The bourgeoisie have the right idea.  I type to you today from the 7^th story fine dining facility of the Rockefeller Hotel and Club located just steps away from Rockefeller center in NYC.  Around me the suits are having power meetings, pounding away on their laptops/blackberry, and trying desperately to stay (or at least look) busy.  There’s a bar with enough booze to intoxicate the Russian army, the walls are lined with art that looks as if it was pumped out by a team of charcoal briquette wielding 4 year olds, and a very out of place “FIRST AID FOR CHOKING” poster dutifully informs while throwing off the motif entirely.

I am trying to look productive while gumming up my keyboard with raspberry sorbet, attempting the same feat of the “busy look” that these business chaps have got down solid.  I thought about ordering a Martini, to add to the aesthetic, but I relented on account of: (a) I’ve been wearing the same pants for close to two weeks (b) everything else has been hand washed in the Artesian Spring water that emerges from my hotel shower head and (c) James Bond wouldn’t sip a martini looking slovenly, and neither will I.

How I ended up here, amongst the crystal chandeliers and the business people who insure them is quite a story in itself.

You see—I picked up the phone last week and on the other end was Rob—the one eyed film maker whose Toronto based guest bedroom had served as both my laboratory and sleeping quarters for over two months.  I built him a prototype bionic eye.  Sound familiar? The Eyeborg Project? Google around for it.

He got straight to the point: “We’re going on The Today Show, don’t fuck it up.” As I was in Boston trying (unsuccessfully) to hitch a ride back to Montreal, I wasn’t really concerned if I found myself a few hundred miles to the south– especially if it meant free food and a place to crash.

Part II

The beauty of the airport is that they prep vacationers for the coming relaxation: “Please, take off your shoes, loosen your belt, and take out your most refreshing drink for a last sip—we’ll take care of disposing it for you.”  If you seem a little too stressed and not ready for the flight, the friendly bullet-proof-vest and gun toting security guards will happily administer a full body massage while quizzing you up about any hobby in fire-arms or drug trafficking you might have.  Truly a joy.

After I departed the plane, Serge the Russian driver who had (surprisingly) never been to Moscow was waiting for me with a cute little sign .  I made him pose for a picture because I’m rude like that.   Has anyone noticed how huge the inside of Lincolns are?  Incredible.

After checking into the hotel my phone rang.  Frantically Rob informed: “I’m at a jewelry store.  They have wax but it’s not that sticky.  Do you think we could melt it?”  I had given Rob a list of things he needed to purchase for the show.  We had planned to reveal the glowing LED eye on national television.  Wax was used to seal the two halves of the prosthetic eye before it was inserted into the eye socket.  Without the wax the eye would just fall apart.

Of course melting wax wasn’t going to solve much of anything.  We discussed using bubblegum.  It seemed feasible.

Rob showed up at my hotel room a few minutes later. I hadn’t seen him in over three months; we had a mini re-union that involved some high-fiving and a lot of hollering.  Rob had brought all the equipment I needed and the hotel room laboratory was setup in less than fifteen minutes.  I got to work charging the small batteries that powered the LED Eye. Rob called room service and ordered up a beer.

We made a quick run to RadioShack and proceeded to buy everything we didn’t need and completely forget the alligator clips we had gone to buy in the first place.  The phone rang and in complete dead-pan Dianne, the producer for “The Today Show,” informed: “You’re off the show. We thought you were bringing a working camera eye.” Of course we didn’t have the eye… That’s for the Eyeborg television show, not for 8AM morning news.

“Sushi?” Rob proposed.  Sushi sounded good.  “The Today Show” was covering our costs still, so why not sushi. After months of bread, cheese, and fruit– sushi sounded amazing. Rob and I were bummed, but hey—we were in NYC and we were going to make the best of it.  We chatted about visiting ground zero, how we were going to abuse room service, and how hard we planned on partying that evening now that we didn’t have to wake up at five in the morning.  As we ordered some unagi rolls the phone rang for the second time. I heard a lot of “Okay. Okay.” From Rob. “You’re going to hate me.” He said as he hung up.  “They’re cutting the interview down by five minutes and you’re getting kicked. Sorry dude.”

