It was a warm Monday morning in Shanghai. Flora and I were about to head out for our first full day together when she stopped us short at my hotel room door.

“Wait wait,” she said, “Your hair is-a messed. Let me fix.” She grabbed something out of her little shiny black purse and stepped in close. So close I could feel her breath. So close I could notice every minute expression her adorable face revealed as she pinched and prodded her fingers through my hair.

In all of 10 seconds, her face told a complete story of her mysterious creation. She cycled between looks of concentration… surprise… and holding back laughter before finally settling on a mischievous mouth and innocent eyes.

“Okie, let’s go.” she said, hurriedly taking my arm.

“Woah, wait a second… what did you do to my hair?”

“I make-a you HANDsome,” she said wide-eyed, all innocent-like.

I played along. “I thought you said I was already handsome.”

“Mmm!” she smiled, nodding. (in Flora-ese this meant “yes”) Then she explained, taking careful time to fully pronounce each word, “You are a very handsome man, but here in Shanghai there are a lot of ladies. So I make-a you…” Her eyes squinted a playful seriousness, “…even MORE handsome.”

I’ll bet. We stepped into the elevator and I punched the button. Inside most of the wall was mirrored so I started turning around to assess the damage.

“No no no no no no no no no no no no!” Flora’s little mouth rattled off faster than a machine gun as she spun me back around, away from the mirror.

“Ohh, handsome, huh?” I said, slightly grinning at her with penetrating skepticism.

“Mmm! SO handsome!” She paused, before adding, “Most handsome man in the whole world!”

She was laying it on thick. This couldn’t be good.

I reached up to feel. But Flora was too fast. Just as my fingers grazed the hairline, she grabbed both my hands and pulled me in close. Our hips touched.

She knew how to keep my attention long enough. The elevator doors opened again and as we walked through the lobby, all bellhop eyes were on me. Strangely they only observed. No one smiled or threw even a fleeting glance of disapproval.

Out on the street, eyes followed me. Heads craned. A man passed us by only to double-take, looking back and grunting in utter confusion.

Before we got on the subway, I caught a look at myself in a bathroom mirror.

Flora had pinched up a wad of my hair with one of her pink hair pins. It stuck straight up in the air as if frozen by too much hairspray.

I looked ridiculous. But by now it had been like that for too long – there was no going back. And little did I know this little stunt of hers would come back to haunt me in ways I couldn’t possibly imagine.

Not only was I a tall white devil in a land of little yellow men and even littler women, but now I had this gender-bending symbol of cuteness permanently fixed atop my skull. Yet not a single person made fun of me. Maybe it was because the hotel staff were hired guns, paid to take my side. Maybe it was because I walked with confidence, straight and unflinching.

Or maybe… it was because I had on my arm one of the hottest Chinese girls in town:

The little angel herself, clad in black “Satan clothes” (her words)

Our first stop was Yuyuan Garden, a 500 year old creation from the Ming Dynasty.

To get to it, you cross a zig-zag bridge over a river of goldfish. Flora explained the bridge was built that way because Chinese legend has it ghosts can’t follow you into your garden of solitude if unless they have a straight path.

But it wasn’t ghosts that frightened Flora. As we descended deeper and deeper into the 5 acre garden maze, the passerbys thinned out and before too long we were the only 2 people in sight.

“Ummm…” she hesitated, “Let’s go ‘dis way.” Flora rounded the bin. The next thing I hear is a little shriek trailed by a whimper as she came running back to grab my arm.

I stuck my head around the corner. For whatever reason, a squad of rifle-toting Chinese police were coming straight at us. “Shit!” I thought, “What did we do to deserve this?”

Yanking Flora by the hand, we ducked into a nearby wooden building – waiting, until the heat died down. The cops marched by with a purpose, as if looking for someone. Thankfully, not us. I slid the door back and we made our way back out – across the street, and onward to the crowded marketplace of hustlers, pushers, and dealers.

They say Americans are the most marketed-to human beings on the face of the Earth. They’ve GOT to be wrong. On the marketplace streets of Shanghai, walk 12 steps or wait 7 seconds – it doesn’t matter. Because that’s all the time it takes before they hit you with the next pitch.

Beads, buttons, thread, cookies, crackers, and every piece of stereotyped Chinese factory reject goods you could possibly imagine. Take your pick, it was all there – like a bomb went off and products scattered everywhere.

One turn to the left, down an alley and Flora led me underground (yes, literally under the streets) where there hung every kind of knockoff you could dream of. Louis Vuitton bags. Dolce & Gabbana clothes, glasses, and belts. And of course, what chop-shop wouldn’t be complete without their very own Rolex watches. I compared their fake to my real. Amazing; nearly identical, except for the serial number hologram and the fact theirs was only gold plated.

