Thursday, April 7, 2016

Namaste Nepal

My body is still cleansing itself of Nepal. Little did I know that my trip would cause involuntary and voluntary consumption of various foreign properties such as dead Hindus, Nepalese and Indian food, Sherpa moonshine, homemade wine, Kathmandu dust, tea house open fire stove smoke and pollution caused by burning garbage and ridiculous amounts of vehicle exhaust. Not to mention jetlag. The way home consisted of four flights of 23 hours in the air over a 29-hour time period.

I got home Sunday afternoon and promptly slept until the next morning with the exception of intermittent waking up from odd short dreams that left me wondering where the hell I was. I’d only regain semi-consciousness realizing I was at home which confused me because my dream had me spinning a prayer wheel in the mountains or touching a Shiva in Bhaktapur or hiking through a forest of rhododendrons, but really I was on my couch. Weird.

Some people go to Disneyland. Disneyland is for pussies. Nepal is where it’s at. You want a rollercoaster? Go trekking in Nepal. Talk about ups and downs! You know how normal trails like the ones here in the Rockies utilize switchbacks like a wide Z going up the mountain? Well in Nepal, everyone walks everywhere and everyone knows the shortest distance between points A and B is a straight line so the honey badger Nepalese don’t give a shit if that straight line is also straight up! I didn’t realize the mountain hikes would be like climbing the Eiffel Tower. Nepal is really just one giant stair master.

There I was nursing one leg with a torn ligament in my knee and it turned out my good leg was the problem when I cramped up on day two of the trek. My fault for not properly hydrating – it made for a slow ending to the day. It didn’t help that I slipped and used my left hand to maintain my balance at the expense of one of my fingernails after smashing it against the face of a rock. The rock won. At this point I felt worthy only of Disneyland. What a pussy I was! Cramped leg, torn knee, bloody finger, on top of being tired in general. I was pissing myself off.

This all sounds like hell doesn’t it? It wasn’t. In fact, it was quite the opposite. Nepal is beautiful, peaceful, friendly, spiritual, mysterious, exhilarating, breathtaking, inspiring, energizing, curious, hopeful, welcoming and full of majesty. It’s a dichotomy that actually makes it all the more appealing.

The challenges Nepal presents make all of the above positive attributes even more fulfilling. Breathing in the ashes and smoke of burning Hindu bodies is bearable when you learn you are across the river from the most sacred Hindu site in the entire world. And you are watching a ritual that has been going on for thousands of years. And then a posse of Shiva worshipping hippy babas blesses you and takes photos with you and you wonder if this is all just a fucked up Wes Anderson directed dream.

The hardships of Nepal are easy to overcome when you find yourself invited in the home of a Sherpa (and by home I mean a structure made of wood, plastic and tarps that reminds me of the forts my kids make in the basement out of blankets and random furniture) and you are chasing tea with the local hooch called washa (whiskey) or rakshi (wine) that you just watched the woman of the house make on the dirt floor of the abode. Am I dreaming again? You pinch yourself and wonder if this is all just some Coen Brothers movie.

And then you are hiking with the Himalayas towering in the far away distance and you come across a monastery that is in itself a colorful display of art that houses a real lama like the Dalai kind rather than the Napoleon Dynamite kind and you get your picture taken with the lama and then you go back outside to rolling hills and ragged peaks so you slap yourself in the face to make sure you didn’t just stumble on to the set of The Sound of Music. Nepal is indeed a dream. A beautiful dream that came to life for me.

This is just a taste of my trip to Nepal. Flavored with a little dead Hindu. I have so many stories in my head, words in my journal and pictures on my phone. 

It may take awhile to figure out how to best tell it all in a worthy way. I really got a nice dose of the country with my city tours and mountain treks. And yet time and distance wise, I really only got a sliver of Nepal. But it was enough to show me a unique land and culture that holds some sort of magical spell. A magical spell that throws a harshness over you immediately followed by a beauty that is both physical and spiritual.

As I stood on top of Pikey Peak just after sunrise, with a tiny view of Everest and a huge view of the Himalayas, I thrust my arms into the air and gave out a yell of exhilaration. 