Part III

The funny thing about me and the glitz and glamoor that comes with television is that I really am out of the loop.  I couldn’t tell you who the hosts of “The Today Show” are, I couldn’t tell you why the crowd outside cheered when the weather guy came out to dutifully inform that “yes it is raining.”, and my response to Rob’s inquiry of “You know that was Howard Dean. Right?” after I shook some man’s hand rather casually was: “So that’s what Howard Dean looks like.”

I setup shop next to the flamboyant hair/makeup “especialist” Jim and tip toed my way around pumps, jewelry, and the unsuspecting rock star. Next to Jims fabulous hair dryer and gigantic curling iron I delicately laid my soldering iron.   Between the brushes, hair clips, and foundation I squeezed my variable power supply.  Jim questioned each object with enthusiasm.  “Is that for the video? Will that burn this place down? Is that safe?” While Jim flattened, crimped, and sizzled the locks of many—I delicately soldered together an LED eye.  We were brothers in the use of heat.

Producers flittered about, talent wandered, the security guard munched a donut and watched TV.  I charged the LED Eye’s battery and asked the stylists what kind of haircut I should get.  Rob quietly panicked and barked out orders at random that I more or less ignored or nodded to.

Rob went live and I was relegated to the green room.  Minutes before, I had sealed up the LED eye with wax and handed it to Rob.  He gingerly placed it in his socket and it flickered to life between blinks.  The mildly to severely obese mid-western family who was becoming “made over” cooed at Rob.  Rob said something super-hero-esque like “Eyeborg Away” and went live on national television.

“That’s amazing!” the fatsos announced as Rob removed his black pirate eye-patch and dazzled the world with a shiny LED Eye.

The phone started ringing when Rob walked off the set.  It was always the case when something big happened in the press.  When Reuters and the AP broke the story of Eyeborg I was literally doing an interview an hour for a week.   This time it was Rob’s sister, congratulating him on his nationally televised success.

Outside the crowd who had been waiting for the weatherman to come out and do some kind of anti-rain dance clapped and cheered when they saw Rob with his glowing LED eye.  The flashbulbs lit up our faces and Rob was asked to pose with the children of star struck parents.

I called the hotel staff “Can I checkout after 3pm? I’m with The Today Show.”  And promptly went to bed and slept and slept and slept.

His gray hair exploded from his scalp, his face was red with anger, his movements were shaky but fast. He deliberately stepped in front of a biker who was casually riding down the sidewalk and directed him to the street, where he belonged. He took cardboard boxes lying in the gutter and viciously tore them into small pieces. He pulled a wheeled trash can from a corner hideaway and drew a red jacket from within it. He put it on and packed away the cardboard. He screamed at the patrons of a small coffee shop. They dared not pay attention to him, they merely kept on eating as if he didn’t exist. Inconsequential. Grabbing half full plates from empty tables he tossed the contents into the street. He waved the plates threateningly at the considerably uncomfortable clientele.

He went and picked up the food bits, put them in his trash can, and called the police from a cell phone.

Pacing frantically in the middle of the street he stopped traffic, then directed it around him. He pulled a silver gate from behind a wall and cordoned off an alleyway. A small car pulled up to be let in– and was abruptly directed in the opposite direction by waving hands, cussing lips, and a lot of jumping. The driver didn’t argue. He backed up and zoomed off.

I guess it was his alleyway, if he didn’t feel like having guests that was his prerogative. He slept on a palette in the doorway of an industrial building. It was his home. Late at night I would ride my bike past him, with my bike lights blazing, he snored away under dirty sheets and the moth speckled glow of a hanging light.

My friend and I played guitar from our second story perch and watched him storm about. I strummed, my companion plucked, both mildly entertained. We sat lazily wondering and watching.