In one of the small shops I found something I’d wanted for years. A few times in high school, a friend of mine would jokingly challenge people to find him “two jade monkeys by the next full moon.” Of course, no one could actually do it. But here and now 10 years later I stood underground the crowded streets of Shanghai, staring into the eyes of two of the most elusive jade monkeys this side of the Huangpu River.

I had to have them.

“How much?” I asked, turning them over to reveal a price tag that read 480 yuan ($70) for the first monkey, and 380 ($56) for the second.

“Geezus, this is highway robbery,” I complained to Flora. She turned to me and asked if I really wanted them. I told her the story of what they meant to me and she understood. She said “Okie, I get them for you.”

I was surprised and felt a little bad. This offer of kindness came from a girl who made less than $500 for a whole month. “You don’t have to do that,” I said.

“No no… you wait over there,” she replied, pulling me away from all the people, pointing outside. She had a look in her face. She was up to something. The little angel had a plan.

As I waited outside and fought off roving hordes of Rolex salesmen, Flora was at the counter twirling her hair, throwing around Chinese fast and furious. About 10 minutes later she emerged, holding a little paper bag.

“Two jade monkey,” she said, handing me the bag.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

She smiled, “It’s okie – 100 yuan for both.” She faced forward with an ever-so-subtle smile of satisfaction.

A hundred yuan was about 15 dollars. She’d knocked off over a hundred bucks. In the game of sales, negotiation usually starts at the first price anyone dares to call out. In this case, the price tags were meaningless – used only as a mental anchor on unsuspecting white devils like myself. Lesson learned.

Speak no evil, Hear no evil – my 2 jade monkeys

We moved on and I saw a lady demonstrating a spinning top that floated midair. I stood mesmerized as she demonstrated over and over. You spin the top on a magnetic base, then slowly raise it up into the air and it… just floats there, twirling. There weren’t many things I wanted out of those little shops, but I had to have this top – it was just too cool.

The price? 300 yuan. ($44)

“Bullshit,” I thought, tapping the attention of my little 5 foot Secret Negotiating Weapon.

“Can you get this for me?”

This time I had a front-row ticket to see the carnage up close and personal. Flora locked horns with the shopkeeper in a battle of Chinese, unintelligible to me. The sales lady gestured furiously while the little angel sat back, twirling her hair with a puzzled, innocent look. When the lady tired, Flora leapt up and struck back. Back and forth, back and forth. Escalating bitterness and hostility. Finally she took my hand.

“Go go… let’s leave,” she said, shooing us away.

“What’s going on? What happened?” I asked, glancing over my shoulder while slowly walking away with Flora, hand-in-hand.

“You’ll see,” she replied, stroking her hair and looking straight ahead.

With each step we got farther away from the shopkeeper and with each step the shopkeeper’s voice grew louder. Of course I had no idea what she was screaming at us, so I looked over at Flora. She was smiling.

“The lady just offered 150,” she said.

We took a few more steps. We now stood about 50 feet from the wild, screaming store owner.

“100,” Flora added, trying not to laugh.

We turned back and approached our opponent, who now wore grizzled eyes and carried a frayed voice. The angel took advantage and struck again – and again – with more Chinese, more wild eyes and more pointed fingers. Then she grabbed my arm, pulling me away.

“No! We go now.”

And again we marched down that street. Again to the same 50 foot marker. And again with the exhausted shop owner, hoarsely crying out at us from a distance.

It was here Flora stopped, dead in her tracks. “30 yuan,” she turned to me, smiling. “I think… this is good price,” she added.

I’d say. We left the shop that afternoon, top in hand, for a whopping $4.30 – less than 10% of the original asking price.

Flora was too good. Having her around was like being able to storm into any store in America, flailing your arms demanding 90% off everything – and actually get it, with compliments from the owner.

But now we were hungry. The negotiating joust sapped Flora’s strength so now we searched for a good place to eat. I scanned some nearby signs and saw a very familiar logo with some very unfamiliar scribbling.

It was Papa John’s – or in China, literally “Grand John’s.” We stopped in to check it out.

I wasn’t expecting too much. In the U.S, Papa John’s has good pizza but their actual establishments are about 2 notches down from “Pizza Hut” and 2 notches up from “rat hole.” Not here in Shanghai. At the door we were greeted by a nicely dressed hostess who took us to a quiet, comfortable booth in a cozy corner of the restaurant. We were served on porcelain China and ate with silverware and heavy cloth napkins. They even had the little silver spoons for your cappuccino (yes, cappuccino.)

