished for doing so. That could make them angry. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering. Suffering makes great Metal.

Just don’t go too crazy with the lyrical gore because, well…you do want to play Utah don’t you? Because Venom sure can’t.

(5) Is there a genre called “Literate Metal”? Because there should be.



Now here is where things are about to get even more awesomer. Awesomer-er? Is that a word?

Anyway, when my two obsessions of books and Heavy Metal come together, they make a most delicious pairing. When I can listen to a band or an album that is literally melting my face off but still get that ‘books on tape’ feeling, you have just packed my bags and sent me to mega-nerd heaven.

Let’s get down to brass tacks and nards here: Iron fxxking Maiden!

Most in the literary fan base world would be apt to snicker and wince at the fact that Bruce Dickinson and Steve Harris are two incredibly smart blokes. Sure you have biblical nods with tunes like “The Flight of Icarus” and classics based songs such as “The Phantom of the Opera”, but when you base an entire opus on a poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, you’ve just tread into lands of sheer badassery.

“The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” is a 13 minute ode to said prose and the journey of the seafaring subject. In fact, the whole album 'Powerslave' deserves a trophy just for being an incredible piece of heavy metal art, inspired a lot by books and literature. Just go out and buy it. No really, stop reading and go.

The entire album 'Leviathan' by Mastodon was inspired by Moby Dick, from the sweeping cover artwork involving a white whale capsizing a small ship to the lyrics and the songs themselves such as “Seabeast” and “I Am Ahab”. The song “Creeping Death” by Metallica (when the totally ruled), which I always play at Passover, is about Exodus 12:29 from the Old Testament regarding the plague of the first born. Blind Guardian based their album 'Mirror, Mirror' around JRR Tolkien’s The Silmarillion, which is fantastic even though I’m not much of a Blind Guardian fan. Too operatic for me, not enough balls to the proverbial walls so to speak.

If you wanna get schooled in Egyptology, look no further than the epic technical death metal (yet another sub-genre!) band Nile. Those guys base their entire concept on the writings and mythology of ancient Egypt. In fact, because of their intellectual lyrics and song styling, although still brutal as all hell, Nile is one of the few extreme death metal acts I can fully support these days. I mean, I like a lot of death metal, but Nile just kicks it into a new stratosphere of incredible for me because of their subject matter and musical prowess. Essentially I feel like I’m learning something new every time I read their lyrics. Thanks to them, now you can ace that test on ancient Egypt. See, the power of Metal never ceases to amaze me.

Going back in time to classics such as “Dracula” (always a popular subject), “Frankenstein” (yet another), “Jekyll and Hyde” and even “Dante’s Inferno”, you need to start listening to Iced Earth, because, man, those power metallers sure love them some readin’. And for modern fare, you need to check out The Sword who, again, have based their identity and whole albums and songs on the works of George RR Martin’s Song of Ice and Fire…you know, the Game of Thrones thingy on HBO. Which is awesome, both the band and the show I might add.

So, as you may or may not see, as a lifelong and dedicated Metalhead who had to hide the fact that I loved books and as a devoted reader who had to hide the fact that I frickin’ love Metal, I was glad to find some similarities and even links to one another. To me, there is no difference between the ear shattering riffs from a perfect metal song or the wondrous worlds that a good book can take you. It might be that I like silence when I’m reading and trying to hold a book while moshing has proven futile.

I heartily advise all of you out there to embrace and encourage your obsessions, whatever they may be or however crazy it may seem. Unless of course you like to arouse toilets for gay gnome kings for zombie princesses.

But, then again, you just might be on the start of something good. You never know…

Biosphere2 is a really cool place, if not a bit bizarre as well.

She-Ra and Metal Mark visit the Biosphere2

We had been sitting on this Groupon for a while now. She-Ra bought it, sort of on a whim, and we kept making plans to go visit but something always fell through or we were all “Um, it's too far. Maybe next weekend.” Then, one day, we made a solid pact, a decision had been solidified. We would get up early, have a decent breakfast and drive the thirty plus miles out to our destination because, honestly, that Groupon was about to expire.

We were off to see the Biosphere.

Actually it's called, officially, “Biosphere 2” because, well, the Earth is biosphere one you see. It all makes sense. Actually we've just been calling it Bio Dome because of that stupid movie with Pauly Shore and Stephen Baldwin, long before he cleaned up his act and became all Jesus-y. Did you know “Bio Dome” was filmed at the Biosphere 2?