Back across the street to the cafe he dashed with his trashcan. He pulled a dresser from behind the restaurant and rolled it out to the street. He reached deep into his trashcan and pulled out a tarp, placed the dresser on top of it, and proceeded to stomp the dresser to pieces. He pointed to the restaurant patrons, and yelled things that we couldn’t make out. He cussed at the cars zooming by as he threw shards of wood into traffic.

He marched back into the middle of the street and picked up everything he’d thrown. He put them into his trashcan. Blocking traffic the whole time.

While he made his way to the other side of the street the police arrived below our perch. He ran to them, and then to our bikes under the stairs, then back to the officers, then back to our bikes. “Hey! Those are our bikes!” we yelled.

To which he yelled back “J’ai trouvé la clé!” He had found our key.

We scrambled down the stairs, and he showed off a silver key. “Someone could have stolen your bike, you idiots.” we blinked at him, not fully understanding what he meant. “Here. Take it.” His dirty cracked hands thrust the key towards me. He turned to the police officer, “I found this on a bench.” he pulled out a cell phone from his pocket. “Faire quelque chose.” he paused “Do something with it!”

A truck zoomed by, the sun beat down hard on all of us, and we all just stared for a moment at the mad man. “Appreciate the things you have, because you’ll miss them when you don’t have them anymore” he said. He stormed off, and that was the end of it.

In quick succession it went like this: Woke up (early), made a single phone call (to a friend), and was dutifully informed “You have ten minutes to show up on St. Laurent and Mont Royal Street. We’ll pick you up; we’ll take you to Boston.”

And so the race was on. The bus schedule had already been memorized—from Boston to NY departure at 11 PM—Chinatown, arrival at 2 AM—Chinatown. Socks, shirts, two bananas, a grapefruit, a passport, and some electronics—haphazardly packed in 3 minutes.

I hadn’t brushed my teeth yet, they felt fuzzy. “We’re running late, we lost the car” my ride said. Into the corner restaurant with toothbrush in hand I rushed, and brushed. Then another call: “we’re lost.” I scampered through a bike race, traffic lights, over green grass, under hanging festival banners, and into the back seat of a 2001 Kia Sophia.

Racing across borders: “STOP STOP STOP! I HAVE TO GET MY PASSPORT STAMPED!” The fear of being denied entry to Canada, a place that I had called home for the last 4 months, was a big one. But an even greater fear: Where was I going to sleep?

The interesting thing about having irreverence for the “sensible thing to do” (said sternly, as dad would say) is that it allows the spirit of adventure run uninhibited– like a drunk girl on spring break. I had no hotel plans, no hostels, and no friends: Just a few couchsurfing requests that had gone unanswered. (couchsurfing.com being the finest method of finding unreliable yet free housing) I secretly hoped that my phone might ring somewhere along the 8 hour journey.

To say that I was stressed is a bit of an understatement. Because the phone did in fact ring and it was a man with an offer: “You can stay in my apartment.” He said meekly. As if he wasn’t quite sure what he was getting himself into. You can’t exactly blame him. I was a complete stranger—who knows what kind of torturous/murderous/raperous behavior I was capable of. But I could say the same for him couldn’t I?

The 47 year old man on the phone named Ferenz was not at the apartment, nor would he be until Wednesday. “Pick up the key from the organic food store down the street.” He instructed. …and I pondered aloud “are they open at 2 am?” A moment of silence… “Call them. Good luck.”

Katie picked up the phone on the second ring. “Organic Avenue how can I help you?”

“Hi Katie, have you heard of a man named Ferenz? I’m his friend visiting from Montreal. He says you have a certain key of his.”

“Yes.” She replied.

And I thought to myself about how neat it would be to get a job at the CIA. Surely spies get to make calls like this to complete strangers. So with the eloquence of James Bond I instructed:

“Katie, could you please put the key outside. I will be arriving well after you close.”

“Sure! It will be buried in the flower pot on the right hand side of our store. I’ll put a stick there.”

“Thank you Katie.”

We hung up. The mission was underway.

I waved off the dudes who had just ended a weekend of partying in Montreal, boarded the Boston subway to downtown, and took a deep breath. I hadn’t felt like I’d been at home in months—after all I’ve been away from Los Angeles for over 4 months. But something about the smell of the green line subway car—it smelled very familiar, and it made me smile wide. It had been almost six months since I’d been in Boston last.