Living up to her self-described reputation of “little eating machine” Flora ordered plate after plate of chicken wings, noodles, who knows what else. I just had a small pizza. And it was fantastic.

The price for all this? Less than $15.

McDonalds in Shanghai – notice how all the burgers only have chicken

This was a trend in Shanghai. Papa John’s was a fancy sit-down, McDonalds actually healthy. The the only place that made me think twice was Burger King. On the wall there was a public health safety sign, the same kind we have here in America. The only difference here was their rating system: Smiley face for “Good”, Straight face for “So-so”, and a frownie for “Bad.” It was only until after I bit down into my mediocre chicken sandwich I noticed the straight-faced smiley hanging out in the back, trying to look inconspicuous.

When we came out Papa John’s, I noticed a ton of people gathered around one of the trade booths set up along the marketplace walkway. There were a lot of booths here and each one of them sold something unique. But the man in this particular booth was the most unique of all.

His name was Li Sheng Biao, 3rd generation master of the art of clay sculpture. His promise was compelling and his proof overwhelming. The deal was that in 20 minutes he would mold a true-to-life little clay figure of whoever sat before him. And scattered all around his setup were pre-made figures of celebrities and past customers just to prove he could do it. Each figure had beside it a photo of him and the actual person so you could compare. From a sales point of view, this was brilliant. On a street lined with pitch men and con artists, he had people lining up from all over to gladly pay whatever he asked and the man didn’t have to utter a single word.

For 180 yuan ($27) he would make a half figure of you. And for 260 ($42) he’d make a full. This was a steal. And since I didn’t know when or even if I’d be back this way for sure (and even if I was, would Mr. Biao still be there?) I absolutely had to have this. I wanted one of me and Flora, but she was too shy. So I booked an appointment to come back and get one made before I left Shanghai.

Over the next few days, Flora and I had fun. Real, clean fun – the way it always looks in old movies. The way it should be.

We went to Qibao old town. “My god,” I remember Flora gasping, stumbling back from the ticket agent when she saw the complicated series of 6 different trains we had to take to get there. It was worth it. We floated one of those old Chinese-style paddle boats down a little river in Qibao and landed in a dusty, dingy part of town. The shops here were different than the ones before. We were far out from the tourist areas. This was real Shanghai, as seen by native eyes.

Flora introduced me to surprisingly tastey seaweed graham crackers (“biscuits” she called them) and we ate lunch in a little-hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant so authentic it wasn’t even trying to be a Chinese restaurant. Over soup, hash browns, and green tea we talked with the owner in a setting right out of an old Bruce Lee movie. The owner pointed at me, laughed and said something to Flora in Chinese.

“What’d he say?” I asked.

“He said…you look like-a Satan,” Flora giggled.

The guy then made little horns by perching his index fingers over his ears, confirming her story. The white devil lives, and his name is Greg Thompson. Go figure.

I got up to go to the bathroom, if you can call it that. Creeking open the door, I saw before me what looked like a horizontal urinal turned sideways and built straight into the floor. Literally, a hole in the floor. Zero toilet paper. Squeeky, rusted out old sink with one nozzle: cold. If I ever wanted authenticity, Qibao dished it out in spades.

After I was done, Flora took a turn. My imagination ran wild with the possibilities of how this beautiful girl dealt inside this cramped hellhole of a restroom. Minutes later she popped out the door, fresh as a daisey – her cleanliness and good nature still baffling me to this day.

Outside on the street, they were slicing up this huge green spikey fruit. I had no idea what it was but Flora wanted us to have a piece.

“The fruit is sweet; the taste, good,” she said.

The verdict was in. I had to get me a taste of that exotic heaven. But I was soon reminded how Mother Nature seldom gives you a rose without a thorn. Hidden beneath the bright yellow fleshy awesomeness, the seeds on this thing were the size of a fat man’s thumb and tasted about as good. You had to anticipate and know when to spit them out. Still, it was worth it. Kinda wish I had some of the stuff now even as I write this.

Not wanting to take another set of 6 trains back, we hopped in a taxi and headed for one of the main drags in downtown Shanghai. Flora had a tendency to get car sick on the long rides so she closed her eyes and curled up next to me in the cab. I put my arm around her and sat back, watching ads for Haagen Dazs, L’Oreal, and some crazy Chinese dude with a cell phone on the little TV built into the headrest in front me.

The cabbie dropped us off at a mall somewhere near Shanghai Times Square. Flora wanted to find a new swimsuit and I wanted to see what a Chinese mall looked like. Win-win.

The building was huge, but inside it was a lot smaller, hotter, and more cramped than American malls – though no less elegant than a Neiman Marcus. A small army of nicely dressed Chinese girls literally lined the walkway, hands to their side or behind their backs – smiling and just waiting to be of some assistance.