Now you do...

So what exactly is the Biosphere 2? Well, it was built in the 1980s as a sort of environmental science mecca where specific experiments and focused studies could be made in the comfort of a huge geodesic enclosed landscape. You might remember in the early 90's where a group of scientists lived in the Biosphere for a few years, living solely on the vegetation and animals they raised with in it. It came under some fire by the press and conservatives saying that it was a huge waste of money and a bunch of hippie boloney...even though most hippies I knew don't eat boloney. It was, in fact, by most in the scientific community a “triumph” to further understand the delicate balance of the planet and what our impact on it is. Then it got bought by some corporation that wanted to do something else with the facilities until the University of Arizona took the reigns in 2007 and clean up of some of the abandoned Biomes and research facilities have just recently began.

But, to make money off of it, they had to open it up to the public. Hence our purchase of said Groupon. And, hence, our day trip to the Biosphere 2.

The drive itself from central Tucson was actually really nice. I mean, it rained the whole way up but seeing as the dense eve of a threatening monsoon was always upon us, it was nice to have a break in the clouds and temperatures alike. Unfortunately the passenger side wiper, where I was sitting, wasn't working too well so my forward view of our brief journey looked like a half circled smudge of blobbing drips from above.

But, when we got there, we were pleased to find that the rain had stopped and the sun was half hidden by Simpsons-like clouds. Perfect day to spend inside a triangular windowed replica of certain corners of the Earth. At least the magnifying glass effect, if there was to be one, wouldn't be so bad thanks to the fluffy white moving scrims deflecting Arizona's harsh summer light. Then I found out all the windows were UV blocked. So, nevermind what I just said.

Luckily we got there just in time for a tour to start. We were lead to a large room with a bunch of seats facing a projector screen. Surrounding the walls were information posters relaying images and facts about what the Biosphere 2 means as far as its purpose and discoveries, environmental anomalies from around the globe, something to do with a giant lobster, stuff like that. Strangely, though, in the corner, sat a Baldwin (do you see the further connections here? Baldwin. Like...in Stephen? Oh forget it...) grand piano with a large and imposing sign on it that read “PLEASE DO NOT PLAY!” But what if I could really play and wanted to entertain the other visitors that were slowly shuffling in with jaunty renditions of Gershwin tunes? Would they be all “Hey! Stop that you talented person!”? I doubt it.

One thing that got me to raise an eyebrow out of sheer irony was the case of one of those info posters with a jangled searing image of endless water bottles and a small text square at the base of it reading how horrible it is to be using and purchasing water bottles because they are one of the main reason for the erosion of top soil and the grand pollutant of the oceans and seas.

Then, just a few steps away from that poster, just around the bend, was a Dasani vending machine stocked high with plenty of water bottles for your consuming and consumption pleasure. You're welcome Mother Earth.

Pretty soon a voice came over the speakers asking us to all take a seat. We were treated to a short film about the Biosphere 2 but were saddened that popcorn was not made available. Then, once the lights came up, an elderly gentleman with a mustache and wonky left eye lead the way for our guided tour. On a random Friday afternoon there must have been at least thirty to forty people, including ourselves. Are they here too because their Groupon was about to expire? I mean, the Biosphere isn't the easiest attraction to get to and it's kind of out in the middle of BF AZ. If you know what those initials are for.

The first Biome (which is a Bio specific room, and not really a room per se but more like a sub dome from the rest of the sphere...you get the idea) was the rainforest. And how did we know it was the rainforest Biome? Yeah, hot and sticky as fxxk. It was already humid and warm outside and now we're stuck on a tiny platform listening to some old dude with a roaming eye talk about the importance of this here experiment and blah blah blah. Sure, it was spectacular and, yeah, it's an amazing feat of human endeavor and research, but I was sweating so bad I felt like a guilty man in an interrogation room somewhere in Africa with the thermostat set for “You gotta be kidding me”. It was quite a sight to see but when our guide said it was time to move on I really felt like pushing through the families with kids and making a break for the door. Which I kind of did.

The other Biomes were nice and easy. The marsh area was cool with a slight breeze. The ocean one (which had actual water from the Pacific ocean brought in on huge tanker trucks from the San Diego beaches) was really neat and luckily we didn't go any earlier that year because, according to our guide, the ocean Biome was abandoned and algae had all but destroyed the waters. Thanks to the UofA it was now clean if not a bit still murky. When we came to the desert Biome we just thought he'd open up a door and be all “There you go!”. You know, because, we live in the desert....and stuff.