The stations slipped by till Chinatown, the lumbering bus appeared, and I disappeared into the night on my way to New York City.

121 Norfolk Street is a place where you will find a warm bed, a shower, and faux Jackson Pollock paintings that hang from floor to ceiling. Two beds—one big and uncomfortable, and one small and comfortable line the sides of two distinct rooms separated by a tan curtain. There’s a kitchen with friendly cockroaches, and a bathroom with 4 colored light bulbs above the sink.

Note: You need to twist the light you intend to use. There is no light switch.

All of that good-home-feel can be yours for the small price of finding your way through the densly packed streets that make up New York City. The beauty of this urban metropolis is that you can get off a bus in the middle of the night—with the only geographical understanding of “I’m in new York city” and still manage to find a guide to take you to your destination

A mother Teresa of a woman escorted me to the organic food store where the keys were recovered. I was dropped off with a wave, “goodluck”, and a goodbye at my new front porch.

Part II
I checked all of my appendages first—just to see if they were still attached and hadn’t been hacked off in my sleep. Then I felt around the bed to ensure I was still alone and hadn’t been joined by some sex crazed maniac. All was well… In fact it was downright peaceful. The gentle hum of traffic reverberated outside the window, a sunray glistened through the window. The faux Jackson Pollock splattered-spaghetti-art sat idly as if waiting for someone with a fork to come by and munch on the jumbled paint strands.

Showered, shaved, and dressed to the nines—I walked outside, into the rush.

Walking in New York City is more of an elaborate dance—the dodging of cabs, the shoulder to shoulder tango, the slow shuffle. We all sheepishly move into and out of traffic, around construction sites, and into the underground to make our way to wherever we’re going. We don’t interact because there are too many of us. Our eyes don’t meet because, really, who has the time. We just walk—as quickly as possible.

I did have a purpose for being in NYC. I wasn’t doing this scramble for nothing! The looming UN building was calling. A conference put on by the UN and the XPrize was underway and I was to volunteer there; with the CEO’s, fat cats, and innovative elite.

Normally I would bore you with the gooey details of the opening ceremonies of such a lavish event. The patrons had each paid $1,800 just to be there—to be bemused by numerous speakers from numerous industries. There was so much to absorb!

But to be perfectly honest I was pleasantly distracted by blue eyed, blonde haired, UN Intern from Germany. She wore the most pleasantly distracting power dress that made her look like she was either ready to serve coffee or address the president—I couldn’t decide.

I sat next to her, pulled out my notebook and composed a little something: “The second guy on the left—the old one (well I guess they are all old), do you think he’s sleeping? He looks like he’s sleeping.”
She responded with a resounding “YES!!” and instantly we became short distance pen pals.

Un-inhibited romance that involved casual sex on the 60’s era furnishings of the UN conference halls, spitting off the roof into the East River, and copious amounts of both inappropriate and appropriate touching in public spaces would all have been lovely things to do. But I’m not that lucky . I think once the words “I’m sleeping on some guys couch in The Village” graced the page of our notebook, and we broached the conversation of “no, I have never met him, but he seemed nice on the internet.” she had officially lost interest. My heart will go on…

After the first day of conferencing I found myself sipping cocktails on the UN’s observation deck, chatting up Dean Kamen (the guy who invented the segway), X Prize Officials, and other startling individuals. The East River slowly bubbled by, tuxedo clad hors devours distributors kept interrupting my conversations, and I thought to myself “Whenever I get around to writing this part of the adventure, it won’t have a plot in the least.”

And so it was.

Part III
I’m a very off-putting individual. I blatantly, with unabashed candor, inquire to almost complete strangers “Would you happen to know where the subway is?” or “What’s an interesting thing that the locals do in this city? What’s going on this evening?” The look of “are you seriously talking to me? How DARE you talk to me.” is understandably well deserved. So after three straight days of social failure I had concluded: I must smell bad. I met the people, they heard me out, but they were not having any of this “let’s be friends stranger!” cheery gleefulness that I have this tendency to exude. Save for the drunk people, the drunk New Yorkers can’t smell.