As we passed, Flora looked over the selections. I caught a glance of one of the Chinese girls staring at me, trying hard not to laugh. Another one did laugh. Others waited until we passed before joining in. A few even abandoned their stations to follow me around the store.

“What is this? What’s going on?” I wondered. Then it dawned on me: that little pink bow in my hair. I reached up. Yup, still there. Damnit.

But then, the unexpected:

“You’re so cute!” one of them said, beaming with good nature.

A growing number of Chinese girls gathered around me, wanting to talk and touch. And all of a sudden, just like that, Flora’s quest for a new swimsuit came to an abrupt end. I reluctantly let her pull me out of the store, curiously attached to my newfound fame. She, on the other hand, was not so impressed.

That evening, we strolled along The Bund, a breezy perfect walkway strip right on the Huangpu River:

Just off the Bund, there was a walkway leading to a large boat floating there in the river. With a restaurant on board, dining there overlooking the brilliance of the lights relfecting across the water was the perfect place to draw our day to a close.

Inside it felt strange, like a dream. The walls were white and the carpets and waiters suits were red with gold fringe. Back in the restroom, I remember looking out the window over the water. It reminded me of the kind of boat MacGyver might get trapped on. At least it had a real toilet. Still no paper.

Flora ordered fish soup and I had the chicken. Unusually crunchy chicken. I didn’t think too much of it until it dawned on me the crunch came not from crispy chicken but from crispy chicken bone. Oh god, I was gonna hurl. It was enough to make me push it aside and, in an attempt to calm my stomach, focus on the usual plethora of food Flora always pushed onto me.

And she didn’t disappoint. Her “little fish soup” turned out to be a huge vat consisting of an entire fish (eyes, fins, scales, and all) adrift amid a lake of yellow soup. She swore it was good. And, it was. But there was no way I was touching that fish. Flora scooped out the eyeballs and ate them. “Her favorite part” she said.

Among all this yellow soup were little white cubes of… something. Of course, she ate it up. But after witnessing the fish eyes, I was skeptical.

“What are they?” I asked.

“Try,” she said, pushing a few onto my plate, “They very good.”

Hesitantly, I ate a couple. They were… “ok”, at best. Still I had to know what they were.

“Eat these,” she pushed more onto my plate, “then I tell.”

There was something fishy about these fish soup cubes. And The Angel’s little face had that look of mischief I was by now all too familiar with. She was reeling me in for something, but what?

Mouse, that’s what. If chicken bone wasn’t enough, I’d now just eaten a plate-full of mouse.

I was full, but at what cost? Drowning my thoughts in more fish soup and green tea helped me forget what I’d just eaten. I couldn’t blame Flora though. She was so sweet, so cute, so fun. And now she was using her chopsticks to stand the fish up and animate its lips.

“I’m sorry Greg,” said the eyeless fish, “Let’s kiss and make up.”

The cool restaurant air meeting the hot soup caused steam to rise off the fish. Flora said in her best ‘fish voice’, “What’s wrong Greg? Don’t you want to kiss the smoking hot sexy fish?”

We both burst out laughing.

Later on in my journal Flora jotted in a note that read, “Greg left his smoking hot fish in the restaurant and he miss his sexy lips and regret.”

When we got back to the hotel, I poured Flora a glass of water and went to use the bathroom. Finally, a real bathroom; the first toilet paper I’d seen all day.

I got out and went downstairs. Flora wasn’t on the couch where I’d left her. I looked across the room and saw stumbling toward me something freakishly close to what the little girl, Samara, looked like in the horror movie “The Ring”:

It was Flora, with her long black hair draped down in front of her face, stilting toward me at a broken pace, just like in the movie. In fact, too close to the movie. I stood there for a brief second or two, genuinely disturbed by how closely her small Asian frame brought that film to life right before my eyes.

I grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her out of her trance. We had a good laugh, but it was late, dimly lit, and the last thing I wanted on my mind were creepy little dead girls running around my hotel room.

Instead, we cuddled up on the couch. Flora told me about how she started her career working at a leather factory for a couple hundred bucks a month. She told me how she left that to become the seller for a textile company – the go-to girl for international clothing manufacturers. And she told me how she struck out on her own, building her own website and becoming an independant, the connecting link between several textile mills at a time.

Then she said, “The money was good, but I was alone. The website, the business, everything you have to do yourselves.” She paused for a beat, taking my hand before adding, “Life is short. It is not good to sacrifice happiness for money. So I went to work at the lower paying job so I could have friends.”