I thought about the people I love and how wonderful a life I am fortunate to have and I gave out another warrior yell to the Himalayas. And I thanked them for having me. Physically and spiritually. It was an honor to be there. And it made me realize it is an honor to be here, right now. Take nothing for granted. Love and be loved.


Monday, February 15, 2016


A lot of stuff flies around the internet. Once in awhile something outstanding pops on my screen. Like the Crazy Hot Girl Matrix (search it on YouTube –I’m too lazy to link it) or anything with bacon in it or goats in trees or any Rumi quote. All great and they make me smile. 

This made the rounds recently and I love it. Unfuckwithable.

I’m trying to be unfuckwithable. I guess I’m not completely there yet. Drama and negativity don’t touch me nor do I worry about what others say or do; so I’m good there. I think I have some work to do on being truly at peace and in touch with myself (I don’t think its referring to masturbation or I’d be golden!).  I have friends that I admire for their unfuckwithableness. They are some of the most creative, happy and beautiful (inside and out) people I know.  

I’ve felt unfuckwithable at times of deeper connection with the universe. Like when a tiny airplane dropped me and a friend off on a gravel bar along an Alaskan river in the Arctic Circle and then took off without us. I’ve felt unfuckwithable at Burning Man, surrounded by other unfuckwithable people. But it’s not always at a big event where I feel more connected to the universe and in turn feeling at peace and in touch with myself.

It happens when I’m playing basketball and actually not thinking of anything else. Just playing the game. It happens when I’m laying on the trampoline with my boys at night; our respective heads on the cushioned edge watching stars and talking about nonsense. It has happened while watching live music. The music fills my heart and I get lost in my mind.

I think best of all, sometimes I feel unfuckwithable throughout the routine of the day. Like I said, I feel like I’m close to always there. But not close enough.

I’m excited to be going to Nepal next month. The heart of the trip is five days of trekking seven or eight hours a day throughout a region south of Everest consisting of paths less traveled by visitors. It will be just me and a guide. I don’t want to be a tourist, but rather a traveler (thanks Fedler for putting it that way – its perfect).

Now that my itinerary is set, I’m not researching much about where I’m going. I want to experience it first hand with as little preconceived notions as possible. I will take pictures while being careful not to spend too much time looking through a camera. I will bring empty journals to be filled along the way, being careful not to have my head down too much putting pen to paper.

I will bring an open mind, a sense of adventure, a big heart and a wandering soul. And toilet paper. I don’t want to get caught without TP. Why am I going to Nepal you ask? Because I am unfuckwithable and it feels really fucking right.

Saturday, November 28, 2015

Using the Grandpa

We had a good week in Florida with my parents. My boys didn’t fight too much, nor did my parents. All four troublemakers were relatively well behaved which enabled me to relax and enjoy my sandwich generations interacting.

We rented a condo in Orlando so we could hit Universal Studios and Adventure Island primarily to do the new Harry Potter area. We spent two days in theme park hell, but made the best of it by getting along well and taking advantage of an unexpected secret weapon.

The lines were really long. Sixty to ninety minutes for everything good. Our plan was to beeline over to the new Harry Potter stuff at Universal and do the ride first thing. My dad is nearly 87 and doesn’t move very well unless there is a maple glazed donut involved so instead of putting one on a stick and holding it in front of him, we rented the old man a wheelchair. 

It was kind of fun to aggressively push my dad around all day. I wrote that on purpose. It pleases me to read it out of context. So yeah pushing him around in the wheelchair you sicko! Anytime there was a slight decline I’d shove him off on a ghost ride and the kids and I would run along side laughing our respective asses off. My dad would wave his cane around and threaten to smack us if someone didn’t get back behind the chair.

Sometimes my dad would want to stretch his legs and use the wheelchair as his walker. At which point Drew, Will and I would race to sit in the chair making my dad have to work a bit harder and my mom, well she was just shit out of luck. She’s a spry 82!