Afterwards we were lead down a long series of pipe tunnels into a place called “The Lung”.

Now, the Lung is essentially what the name describes; it is the actual 'breathing' mechanism for the entire Biosphere. Literally, during the day, it “inhales” air from the outside and at night “exhales” it back out creating a full fledged nearly organic filtration process. The room was huge and a bit humid, which echoed every word our tour guide spoke. I really wanted to let out a big fart noise but, well...I don't think it would have gone over well with the other patrons. When we exited we were all hit with a full blast of air, like enough to blow toupees and small dogs away. Science is awesome. But I was still a little confused how everything actually worked and why we would need a Biosphere in this day and age. I mean, I didn't see any scientist-y folk mulling around, just tour guides and a gift shop. Hmm...

Outside we poked around their irrigation system and plant life they were growing in the open. Then I found this. Way to go sustainable organic “lets save the Earth one recycled item at a time” establishment!

I mean, if there were any recycle bins nearby, in a place that advocates recycling, I would have done my part. But...hopefully maintenance will find it. But I didn't see any maintenance people either. What is this place? Really?

Walking up some stairs past little metal hands on rain collecting rods, we entered the Biosphere again and were led into a dining area that looked a lot like the one in “Empire Strikes Back” where Darth Vader is waiting for Han Solo and when Han Solo shoots his ray gun all Vader does is deflect it with his hands and then he takes the gun away using the force then Chewbacca howls and Lando Calrissian looks upset then the door closes and... Remember that scene? Yeah, it sort of looked like that but not as cool. Very bad late 80's/ early 90's décor. It needed a serious makeover. Style Network should send the “next design star” to the Biosphere and fluff it up a bit. A little modernization and some throw pillows and the space could become quite dashing.

And this was pretty much the end of the tour. Old man crazy eye was dripping sweat, like literally huge drops were falling from his chin, due to the excursion and humidity, as he answered any questions and told us we were free to check out the living quarters of the scientists that lived here and so forth.

“If you want,” the tour guide dude said, “you can go downstairs into the ocean viewing room and see the waters from under the ground. That is...if you want.”

So we then walked around the living quarters (again, so bad 80s, like bulky yellow push button phones and computers the size of small cars) and luckily I found a bathroom because breakfast had reared its delicious yet wanting to exit head. It was fun to totally destroy one of the bathrooms that a scientist many years ago used as well. And, wouldn't you know it, they had tons of paper products. Now, I work at the library where there is literally no paper products outside of the books and bum wipe. Don't you think, you know, to save Mother Gaia and all that crap, they would install hand air dryers? Wouldn't you think? Set an example here hippies with masters degrees. Think of the children. Think of all those trees, crying....crying....

Eventually we rounded the way to that underground ocean viewing area. For some reason the stairs were closed off so we had to take an ancient death box elevator down. I checked the stairs; they seemed relatively disaster and sharp pointy things free. I didn't get it. So we got in the rattly down cage and pushed the button “2”.

When we got out we were pleased to find that they kind of did up the whole underground area to resemble a bit of an aquatic attraction. There were more of those obligatory information posters and even a shark chasing after a school of smaller fish dangling above. It was kind of cool.

The viewing windows themselves were nice and big but the water was still a bit too murky to get a full feel of depth and a clear image of the occasional swimming by your face fish. Still, it was neat and a fun extra to the day and recent tour.

Then, things began to get a bit weird down there. As we carried on with the ocean view windows, we slowly began to discover that there was far more to this “room” than we had expected. Walking along the narrow path, we saw old TV monitors embedded into the faux cave walls, but they were turned off. Rounding a corner, there was an abandoned screening room with two enormous fish takes on either side, empty and forgotten. The toilets down there were roped off and water leaked out from an unknown broken source. Right about here, vibes began to grow into the 'creepy'.

Then, and here's where She-Ra's and my jaw just dropped. This underground ocean viewing room? It was a full scale under sea aquarium theme park that felt as if it hadn't been used since the Clinton administration. There were touch pools with nothing in them to touch, a whole learning center with computer screens dark and dusty, a tiered “learning center” way in the back that had become some kind of storage space, a child's play area with a sand bar and games – all left behind and deserted. It was the strangest thing we had seen in a very long time.