I couldn’t help but admiring her. Here was a young girl my age, hundreds of miles from any family or anyone else who gave a shit, and she’s out in the world doing stuff – making life happen, whatever the cost and without any special props or outside resources. All of this while making dirt for money and sharpening her own brand of mischevious humor.

Comparing this to the “afraid to go out to the park alone on a sunny day” attitude of most American girls I’d met back home and, well, there was no comparison. The skill, wit, and respectfulness of the Chinese girl made their American counterparts seem caveman by comparison.

Then Flora told me about her plans for the future. She drew a little blueprint on one of the scraps of hotel stationery. It included a house, a car, and… a husband – all living far enough from the city to be away, but close enough to shop and get what she needed.

Then she asked what I wanted. Told her I was still figuring all that out. So she started to draw me out a little blueprint of my own. She drew a house, a car, and a wife. Then she drew 6 more people.

“Who are they?” I asked.

She pointed them all out, “This one is the wife… this is the lover… the girlfriend… the honey… the darling… the sweetheart, and the…(she was running out of names)… babe.”

“Damn,” I thought, “She’s got me figured out pretty good.”

She went on, “You see, you have your American wife who take care of the baby, and you go have fun with the other girls. There you go. There is your plan.” It was one of those situations you couldn’t help but smile. She talked like this was It, the Final Solution to the problems that plagued man. And who knows, maybe it was.

I played along, “But what if my wife wasn’t American? What if she was Chinese? Could I still have all the other girls?”

“Oh nooo,” she professed, “A Chinese wife would not allow the other girls. She would meet with them in private, serve them ice cream and tell them to please go away.” She made a shooing motion with her hand.

Priceless.

The next day I finally got my appointment with Li Sheng Biao, the master clay artist. Flora “fixed my hair” that morning in the same fashion that got me so much attention from the Chinese mall girls the day before. I figured “what the hell” – you can’t mess with success:

On the last day, Flora curled up next to me and napped away our 30 minute cab ride to Pudong Airport. The last 6 days was one trip I’d never soon forget. And thanks to my site here, I won’t have to.

As we were about to part ways before I headed off for the gate – the point of no return – I asked Flora if there was anything she’d like to say before I left.

She looked away. Then slowly, and with profound sadness, she softly whispered, “Take care.”

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From day 1, she had it all figured out. Flora, the impossibly cute Chinese girl who would be my guide for the next week in Shanghai, sized me up in an instant.

Looking back at her through my trademark big black avaitor sunglasses, curiosity struck.

“And why am I Satan?”

“Becaaause…” she paused, rocking back as if examining a painting, “…you looka like… a Satan.” she giggled, as most Chinese girls do, covering her mouth with her hand.

Fair enough.

Maybe it was the shades. Maybe it was the suit. It didn’t matter – this girl was bursting personality from the seams and had the looks to match.

In China, some of the older folks have a word for guys like me: gui lo, or… “white devil.”

A couple hours earlier my plane touched down in Communist China… home to over 1.3 billion souls, over 20 million in Shanghai alone. Uniqueness is an illusion. This is the kind of country where even if you’re a one in a million, it means there’s still 1,300 people just like you.

And after a 14 hour flight stretching 7,050 miles through negative 85 degree temperatures around the North Pole, down through the vast pointlessness of Siberia, over Japan, and finally west to China… I had no idea what to expect.

The differences of being on the other side of the world were apparent before I even got there.

On the plane, the sweet relief of night time never comes. You’re literally following the movement of the sun around Earth. No matter where you are, it’s always noon.

To help pass the time, I watched a Chinese movie called “Fit Lover” – it’s about an awesomely attractive Chinese girl visited by God who gives her a magical Toyota that teleports her to 12 guys who are supposedly the loves of her life, sent from The Big G Himself. She’s supposed to experience each guy in turn then make a decision as to who to spend the rest of eternity with among the stars in heaven.

…At least that’s what I think it was about.

Hunger struck early and often. Airline food jokes aside, the fact is when you’re starving at 38,000 feet you greet whatever they throw at you with ravenous eyes. Our choices on the last leg of the flight were pizza or some kind of noodley substance. Most of the Americans, including myself, took the pizza. Funny – American girls had their pizza with diet coke; like somehow the diet coke makes it “OK” to gorge whatever’s around. My decision to take the pizza wasn’t cultural; it was survival. When you’re not sure where or how your next meal is coming, calories are your best friend.

As we neared the Shanghai international airport, I opened my window to catch a glimpse of the landing. Such a thick haze enveloped the runway, you couldn’t see a thing until maybe a hundred feet off the ground. Suddenly the fog clears and you’re doing 150 mph down the tarmac struggling desperately to slow down.

And what’s this? Little spurts of grass poked out between the runway pavement cracks, and just over the fence appeared to be a… farm?