 My dad was still in the chair as we approached the Escape from Gringots ride. We didn’t see the end of the line so we plowed forward, weaving around empty cordons and a maze of people movers thinking we had gotten there early enough to beat the first crowd. We turned a corner and bam. It was like a refugee camp. People were mooing. It was horrible. We saw a Harry Potter worker dude and asked him how long the line would take. 90 to 120 minutes. I think the kids even wanted to say, “what the fuck!” but instead I said, “waffles,” and asked him if there was an escape route.

Nope, we had to backtrack against traffic though the maze and found out quickly that oncoming people really don’t give a shit about an old lady walking, two young kids and a handsome man pushing an old man in a wheelchair right at them. It was a game of chicken and they won. They were all honey badgers. I wanted to take the lead and just start plowing them over with my dad using his cane like a lance to joust their asses out of the maze. But I’m a lover, not a fighter so we worked our way out of theme park line purgatory cautiously and finally got to the entrance of the ride again. The kids were disappointed, my mom looked exhausted and my dad was making Zorro sword slashes with his cane from the comfort of his wheelchair.

I stopped my posse to regroup and a young Harry Potter worker ran up to our family meeting and asked if we got to go on the ride.  I said, “Are you fucking kidding me? That goddamn line was scarier than Lord Voldemort (a crowd around us recoiled) in the Walmart line on Black Friday!” Or maybe I said, “No we did not;” I can’t remember and I hadn’t even had any butter beer yet (Oh my god, Drew loves butter beer. He was licking the insides of our cups after we were done with them. I’m still having nightmares of his thick pulsing tongue swirling around the plastic rims and sides of all our cups like a slobbering St. Bernard after a long run in the Mojave).

The nice Harry Potter worker said, “Come with me.” So I u-turned Sir Lancelot and my mom and offspring followed as the woman took us to the Xpress line and told us to tell the next two workers Keisha sent us. It was magical. We got all the way to the ride boarding area in five minutes. My dilapidated dad was from there on deemed Fast Pass Grandpa. We had so much fun (the ride is great, by the way).

For the rest of the day and the next day too, anytime we got close to a ride, my dad would take on a sad decrepit look and I’d wheel him to the guard of the Fast Pass Lane and with big stressed eyes I’d ask if I’d be able to wheel my old dying poor father from the nursing home all the way to the ride area. The answer was always yes because they make all the rides handicapped friendly and if there are stairs, there are alternative routes to elevators that also act as major line skippers. Then we’d look longingly at the Fast Pass line with the chain pulled taut blocking the entrance and then look at the guard and then at the chain and then at the guard and then at the chain and then at the guard and my dad would moan a little bit and I’d make my left eye swell up and fill with the beginning of tears and the guard would say, “Here, go through the express lane.  Tell them I sent you.”

It worked every time but once and that was only because the regular line was really short. Fast Pass Grandpa was a godsend. I don’t even know what a Fast Pass costs for five people for two days, but I think its over eleventeen bajillion golden galleons. I told Grandpa he is a human goldmine and that he should rent himself out to weary travelers with big families.

There is a lot more to write about the week, such as spending quality time with loved ones, being thankful for all that we have and other such nonsense when compared to taking advantage of the elderly disabled. But I’ll save that for another story. Today, its all about Fast Pass Grandpa.

Thank you Fast Pass Grandpa for getting us through all the lines in record time and then having to actually go on the rides, some of which jostled me around so much I was fearing for his life instead of enjoying the whole ride, but hey, my kids had a blast.

Read all the tips and advice you want on attending theme parks. But you are really wasting your time. All you need to know is to get a wheelchair and shove a grandpa in it; any grandpa will do; and enjoy your day.

Wednesday, November 4, 2015

Getting Lost in Myself

“So much time and so little to do. Wait a minute. Strike that. Reverse it.” When there are a gazillion thoughts swimming madly in my brain and I feel like writing some of them down but don’t know where to start, it is foolproof to pull a Willy Wonka quote. Writer’s block schmriter’s block.

If you don’t know who Jason Silva is, change that immediately. Stop reading my nonsense and go watch his narratives. You can find him here and then scroll down to his videos of awe and click on one. You will be taken to YouTube and have two minutes of inspiration and reflection and wonder and curiosity and affirmation and enlightenment and questions and smiles and perhaps even tears of knowing. Then click on some others.