And they received me with open arms.

A man with quite possibly the greatest laugh in the world was cracking up in the middle of the street. His girlfriend was looking at him quizzically, and because my curiosity is never ending I asked “What’s so funny?”

I never found out why, but all of a sudden I was being dragged across the city, cordially offered drinks, and as I mentally pondered the eternal question of “does this free drink taste roofied?” I was rudely interrupted:

She walked up to me with intention. A bit frazzled, a drunken eye droop, high heels that by now had turned from sexy to painful—she blinked once. Pause. Blink. Pause.

“Hi!” She said.

“Before we go any further. Where can we dance?” I answered.

Into the night we went. From club, to club, to club, to club. Drinking, smiling, laughing. Dancing close, dancing far, dancing in between. When it started pouring we got soaked, and when we found a new place to dance we steamed. We didn’t even know each other’s name. We didn’t care! Social acumen is only necessary in places where you can actually hear each other.

“So you’re running a youth hostel now?” her friends inquired the next day as we arrived on the 6th story of Picassos apartment. I say Picasso’s apartment because the place was quite literally covered from wall to ceiling with Picasso inspired art. Cubism in the living room, blue period above the bathroom sink, bits of surrealism on the rooftop patio. And everywhere else was failed attempts and paint splatter.

“He’s sleeping on a strangers couch!” she replied. The irony that we didn’t know each others name until the next morning escaping her completely. I still don’t understand why everyone thinks couchsurfing is the worst thing ever…

“Watch where you sit, I’ve sacrificed many skirts in the name of his art.” Him being Steve, a self absorbed parent funded artist who swore that he was “going to take the art world by storm!” We were going to see him on the news. He was going to be in galleries all over the world. He was the future!

We cooked a dinner of soft shell crab, ceviche, and I donated my usual dietary staple of bread and cheese as an appetizer . The landlord dropped in for a visit to chew out her tenants. Apparently the first time she saw that her beautiful apartment had been turned from a domicile to a studio she broke down in tears. Now she was simply resolved to evict Steve. He had informed her a week prior “your apartment will be worth millions now that I’ve lived in it. I just sold a painting for $50,000.” He’s sold one piece of art to a friend for $50. He was known for dropping off art pieces in front of galleries with desperate notes taped to the front. “This is the future of art. –Steven” …A landlords worst nightmare.

I laid out on the fire escape with my cheeks to the sky. The traffic below me screeched and honked, the people busily went about their business—avoiding eye contact at all costs. The clouds couldn’t decide if they wanted to rain or part for the sun, the pigeons soared between skyscrapers. I pondered about what my next adventure might look like, fully knowing that the unpredictable nature of these sorts of things is what I embrace the most.

Oh… the thrills of travelling.

(By: Charlie Bucket) | (Music by: Ratatat!)

I grew up inside of a shoe. I know this may sound like the premise for a fairytale– but rest assured. This particular shoe had electricity, running water, a cockroach problem, and most importantly a walk up window from which we served donuts and coffee to hungry patrons.

“My little donut-boy, it’s time to wake up.” My mother would whisper into my ear early every morning. She would hand me my toothbrush and say “Smile, I hear today is your lucky day.”

The methodical churning of butter, sugar, flour and sometimes the stray cockroach—it wasn’t exactly what I would consider a lucky day nor was it much of a memorable childhood at that. But it wasn’t that bad, I can think of worse things– like working at Starbucks.

It was an accident really, this idea, “The Donut Hole.” I was in love with a girl. I assure you, it was really quite tragic. She was red haired, blue eyed, and was always yelling on about something. She would come in singing opera, and leave singing The Star Spangled Banner. But while she was in my store, she always sang the same song.