Why didn't anyone mention that this was down here? Why is it not on the tour map or website? Why did the tour guide just kind of dismiss it and suggested we check it out “If you want” like it was no big deal? This place? This was kind of a big deal and nobody seems to care about it and no one seems to know about it. The space felt like an abandoned park in some Scooby-Doo episode, one where the ghost dressed in an old diver's suit terrorizes visitors. It was literally an unused, and quite large, facility that could bring in even more revenue and visitors if they would only tidy up a bit, turn on some monitors and put some fish in their respected tanks and exhibits. I mean, what the fxxk Biosphere? This place went from pretty cool to totally bizarre.

As we were leaving we asked the lady at the front desk about the aquatic theme area. She really didn't have an answer for us either. Why not? She didn't know.

A quick tour of the gift shop (books, t-shirts hot sauce, all the stuff a science expedition might need) we came across another curious addition: shot glasses. You use non-recyclable paper products, there weren't any visible recycle bins, you sell Pepsi product water bottles and now you want us to go home, fill up the tiny squarish glasses emblazoned with an image of and the word Biosphere2 with hard liquor tip one back and get drunk. Way to go Biosphere nerds. Way to go.

All in all we did indeed have a very good time, but we left fairly daunted and confused as to what we were just witness to and what was it all for. And that abandoned under ground mini version of Marine Land. What was that all about?

When we got home we were pretty regretful that we didn't actually purchase a pair of those shot glasses. Because after a day like that, we kind of needed them.

How our recent San Diego trip nearly killed us.

The whole trip in itself started out innocently enough. Knowing that sometime in the near future that we'd have to visit family out in California, She-Ra found quite the deal for a downtown San Diego hotel on Groupon.

Called the Porto Vista hotel, near the famous stretch of whats known as “Little Italy”, just a hop skip and jump from the ocean, it seemed like the perfect getaway after spending the day with She-Ra's sister, brother in law and their two kids. So she bought the Groupon and we tentatively made arrangements to not only pass through Palm Springs to see my dads but to hit San Diego and check in with Erin, Jay, Nick, and Natty.

Then, a rather bad thing happened. On the eve of the Super Bowl, while doing work on the computer, the phone rang and on the other end was the co-owner and manager of the restaurant I was kitchen managing for. It didn't take long for her to make it clear that my services were no longer needed and my position was made redundant. Since then it has been a daily struggle to find a decent job here in Tucson and plans were put on hold to drive to the Golden State and enjoy the company of our loving, yet completely insane, family.

Then one day She-Ra had made a discovery. The Groupon for that hotel in San Diego was going to expire soon and eating a hundred bucks didn't seem fun or feasible. So after some much delegation we both said “Fxxk it! We need some time away from her job and my job worries. We have some money saved up. My government benefits had finally started kicking in. Let's take off for a few days and bask in the sun and let our toes run deep into beach sand!", a near fetish for my lady if you must know.

Our plan was to leave first thing Monday morning and return late Wednesday night. Boom, boom. Quick and painless. Easy in and easy out. Or...so we had thought.

Monday morning rolled around and our garden was covered in sleet and hail. Flurries were coming in from the west and the winds blew mighty gusts nearly tearing the canopy off our patio, sending hanging plants to their near doom. To say the least, we were delayed. Luckily a break in the weather gave us enough time to load up the car and consider hitting the road. The family wanted us there for dinner at 5:00. It was well past noon. It was going to be close. Very close.

After grabbing a snack and rolling on to the I-10, all was clear and it looked as if our trip was going to be on time and just fine. We hit the mountainous overpass that leads you into the San Diego valley and were delighted to find that it had transformed into a winter wonderland. Snow was everywhere, covering rocky plains and pine trees, enough that you might be tranced into believing a man in a thick red coat was scurrying off in the distance with a pack of reindeer. It was that magical. I tried to take a picture of it, but we were moving much too fast.

Then...we hit the decent.

At first I just thought it was the rough road below us, but the face of She-Ra told a different story. Apparently everytime she applied the brakes, the entire rig would rattle as if to incite complete destruction of the Chevy. It was harrowing. We white knuckled the entirely too long drift downward and when we finally made it to flat territory, She-Ra made the call to her sister.

Luckily Erin and her husband Jay and military so we know we could get a smoking deal on some new brakes if we just dropped the car off on the base's auto lot. Erin assured us that would be no problem. Then asked us if we wanted to go to Sea World.

We said yes.