Yes. Actual crops thrived just beyond the airport gates in a field that seemed to stretch back to infinity, all set against an alien grey haze. What the hell am I doing here? I must be losing my mind.

Stepping off the plane into the gigantic Shanghai Pudong airport, I expected to get caught up in a chaotic rush of confused travelers scrambling to get wherever they were going because, like everyone else, they only had 5 minutes to get there or else life as they knew it would end. Think about that scene on “Home Alone” where the McAlister family runs through Chicago’s O’Hare airport and you’ve got a good idea of the thoughts weighing on my mind.

But once I got in there, their airport was the most calm, tranquil scene I could’ve possibly imagined. No rushing families. No crammed spaces. Hell, no noise. We just calmly walked down the cavernous fancy hallways and onward to customs.

Ah, customs. You’ve been through customs’ 7 circles of hell, haven’t you? Most of us here in the United States are all too familiar with this little experience.

In the Land of the Free, you’re x-rayed, stripped, searched, and questioned by a burly balding guy authorized to cuff and drag off anybody who even makes the wrong joke in his presence (we know this because there’s a sign posted clearly indicating so.) His first instinct is to assume you’re up to no good, eye you suspiciously, and not believe anything you say without documented proof.

And that’s if you’re a slender, white, gainfully employed, corn-fed midwesterner.

So I wasn’t sure what to expect here with Chinese customs. But it turns out…

In Communist China, they ask no questions.

In Communist China, they don’t make you take off your shoes and they believe you when you tell them there’s nothing important in your bag.

In Communist China, cute customs girls dressed in red and gold suits and high heels greet you with a smile and, after they stamp your passport, say “Hope you have good time!” with a big smile. A real smile.

“What is this place,” I wondered.

Flora met me just outside the international arrivals gate. Dressed in a small skirt, red coat, knee-high leather boots, and a little black sun hat, she was the very picture of cuteness.

“How long does it take to get to the hotel?” I asked her.

“Umm… 10 minutes.”

I asked about a few other things. She stared at me blankly.

“Did you understand what I said?”

She shook her head, smiling.

“Which words did you not understand?”

She considers for a moment. “All,” she giggles.

Maybe this wasn’t going to be so easy after all. Still, despite the language issue Flora was the perfect guide. Small and unassuming as she may be, she navigated us among the hordes of people as precisely as a computer and without fear.

As we left the airport, I could see a completely unobstructed landscape for the first time since St. Louis. Gazing up at the hazy yellow sky hanging over Shanghai I half-expected to see 2 suns, a la Star Wars. It was a different world. And the Maglev bullet train shot us through it at 300 miles per hour. Never before had I witnessed land move by so fast.

The train took us as far as it was gonna go. Then through a series of taxis and what had to be half an hour later we arrived at my hotel, Eversunshine Hotel in the Pudong financial district. (aside: That’s something I noticed a lot there in China – a hotel called Eversunshine, a bank called Everbright Bank – endless commercials with happy smiling people just like the customs girls who hoped I have a “good time.” Where were all the miserable people we here in the Land of the Free had been conditioned, er… “brought up” to believe?)

I unpacked and got settled as the sun set. Flora and I went out on the town that night to get a feel for the area.

The first thing I noticed was all the escalators, especially outdoors. I explained to Flora that in the states we mostly only have escalators indoors and only in large malls. She said, “Everybody is lazy here. All they want is to sit around and sleep all day. Nobody use the stair. Everybody use the escalator.”

Hmm, ok.

This was the first night time I’d seen in 24 hours and I was absolutely famished.

“Where can a guy get some good Chinese food around here?” I asked, all-proud-like of my cleverness.

The joke was lost on her. She took me to a great place near Shanghai’s version of New York’s Times Square. It’s a place where they sit you down next to other people, so right beside us sat another couple as if we all knew each other. A little strange at first, but they were some of the friendliest people I’d ever seen.

I browsed the menu. In between the entries for pig intestines and… “Jew’s ear”… I found my bliss in a little roast duck and a delicious soup. Flora threw around a bunch of Chinese at the waiter and before too long, plate after plate after plate of stuff kept arriving at our table.

“Geezus, what all did you order?!”

She giggles, and sounds out the words, “I am little eating machine.”

How a 5 foot girl weighing 92 pounds could be an “eating machine” seemed to me physically impossible. But there she was, polishing off no less than 5 plates of… whatever it was we ate. I say “we” because no matter what I ordered, it was her style to offer me a good chunk of what she ordered as well. God only knows what I was putting into my body, but thankfully most of it was good.