She came to buy a jelly donut—cherry, every morning. I would give her the one I made last– the freshest one. And she sang:

“I am the daughter of a watch maker and my mother is a whore
I can set your time-piece right, I can set men’s souls afire. I can dance and keep my time; I can make any man… mine.
I can build you a fine clock, and spit and cuss and fuss, but I’ll never be on time– not for you, and not for us.
I am the daughter of a watch maker and my mother is a whore,
You can catch me in the evening, and I’ll kiss you all night long. But when the sun starts shining, your watch and I… are gone.”

She was way too young to be singing about any of that, I was certainly too young to be hearing it– but she was a wonder. From the minute she walked in my heart would race, when she sang her song my mind would throb, and when she left my soul would cry. For as much as I didn’t understand of her I knew that I could love her. And I wanted to show her.

I used the finest flour, the sweetest sugar, and the richest butter. I mixed until my hands were sore– and then I mixed some more. With precision I rolled the dough into a loop small enough to fit her dainty hands, and stuck it in the fryer. I added diamonds of glaze, and precious stones made of sprinkles. It was perfect.

When she arrived I got on my hands and knees on the dirty kitchen floor, while the cockroaches scattered, I looked her in the eyes, and bumbled out my marriage proposal:

“I don’t know your name, but I know your song. But let me keep the time for you and let me find your mom a job. Singing girl, spend the mornings with me by the fryer, and I’ll spend the evening in your arms.”

To which she put her hands on her hips and said resolutely, “Hell no!”

“Why!??!??” I pleaded– and she said, “Donut boy, my darling, I could never marry you. Because you stink of donut grease, and your smile is too thin.”

So I told her she smelled bad too (which was a lie, she smelled like lavender soap.) To which she smiled and broke into her stupid song, about her whoreish mother and her stupid dad– who probably crafts a watch that can only keep track of 15 hours in a day.
As she walked out smug and with her usual jelly donut I yelled to her: “Never again will a ring be made from the finest dough, my love is far too sacred!” She turned to me, rolled her eyes, and walked off.

With the batter that had been filled with love I sculpted little balls of sugary hate. I threw them into the fryer and watched them sizzle and pop– never again would a girl break my heart.

And then, while I watched the pastry chunks of my heart bubble and boil… A stuffy business man with nice shoes and a smile that probably sold used cars at one point in time or another– he wanted half a donut. “You’re a stingy idiot!” I said. But he insisted, and demanded, and argued. So I gave him some donut balls. And the rest…

Is cake!

But that girl… with eyes like the sea and hair like the sun– I’ll never forget her, and her stupid song.

WE’RE NOT SAYING GOODBYE,

BECAUSE WE RAN AWAY MONTHS AGO.

TO EAT COOKIES WHERE WE PLEASE.

TO BATHE WHERE WE SEE FIT.

TO PUSH EVERY BUTTON.

TO GET FAMOUS.

TO MEET EVERBODY WE RUN INTO.

TO LAUGH,

TO ENJOY,

TO RELISH,

TO SING ALONG.

WE GOT LOST, AND THEN WE GOT FOUND.

The train doors opened to Joliette station and we stepped out– marching as if we were in the military,

To be greeted by his violin- his stinking reeking self raking the strings with his bow.

All marched right on past the man with his bow, but I couldn’t help myself.  I broke ranks and promptly defected.

I sat next to him and as if to welcome me as his new comrade he took in a sigh and let forth a torrent of music so sorrowful I was almost moved to tears.

And then he stopped and muttered something about “I’m not making any money here today… I could get fed faster digging through trashcans.”

To which I smiled and said nothing– “I’ll play for you though” and back to it he went.

The longggggggg sigh of his bow sent his notes sobbing out of his dilapidated  instrument.  Shivers shot  up and down my spine.

Long pauses before encores, the “whomp whomp whomp” of the escalator followed by “the click click click” of high heels and the three toned “whee wheeeee wheeeeeee” of the train starting up to leave, as if it just couldn’t take it anymore and needed to drive off.

He stopped again, “you want to talk?”

“Sure”

“I told a prostitute I wasn’t going to sleep with her, I don’t need to do that– my wife died three years ago, I’m waiting to go so I can be with her in heaven.  But this prostitute, she tried to stick me with a needle– I fought her off; she didn’t stick me. ” He took a deep breath– he smelled bad.