Finding the hotel was easy enough as it was right off of the I-8, but parking would turn out to be a problem. Apparently the Porto Vista hotel wants to charge $25 a night for parking. That's outrageous, even if I had the cash. Luckily for me, spending over 12 years in San Francisco, it gave me an advantage to seek out and locate street parking. My skills of yore had not faded and we got a tight spot just a half block from the lobby. It's like riding a bike I suppose, except back in SF your bike is a full sized car and you spend endless hours at night circling your neighborhood just to find a spot. Sometimes, they don't come. Sometimes, the city wins and you end up a mile away having to hail a cab to make it safely back to your flat.

Checking in was easy enough, but after getting into the elevator, hitting floor 4, turning right and heading towards the second building as instructed by the desk clerk, we ran into yet another snag.

The two separate buildings that make up the Porto Vista hotel is not connected by mere hallways. Oh no. They align by the thinnest of catwalk bridges that are fully exposed to the elements. I immediately did a double take seeing the vertigo inspiring sight and all She-Ra could muster was a “Oh hell no!” Now, I'm not afraid of heights, I just don't like them, but this, my friends, was like a scene from Temple of Doom when they have to cross that narrow and flimsy rope bridge overlooking a deep chasm below. The only reason I made it across the bridge was because I had to pee really bad. She-Ra on the other hand, completely in tears, made a bee-line to the lobby to try and plead her case for a more non-phobic soliciting room.


(this picture gives the terror no justice but...you get the idea)

After doing my duty and running as fast as I could to avoid hitting a seagull and getting blown off of the catwalk from sturdy ocean breezes, I made it to the lobby where She-Ra was in deep negotiation with the front desk clerk.

“Happens all the time,” he said nonchalant. “This building is kind of weird.”

“Weird?” I said. “The architect is the weird one. Why would anyone design a place that causes panic in people? Who is this maniac?”

The man just shrugged and handed us a room card, one that was right above us and nowhere near those vile gangplanks of death.

The rooms themselves were nothing fancy, but an odd curio of the place is the inclusion of images of thin white people doing activities on the walls in the rooms and elevator. Are they trying to be LA metro? Artsy? It came off as a bad interior design student flaw in a final so after cleaning up we headed out to get that well needed complimentary cocktail.



Included with the room was what was described as a “Welcome Cocktail” in the top floor's bar and bistro. Walking in there, I was immediately struck as a grubby invader of their swank little happy hour soiree. The bartender seemed to disapprove of us as well. No matter though, we handed over a voucher, ordered two vodkas with a Jager back. The ratio to soda and vodka was like 90 to 10 and the Jager shots came in glass thimbles. Just getting the shot to my face was hard enough though. After a harrowing day, heck, a harrowing two months, I seemed to have developed a bit of a shake and I had to handle the small shot glass with both hands to insure it got to my mouth. The trip was off to a rocky start.


(the view from my side of the bed. Ugh...)

That's when She-Ra called her sister to inform them that we just got in and would not make it for dinner. On the other end, I could hear chaos. The kids, staying up long past their bedtimes and not getting a chance to see Auntie Roo (that’s what they call her) and Uncle Mark sent them into a series of shrieks and moans. We felt bad, but, what could we do? So after finishing our “cocktail” we left the Porto Vista to take a well needed calming stroll around Little Italy and the bay.

This part of the trip went right. It was a cool evening, a mellow dining crowd was either over packing one restaurant or completely ignoring another. This was a strange didactic that we really couldn't figure out. We found a good English style pub and had a pint with a sous chef who told us of another “better” bar, a real dive he called it when we made it known we were visiting from Tucson, so after our pints we headed out to find this place.

It wasn't a dive at all. In fact, here in the T-dizzle, it's what we might call a “douchey crap hole”. Sure it had fun stuff on the wall and was kind of dark but the clientele deemed it otherwise. So we quickly downed our drinks and went in search of mixers for the bottle we had packed before we left.

Here's a tip for all you drinkers that want to visit downtown San Diego and enjoy drinks in your room: Come fully prepared! They can't legally sell booze to go for some odd reason the guy at the 7-11 gave us, and mixers are tiny and overpriced. Why I forgot the soda water and 7Up is beyond me, but we made due with what we found and crawled in to call it a day.

The following day we met up with Erin and drove the car out to the base. What might cost us a few hundred dollars out in the real world would only run us a few bucks here. In fact, the original estimate for fixing the brakes was less that $40. Score.

Luckily the kids had a half day so after gathering them up from school, we headed out to Sea World.