Existential Bummer and Creativity is Madness are two of my favorites. The Existential Bummer reminds me of Burning Man – everything is temporary. Jason Silva’s overview included so much I can relate to, particularly his quote of Dylan Thomas’ famous poem containing the words that are my next tattoo, “Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

Creativity is Madness quotes Timothy Leary to say, “In order to use your head you have to go out of your mind.” And then there is Silva’s video titled Non Conformity and the Creative Life that quotes Nietzsche with, “Those who were seen dancing were called insane by those who could not hear the music.”

Most of my crazy mad people know the Kerouac quote from On the Road.

Everyone is a little bit crazy aren’t they? They are just afraid to let it out. Let out the madness and share who you are and what is in your brilliant mad mind.

Whether it is writing, music, painting, narratives, building, acting, making up games with my kids or whatever – using my mind, heart and soul to deliver creativity is what excites me and keeps me inspired and drives me to places of bliss. Heck, I don’t even have to be making the delivery. I can seek out creativity or have it fall in my lap and experience someone else’s magic and be moved to that bliss and inspiration.

Another favorite Silva for me is We Need to be Lost to Find Ourselves. I love this one. We are victims of our own mental habits. We get into routines and mind mapping makes us numb to everything around us. And yet we are all wanderers. I think we just forget to wander. Must be why I travel so much.

I am totally the wanderer Silva references in his video. He is right – it isn’t the answers that are important – it is the better questions that are inspiring and enlightening. It’s about the journey, not the destination, right? In his video he talks about the ocean and it makes me tear up – I have waves inked on my arm for eternity (along with the moon and my children and my soul – it’s a significant tattoo!) as symbols for my quest for meaningful happiness.

What do you do when you first peek over the edge of the cliff and see the ocean of awe lapping at the shore and extending to the infinite possibilities beyond the horizon? You breathe. Hopefully anyway. You stare over the water into the universe and remove everything else from your brain for just a second and you breathe. Silva points out the Greek root of the word ‘inspire’ is to breathe.

All of this is why I have an awe-inspiring work of art on my wall that I bought in New Orleans at Jazz Fest by a Georgian artist named Athlone Clarke. The universal Law of Magnetic Attraction states that we attract into our lives people, things and circumstances that correspond with our dominant patterns of emotional thinking. My brother from another mother Rich and I were walking from one inspiring stage of music to another when we were drawn into Athlone Clarke’s stall of creative greatness. The piece I now have in my house is about creativity. 

We talked to Athlone about the artwork behind us for over an hour. Creativity is art and its good for the soul. I could not NOT have this in my house. It was meant to be. And it was meant to be that I found it with Rich while traveling. Two wandering souls perhaps a little lost in order to find ourselves.

I’m known to be a happy guy with a great life. And that is all true. But it doesn’t mean I don’t have challenges, sadness and uncertainty that instead of embracing I fear. Sometimes my happy go lucky attitude masks these tough times with complacency. I do nothing but the routine and I find myself in loveless relationships, bouts of physical inactivity and lacking desire to tap into my creative self. Blah. I don’t like that Bretthead at all.

I bounce back though. I focus on people I already love and do things I love to do. I exercise. I write. I travel. I smother my kids even as they yell at me to back off. Maybe it takes watching inspiring videos, a work of art on a wall or seeing awesome things that someone I love makes in her spare time.

Even though I know what it takes to find inspiration, I don’t always do it. That is why I really like what Jason Silva says about finding awe and the feeling that you have when you are in it. It has given me a kick in the pants that I needed. It made me think of some of my moments of awe and in turn I have been inspired.

I want more. I want to feed my heart and soul with moments of awe like when Will first performed on stage at his new school. Like being dropped off by a rickety airplane deep in the Arctic Circle to fend for ourselves in Alaska. Like the first time I went to Burning Man and saw, well, everything. Like hiking in the river up the Narrows in Zion. Like watching shooting stars with my best friends while camping at 11,000 feet in the Rocky Mountains. Like discovering a new friend that changes my life for the better. Like watching my boys interact and fall into unbridled laughter. Like giving something meaningful to a loved one. Like watching Buddy Guy jam on the guitar and singing the blues with more passion than musicians a quarter his age. Like writing the perfect words. Like not having to say anything when you are with someone in a beautiful place. Like getting lost in my mind, lost in my mind (twice seems right).