“But while I was gone she destroyed my apartment.  Shit on my floor, literal shit on the floor! Thousands of dollars worth of classical music, CD’s my couch ripped to shreds. I’m fucked. . . . . .  I don’t even know where I’m going to sleep tonight– I poured comet on the floor, but it still reeks of shit.  I walk in and I want to vomit.”

“So that’s why your music is so sad today.” I said with a smile as I handed him three dollars.  “It’s not usually this sad is it?”

“Yeah, nobody gives you money when you play sad shit.”

For some odd reason a string quartet was playing some manner of classical music. It was one of those magical discoveries that that I often seem to find– like rounding a corner and stumbling upon a hooker fellating a businessman in an alleyway– nothing really prepares you for that, but while you’re there you might as well enjoy the show. It was spring time, and although hardly anything changes from winter to spring in southern California– there was an electric feel in the air. Low branches full of flowers draped the skyline over little plastic tables, a cello and violin gently grinding against one another, and then there was Bob.

I don’t think he wears deodorant– or maybe he does, he doesn’t smell– but he always has a wetness under his arms. He’ll raise a hand in the classroom to point at something and I’ll feel as if somebody should turn up the air conditioner. He’s a skinny man, not gaunt, but skinny– he sports a miniature Jack Kerouac beard, and he may or may not espouses a similar line of existential musings. He’s a teacher who probably never really liked conventional school all that much.

On that Spring afternoon we sat and chatted on campus while the string quartet added a pleasant sound track. I tiraded: “It’s the end of my freshmen year. I have a 1.97 GPA. I could care less about school. Your class is the only one I find remotely interesting. I don’t know how I’m going to pull this together for next year.” And he did something that changed a thing or two: “Why don’t you do an independent study with me next semester?”

His favourite word is “Fuck” although he uses it sparingly. His thesis was on the plays of Samuel Becket. He believes that the traditional academic institution is horse shit (or maybe that’s me projecting). Idea of a good time in his youth: driving out deep into the Nevada desert and staging protests against nuclear testing, consequently has been to jail. He runs his classroom like the socialist that he is—students write their syllabus and design their own curriculum based upon his guidance. After all—who is he to tell anyone what they want to learn? He certainly couldn’t tell me.

Often I’d find myself in Bob’s office with all sorts of questions that were basically clever phrasings for an ultimate question: What is the meaning of life? Phrasings like “Why does religion seem idiotic? Is there such thing as truth? Why can’t anyone think of a better idea (that works) other than capitalism?” My own naïveté painfully evident, he handed me a copy of “The Stranger” and sent me on my way to uproot all that I thought I knew. Oh the joys…

I think he took a great deal of joy in blowing my mind—well actually he told me he did. “Kosta, we teachers strive to blow the minds of our students, it’s what we live for.” I’d walk into his office, a bi-weekly affair at the minimum, explain why I had missed one of his classes (I was sleeping), and then proceeded to pelt the man with a fervent line of attention deficit questioning. Consequently I always left his office with more questions than I came in with, and maybe a book to read.

In my own journal I wrote about the acquisition of Dr. Bob: “My very own mentor how exciting. Maybe I will be a good writer. Scratch that I already am a good writer, Maybe I will be a better writer though!” Jubilacious. If I was a good writer then, I must be Mark Twain by now… Hubris? What’s that.

I probably wrote a couple hundred of pages of incredibly angsty teenage turmoil that Bob waded through with expert precision—he never criticized the content itself but instead focused on how effectively I delivered my message. And thus I started to learn what kind of skill is involved in weaving a story. Bob got me a job at the writing center, he put me in his classes as a mentor for the freshmen composition classes. He allowed me not only to learn writing but to teach it as well.

When I graduated, dressed smartly in orange pants and the traditional cap and gown, I received my diploma gave the whole front row of administrators a running high five and then went off to find Bob. I don’t remember if I actually found him—it would be lovely if I did and then I could recount some kind of emotional “coming of age/teacher makes a difference” moment for you. But my memory stinks.