Now, I'm not going to bore you with a “We had so much fun at Sea World!” montage of tales (which we did), but here's a few shots of the day with some captions. The only thing missing is the photos and tale of the two kids and myself riding the roaring rapids ride four times in a row. It was that slow at the park and after what we've just been through and what I've been going through, getting absolutely soaking wet and screaming your heads off sounded like a good idea. At the time. It was pretty miserable trying to maneuver throughout the day with clothes that weighed a ton and some indiscreet chafing going on down below.

Enjoy!


Erin, NIck, Natty and Auntie Roo about to get Shamu splashed.


And....spalsh!



These fish beggars were soooo loud!


Yay!


Even our favorite motorcycle video game was there. Alright!


About to get soaked again...


Toward the end of the day Erin received a phone call that garnered some concerned looks on her face. Thinking that it just might be a problem with the current school the kids are in because, well, apparently there's some kind of teacher/student discrepancy and they might have to relocate the two to a more suitable institution. After hanging up, Erin pulled me aside.

“Mark,” she said in a whisper, “I don't want to freak Roo out but....it's about the car.” She-Ra was a good league away from us walking with the kids so I felt our conversation would be privatized.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Well...it's a lot worse than we thought.”

“How worse?”

“Like...two grand worth.”

My jaw dropped. My heart sank. And I felt the pangs of poverty swipe over me.

“Well,” I tried to muster a sentence, “well...what's wrong with it?”

“Everything,” she assured. “It's not only the brakes but you have two cracked axles and a cracked manifold. Literally, your engine is fxxked.”

I didn't know what to say. What could I say? There was nothing to say? I guess I could go into the robbing of convenience stores but after watching a few episodes of Worlds Dumbest, I know I would get pinched and be featured on a future episode.

“Don't worry about it,” Erin said. “I went ahead and authorized the whole thing. We can work something out.”

The rest of the day was spent in relative shock. Back at the hotel room, we were too dazed to sleep so at 1am, we left the room to find the only bar open was that douchey place that sous chef told us about. It had been a long time since we closed a bar. We did whatever we could to ignore the horror of knowing that the trip coming into San Diego could have been met with much more disastrous results. Luckily we would pick up the car tomorrow and head back home. She has to work on Thursday and I had a big phone interview with the Reid Park Zoo at 3pm. At this point, we just wanted to be back home.

That's when things got more tense.

The next day as we were packing up Erin called to say that the car would not be done until Thursday. So we made frantic phone calls to try and get her shift covered and my phone interview redirected to her cell phone. She got her shift covered rather easily and I called all of the zoo contacts I had to be sure they called the cell. Now, all we could do was wait.

That night we played with the kids and picked at our dinner. This “vacation” was turning into an anxious account of ones own ability to embrace what obstacles life gives you and be thankful for the support and love of family.

The only question was, would we ever make it home?

The following day, Thursday, we checked out and waited at Erin's for not only the garage to call but the zoo as well. The garage closed promptly at 6pm and the zoo said they would call at 3. So we waited. And waited. A minute would become and eternity. Erin's phone would ring and we would spring up thinking it was the garage but, it never was. By 2:30pm, we thought that I might have to stay another night and pick it up on Friday and send her home in a rental car. We tried to read our books but our eyes just glanced over the words, making very little sense of what was really going on.

3pm. No phone call. 3:10. Nothing. That's it I thought, I blew the big interview. But at 3:15 She-Ra's cell rang and on the other end was the zoo. At least one thing went right.

I went into the office and sat down. They asked a series of questions and I thought that I had actually nailed it. In reality, I probably sounded like a warbling gibbon set for dumb. I tried to get the words out as best I could but each syllable was a struggle. At the end I thanked them and exited the office.

That's when it hit. I broke down. Now, I am not afraid to say that I cry in movies and have a good amount of estrogen flowing through my system, so in front of She-Ra's sister and her Marine drill instructor husband, I wept. Was it because of my current job situation? Was it because I really wanted to work at the zoo? Was it the fact that I'd have to stay yet another night in San Diego and drive that long drive home alone? Who knows. Point is I let it all out and in the end I felt a little better.

4pm rolls around and Erin's phone rings.

“Oh it is? Oh great. We'll be there soon!”

The car was done! We could go pick it up! We could go home!

Thing is, we had no way to get out there.

Jay had the van and was picking up the kids from school. 4:30 comes. No Jay, no kids. Maybe you should call him She-Ra suggested. When Erin did, apparently Jay was in an impromptu “meeting” with a teacher. The sweat began to pour off of our palms.