I can still be present and live in the moment while wanting more awe and seeking it out. Sometimes the awe is right there in front of me and I plan on taking it. Other times I will go to it. And many times it will surprise me and come out of the blue. Because I am open to it by not being complacent and not letting mental mapping keep me in the routine.

I must be me and sometimes even I forget how to do that.

Monday, July 27, 2015

A Dangerous Stroll in Central America

We naively didn’t care that we were in the sixth most violent country in the world. We are adventurers. We walked cautiously along the deserted strip of uninhabited homes and empty lots, littered with garbage and untended foliage. We weren’t wearing shoes. Hence the caution. It was hot. Hence the decision to walk in the back door of a seedy dive bar. The locals eyed us curiously, wondering where the hell we came from and how soon until we’d vacate their territory.

We downed our drinks from dirty glasses and moved on, watching our backs.  We ended up at another bar, this one nicer but very small – just eight stools and a few unoccupied tables. We met two locals there; one of them covered in menacing tattoos and wearing what looked like a gang symbol on his hat.

The next thing we knew, we were locked in the back seat of their truck and brought over to their duplex in the outskirts of the village. Their dogs barked furiously at us and we were warned to stay away from the vicious one that will bite at any time. These locals held us there until a guy named Chino was ready to see us.

Chino immediately asked us for our money. We handed over what we had and waited to see what would happen next. The local guy with the ink and gang hat held a grappling hook in front of us with a wicked smile. Chino approved and said it wasn’t as good a weapon as his but that it would do for the grisly task at hand.

The next thing we knew, we were herded onto a small speedboat and eventually docked at a private island inhabited by an associate of Chinos and his three wild dogs, one of which was covered in fresh battle wounds.

We sat there looking around us, wondering how we got to where we were.  It was crazy.  Crazy awesome.

We were in Belize. The we is me and one of my favorite people in the world.

We had been walking along the coast on Maya Beach, about ten miles north of Placencia, a sleepy village anchoring the peninsula. This is a quiet part of the coastal country and not many people were around (it was also kind of off-season for tourists). The first bar (Mango’s) was indeed a dive but had a fantastic view of the Caribbean Sea.

The next bar was actually the next day, but I like to make writer’s embellishments to add color and interest to stories. And although it was indeed small, it was a pretty swanky sweet place – a tiki bar on the beach (Turtle Inn owned by Francis Ford Coppola).

It was at the nice bar where we met Rick and Candy. They had just moved to Placencia a few weeks earlier. Rick has a bunch of cool tattoos and was wearing an Oakland Raiders visor.  They were raving about a great snorkeling trip they had taken with their next door neighbor Francis (no relation to Coppola) who prefers to go by the name Chino.

So the next day, Rick picked us up from the Maya Beach Hotel (this is a whole other story – awesome hotel and restaurant owned by great friends) and brought us back to his sweet little pad that is right on the beach in Placencia. Candy greeted us and they gave us a tour of the house while their tiny little lap dogs yapped and hopped around us.

Chino pulled up in his boat right on the beach in front of Rick and Candy’s and we went snorkeling around two awesome reefs in water clear as day. While we snorkeled, Chino was spearfishing and caught a bunch of lobster, crab, a hogfish and a barracuda.  Rick was able to use his newly homemade grappling hook to nab a crab as well.

We then went to a private island where Chino cleaned the fish and cooked it all in one tin over charcoal for about twenty minutes. And then we feasted.  It was heaven.

As we filled our bellies with lobster, crab and fish that had been swimming in the sea less than an hour earlier, we looked around us and wondered how the heck we got to where we were. Who is this Chino dude with his mad spearfishing abilities and great snorkeling tour? How lucky are we to have met Rick and Candy on our random beach walk along the coast (keep the spare room ready for us!)?

It was crazy awesome to be in the sixth most violent country in the world and being captured by the locals. We will be back.