It didn’t stop there, either. Good food was almost everywhere I went in China. And unlike its American counterpart, none of it was greasy, oily, or had any of that soy aftertaste. No MSG. If it didn’t come from the ground, it wasn’t in the food. No wonder these people were so thin. No wonder Flora was a 92 pound eating machine. With food like that, they didn’t even have to TRY. It also helped that many people walked or rode bikes everywhere. Compare that to the midwestern U.S. where you can’t even go to the store without a car – you’d die of starvation before you even got there. Being an ad guy, I paid special attention to the ads; I never once saw a weight loss ad the entire time I was over there.

This also included the food at Eversunshine Hotel. I’ve stayed at plenty of hotels in the states where “Continental Breakfast” meant 2 dry bagels and a plastic thing of orange juice. Not here. The first morning when I took the elevator downstairs to the dining room (yes, “dining room”) I was astounded with what lay before me: fully catered service in silver – everything from fresh eggs cooked right there by a real live dedicated cook, to a selection of meats, salads, breads, fruits, and desserts. Go ahead, take whatever and however much you want. Every day. The stuff was so thorough, I seldom ever had to eat until the very end of the day… even after walking upwards of 4 to 5 miles. And if it hadn’t been for Flora stuffing me fuller when we ate out, I probably could’ve even done without that.

Oh, and my room? For the price of a 2-bit rat hole in the United States, I got set up in a full-blown suite at Eversunshine Hotel – complete with full kitchen, living room, and stairs leading up to my bathroom and bedroom.

Here, see for yourself:

My concrete bed

My 5 liter jug of “survival water” and kitchen, complete with stove

It’s bigger than it looks. The glass shower (not really pictured here) was incredible.

Inside my living room high above the city overlooking beautiful night-time Shanghai

The only thing about Shanghai is everyone’s afraid of the water. Seriously, afraid. In fact there are actually signs posted reminding you not to brush your teeth with it and especially never to drink it. The only thing it’s good for is bathing. But that’s no big deal because down across the street at the local store you can pick up a 5 liter bottle of water for like 80 cents. Super cheap and lasts a week. Perfect.

Flora had work the first 2 days so this was my time to poke around and check out the Chinese manufacturing gold rush I’d heard so much about back home. So my first day, I set out to explore the Shanghai Pudong financial district just south of the Huangpu River. Ultimately my destination was the Oriental Pearl TV Tower I’d first seen photographed in an issue of GQ magazine.

Being so out of place and such a… white devil… I expected everybody on the street to shoot me strange looks. But interestingly, that didn’t happen UNTIL I went out with the camera around my neck. I might as well have been wearing a glowing green moonrock for all the attention it got.

“My god, you have such big fancy camera,” Flora gushed whenever she noticed my camera. Hmm, maybe that’s why everyone got all touchy feely around it. Oh well. I went on letting them believe what they wanted. Little did they know it was big because it was old, not because it was fancy (8 years – an ancient artifact in digital time)

Strolling down the streets in Pudong, I noticed everybody had on these medical surgical masks. “Why?” I wondered. Then I remembered the whole SARS thing from a few years ago. Oh shit. Do they know something I don’t? Am I the only idiot walking around in broad daylight unprotected from some weird pathogen? Fuck. I covered half my face with my shirt collar, not unlike how little kids do when someone farts. As if that would spare my life in the event of biological contamination.

A few minutes later, after hacking up dirt and noticing all the little dust storms swirling about the streets, it finally hit me: the construction. Flora told me they’re building so much stuff all the time, landscape around here changes almost monthly. With that comes a hella lotta dirt.

Hence the masks, idiot.

I walked about half a mile, right by the big glass skyscraper Flora pays an unbelievable $150 per month to call home. Ironically enough called the “Tomson Centre”

The traffic lights in Shanghai, I discovered, are not so much commands, as they are indicative of a much larger existential truth. In America, the little green man means “go” and the little red hand means “stop.” Simple enough. Not so in Shanghai. In Shanghai, the same little green man means “According to our calculations, you are less likely to get smacked by a random bus now than you were a minute ago” and the little red hand means “Instant remorseless roadkill. Do not pass Go, do not collect 200 yuan.”

About a mile and a half further – past Citibank – past KFC, Dominos Pizza, McDonalds and some building resembling a giant can opener, I arrive at my destination:

The Oriental Pearl TV Tower: Shanghai’s Giant Phallus

Actually, it’s a lot bigger than it looks, even in my photo above. Right next door was a Subway, selling the cheapest sub sandwich I’d ever seen in my life:

15 yuan for a 6-inch sub means $2.00, folks. Try getting that price here in the states. Oh, and there’s no sales tax in China either. You give them a 20 for this, you’re gettin’ back 5. Simple as that.