All I remember is how important it is to have someone believe in your abilities: to challenge, motivate, and inspire. I’ve had lots of teachers who have taken the time to do such a thing, Bob went a step above. We didn’t just talk about “Waiting for Godot” we went to see the play, and then yelled about it for hours afterwards. It wasn’t enough to just assign me reading to illustrate a point, we’d sit down and have an actual discussion. My writing got instant feedback—even on the weekends! So to you Bob, I say thank you. I’m still waiting for Godot, and I’m having the best time ever.

I swear I didn’t hit the fire alarm.

I know only one thing about golf: the harder you try at it, the worse your game is.

(Watch on FOX) | (FOX News Photo Essay)

I’ve always aspired to be the center attention. When I was younger that meant being annoying, now it means stepping up to ridiculous challenges. I blame Rob of course. If it wasn’t for his notion– to replace his eye with a video camera, I wouldn’t be here in the first place. But now that I’m here, now that I’ve stepped up to this ridiculous challenge of building a bionic eye– things are getting cool.

There are just two simple things, and they are just two words, and they are always nestled in the back of our minds: Fear, Desire. Floating upside down, underwater, screaming. Your long hair suspended. You dove too deep, you took on too much. You’re drowning.

But really, honestly, just wait a moment. I’m not a harbinger of truth, I’m no fortune teller– but I’ve lived here for awhile and I tried this out. So let me tell you a secret, and just hold on for one more second:
We can breathe under water.

You’re like a fish– you’ve just forgotten, because everyone’s been telling you something else. Those damn liars, what truth do they know?! Make your own truth!

It’s an old lie that someone told someone who told someone else– and nobody took the time to dive in, and take the plunge. Because if they were wrong– can you imagine how different things would be? Can you imagine what it means to not drown in your own spit? Atlantis was never lost; we just forgot what we were capable of. And what we are capable of is magnificent.

I know, I know. You can drown in an inch of water. Your flat mate in college drowned in his own vomit. But, and I don’t really know, but perhaps those who tried and failed, they don’t see the possibilities of breathing under water– they didn’t really believe in it!
You see, I’m not crazy – I’ve just got this thing, this project.

I call it a submarine.
–Excerpted from my personal journal–

I hadn’t thought much about it. I am naive; it’s part of my personality. I say “yeah, we can do that.” without even thinking about it. My brain oozes the ideal of “anything is possible” — you just have to be convincing, or convinced, enough. My e-mail box is a testament to that. So many whirring minds have taken pause with this project and have taken a moment to tell me some story– the man who is building 3D glasses, the futurist who believes in the power of bio fuels, the artists with their own ambitions. They want to do things, they are doing things. I haven’t had the schedule– or frame of mind– to address everyone who’s taken a moment to e-mail me about the EyeBorg Project, but I am so impressed with the amount of movement– this rustle and chorus of thoughts. Who would have thought?

So people continue to impress me, all the time. I’m always impressed.

The other day a long Lincoln town car picked me up and took me to a studio. An itty bitty ear piece was thrust into my ear, a microphone was clasped to my lapel, lights were aimed at my face, and a camera was focused on my bright orange shirt. FOX News wanted to know some more details about the project, and I tried to tell them as much as I could in the three short minutes of air time. Bill Hemmer asked questions and I tried not to blow it. I think I did well. I stayed for a half hour after my three minutes of nationally televised fame and asked a thousand questions about the cameras, and the lights, and the studies. I got a tour of the place by the camera man. So neat!

On Saturday my phone rang at 1:00 A.M. and all of a sudden I was on a late night talk show distributed over Canada. It’s so strange– I’m just chatting, laughing, and telling the story of EyeBorg. But it’s so important to tell it a certain way– with candor, to give credit to the many people involved, to dissuade my ego from taking over. I’m learning; I’m learning a lot.

I am so lost, confused, and brilliantly motivated. I don’t feel up to the task of articulating any more, there’s just such a jumble in my head.