Finally around 5:15 (mind you, the garage closes right at 6pm and we still have to navigate the San Diego freeway to get there) Jay arrives with the kids. We don't think, we pile our stuff into the van and crawl in.

“I forgot I have to get a haircut and pick up my uniform for tomorrow,” Jay says. “remember I have that big interview?”

I begin to shake even more now.

Seeing the gravity of the situation, Jay acclimates and just has us drop him off at a barber nearby and he'll walk the kids back home when he's done. We quickly say our goodbyes and speed off onto the highway.

It's 5:30pm on a central Southern California freeway...so guess what we run into? Wall to wall traffic.

Erin is making rapid calls to the garage, giving credit card information as she drives.

“Just hold the car till we get there!,” she instructs. “We're almost there.”

The traffic begins to move, we round the edge of the residential area, we start to see large helicopters, are those barracks? Yes. It's the base and the clock now reads 5:50pm.

We pull into the base, make a quick right turn and, blammo, we see the garage. At first sight we see all of the repair depots locked up for the night but see that the office is still open. In the distance, beyond the gray surface of a well worn parking lot, is our little Chevy Impala.

What started out as a fun retreat had developed into one of the tensest days of my career as a human. What started off as a $36 fix it, turned into a three page, it took the guy a full ten minutes just to ring up all the repair work that had to be done, over $1,500 worth of parts and labor, epic event. And here all we wanted was to go to the beach.

No time for that now.

We then transferred all of our stuff from the van into our car and fueled up on base. When folks in San Diego found out that we here in Tucson still have gas prices in the late $3 rage, everyone was shocked. In California, it's nearly $5. On the base? Back to Tucson prices. Much thanks to the US military for saving our asses...in more ways than one.

We hugged and thanked Erin and then got in the car, which jumped the minute She-Ra hit the accelerator because of the newly installed power, and was soon on the freeway. We were on our way. I never thought I'd miss the dog so much.

The first length of the drive was in relative silence, seeing as we were still in shock and awe about what just happened. But once we got on that flat, long and dreary stretch towards Arizona, She-Ra made a fun suggestion.

“Since we didn't bring any audiobooks and the DVD player is in the trunk, what don't you read your book out loud?”

I was re-reading The Hunger Games seeing as the movie had just come out and I was about 75% of the way through. Seeing as she has already read the entire series three times, I could just pick up where I was and she'd know exactly where I was.

So I grabbed the book, turned on the little rear view mirror light and glanced out into the speeding darkness to find a sign that indicated Tucson was a good 200 miles away. So I tucked in and began reading.

Now, here is the power of reading and reading a good book. What I thought would take a good three hours to get to Tucson, felt as if it'd taken ten minutes. Before I knew it she was turning off into Miracle Mile and heading towards home. I couldn't believe it. I had completely lost track of time. Thank you Suzanne Collins for the awesome words. And thanks of all be to She-Ra for making the suggestion. And, before I knew it, we were turning into the parking lot for Nancy's Pub where our good friend Tank was bartending and a few random pals were scattered about.

We regaled them with our terse fable of what we just went through and shots were being bought all around. Real ones. Not those hoity pen caps they served it up in back at that dumb hotel. Afterward we had to get She-Ra back home and in bed. She had to be up early the next day. While I just had a ton of laundry and praying to do.

A few days later I found out that I did not get the job at the zoo. Well, to be honest with you, I kinda didn't think I would anyway, but I was honored just as much to have the opportunity to even get an interview. So I must be doing something right.

Oh, and the car runs like a dream. It's like we have a new car only...it's the same car. So thank you She-Ra's family for coming through for us. And thank you Tim for taking care of the place and dog while we were gone. We owe you big.

One last thing. We found this downtown near that douchey bar we closed out. Ah, San Diego. It really does mean a “whale's vagina”.





Thanks for reading.

An ode to my cooler!

I was deep in my very early career as a San Francisco resident when I found it. Or rather, it found me. It must have been about late 1995, a good chill swept through the savvy city by the bay, and my good friends and I were pillaging an abandoned basement apartment under an Edwardian flat a sort of friend was renting. Apparently the landlord, who lived in the neither reaches of China, kept the basement settlement as a storage unit for all of her crap. Boxes of financial files, old clothes and documents in both Mandarin and English were everywhere. After consuming much cheap beer and fine herbal weed just delivered from Humboldt, we decided it was a good idea to break in and take a peek.

The area felt haunted, deserted and even a bit sad. Somewhere in the center of all the mess piles and debris, a band had set up camp with a makeshift practice space. Good use of the living room I thought. We left the instruments and worn amplifiers alone and continued our flashlight illuminated search for absolutely nothing in particular.

Scaling through mountains of bankers boxes, heaps of moldy outdated clothes that even the cheekiest of thrift store adviser would turn away due to the reek of 1970's gloom held its pace; I found something that would somehow change my life.

No, let's say, make my life a bit more complete.

It was a cooler. A mid-sized red one, with a white top and an emblazoned Arrowhead Water sticker proudly regaling on the front. It looked new but felt, like much of the other scattered remains of the place, old. Quickly seizing the moment, I snatched the thing up and took it home with me.



Once it made its presence known and accepted, the cooler would be much more than just a container for ice and beer. In my room, in several rented rooms across San Francisco, it would be a chair, a table, a shelf and even a balance beam for a strange act of whoopee I engaged in one night. The cooler now had a memory, one that I could not erase, even if it did have an actual brain.

This cooler, which I gave the nickname “The Red Rider”, not only for its obvious color, would soon be my companion on many trips and excursions. It has seen horrors I dare not mention in Las Vegas, it nearly saved my life one night in Reno, it helped solve mysteries in Tahoe and every time I went to Austin, TX for the big SXSW festival, it would become a therapist, a close friend when I needed one and was a good desk as I typed away my daily adventures on my old Underwood writer.


My cooler survived a house fire. In mid-1999 I was invited to participate in an internet showcase for this new webcam hosting company called Spotlife. Myself and six others lived online, 24 hours a day, surrounded by orbital cameras and streamed whatever we did, even the unthinkable, on the rapidly growing world wide web. It was fun while it lasted, but later that year the house caught fire and nearly everything inside it was destroyed. Except, now here’s the funny part, most of the stuff in my room. I was away the night the place went up, sleeping at my then girlfriend’s apartment. When I got the frantic call early that morning I went over to the house to see that it was gutted and charred. I climbed the smoldered staircase up to my room only to find it was the one space in the house that still had white walls. Apparently with the door and windows closed the fire did not have a chance with such little oxygen, so I packed up my things and moved out.

There, under my fireman soaked poster of the Spice Girls next to my thankfully spared Castle Grayskull, was the cooler. The Red Rider now had magical properties.



That same year I would embark on a journey to some big event I was sent out to cover for a magazine called Burning Man. My cooler, of course, was my brave and earnest companion. That first trip to the playa, that week in 1999 would change me forever. It was really hard to go back to a desk job after having that kind of experience be thrust upon you. I did Burning Man for five years in a row and when I decided that I was finished with it and it was done with me, I sat on the esplanade, drinking ice cold beer, listening to Black Sabbath, on my old lawn chair with my feet resting on the cooler. It was a mighty tribute to a good run and I don’t regret a thing.



The cooler would see several girlfriends come and go, old and close friends get married and move away, and various apartments and roommates across the city. It was with me when I made a valiant attempt to move to Los Angeles and start a new life and would be next to me on that long ride home when my efforts failed. It saw me in the best of times and the worse. My cooler was always by my side. And I couldn’t that it any more than I am now.

In late 2005 my cooler was back at the apartment when three girls from Arizona bellied up to the bar where I worked. One in particular caught my eye. She was cute, chain smoking, heckling the guy playing guitar on the little stage, drinking massive amounts of beer and I knew I was smitten. I confided in my cooler that true love had finally caught up with me and I knew something drastic was about to happen.



In early February of 2006, I pared down my belongings to the bare essentials, throwing the rest of the crap out on Columbus Avenue with a sign that said “Take!” and selling the rest, rented a midsized car, stuffed it with the aforementioned essentials, and drove fourteen hours to get to Tucson, AZ, to get to the one lady I knew I would be with for the rest of my life.

My cooler, obviously, was one of those essentials, along with Castle Grayskull and my fog machine. I’ve been living in Arizona, with my lady She-Ra, for seven years now and the Red Rider continues to amaze me. Sure, it’s a bit worn down and, yes, it’s getting a little older, but my cooler is staying with me to the end. Heck, it’ll probably be the vessel that I keep my ashes in when the day Metal Mark has to split and go onto the next adventure. It’ll keep me safe from being blown around in the winds. Just as much as I saved it, my cooler saved me.

Thank you Red Rider. You my bestest friend…