Apparently there was some kind of Expo Shanghai had been chosen for in 2010, so you saw this little blue smiling mascot guy everywhere you went. Outside the Oriental Pearl TV Tower, they had huge models of him set up all over. A lot of people liked to get their picture taken next to him. People like this girl here:

Yes, they all mimicked his pose

The rest of the day was spent up high in the TV tower and otherwise sauntering around the Pudong area, soaking in as much sun and breeze as I could coming off the Huangpu River. Seeing the sun hang there in the sky was a stark reminder of the fact everyone I knew back home was tucked away in their beds at this very moment, fast asleep, a whole world away. But everything here burst with life. Chalk it up to one of those obvious facts “everybody knows” but it never really hits you until you’re right there, experiencing it for real.

The next day after my amazing breakfast, I got dressed and headed out at 8:30am feeling fresh as a cool spring. My destination? The Shanghai Museum of Science and Technology:

This place is the St. Louis Science Center on steroids. The exhibits were actually *gasp* fun, and there was so much to do I spent the entire morning and afternoon there. It had some of the same stuff (I saw an IMAX of the moon) – but most I’d never knew existed. They had a huge computer set up to do 3d scans of your head, which they then pass along to some robots to make 3d wax sculptures… of you… which you can then buy for around $80. They had computers for kids, programmable robotic arms, robots that played musical instruments, and you could even go head-to-head against a robot in a contest of archery. They had full size TV green rooms where you could record yourself in any environment doing anything you wanted. Full size nature environments simulating caves to crawl through and miniature mountains to climb. Huge backlit vats of water suspending all sorts of aquatic life as if in some kind of mad scientists laboratory.

Girl archer versus robot archer: robot wins

The robot dances better after he’s knocked back a few

That evening I went home and took a nap, utterly exhausted. Flora was supposed to come over and meet me after work but I couldn’t get ahold of her. I’d get some weird tone on the phone, then a recorded Chinese woman trying a bit too hard to pronounce her English came on the line, “We ah sahrry but dee persohn you ah trying to reach is OUT OF SEHRVICE AIREHA for dee mo-ment. Please try a-gain lahter.” (the capital letters are when her tone got oddly aggressive before calming down again)

Later the machine lady informed me that Flora’s phone was “power off.” Great, I thought. Totally unreachable. Oh well, I’ll go take a shower.

As I shed my clothes for shower time, the phone above the toilet rang. (yes, if you’ll remember from the photo earlier there was a phone right there – presumably so traveling businessmen didn’t have to “shit or get off the pot”)

It was the concierge lady, “You lika massage?”

I almost said no thanks and hung up but I stopped short. Hearing all the stories in the U.S. about Chinese “Happy Endings” and whatnot got me curious. So I decided to let this thing play out.

“Uhh. Sure, I love massages.”

“We send massage girl to you now. Ok?”

Awesome. Not only is this a full-blown suite but they send girls to your room at night whenever you’re just about to shower.

“But wait,” my logical brain took over, “I bet this costs money.”

So I asked, “Is this complimentary?”

“Yes. We senda massage girl to you now. Ok?”

Wait, that was weird. Maybe she didn’t understand me, “I’m just asking if this is part of the hotel service or does it cost extra?”

“280 yuan?” she said, phrased as a question. In China everything is negotiable. But I was hot, sweaty, dirty, and tired. Definitely NOT in the mood for dealing with this, let alone an unexpeced drain on what little cash I was carrying thanks to the ripoff currency exchange in Chicago.

“Uh, nevermind, I don’t want a massage.”

“We senda massage girl to your room now. Ok?”

Was this all she could say? Maybe if she said it enough times, most would cave, but with the intimate relationship I have with my money, I refused to back down.

Finally she got the message and ended the call, “Ok. Thank you. Good night. Hope you have good time.” Never again was I offered another massage during the whole stay. Fine by me. I continued with my shower, and yes, I had plenty of “good time” thank you very much.

The next morning, Flora’s number was still a no-show. “OUT OF SEHRVICE AIREHA for dee mo-ment” the robot operator lady harped at me over and over. I started to hallucinate. Around the 9th time, I half-expected her to add a “hope you have good time” on the end of it.

“Impossible. This has GOT to be bullshit,” I thought. Flora barely wakes up this early. Something’s gotta be up with her phone.

Sure enough, a few minutes later I made contact at last. Flora explained how much her phone sucks and how she needed to get a new one. No kidding. Said she’d wash, eat, and be there at ten. When I opened my door at 10:00am on the dot, there she stood in a little black tanktop, denim skirt and (another) set of knee-high black leather boots, these with a silver buckle at the top – good enough to grace the cover of any Maxim magazine in the world.

Her days of work were finally over and for the remainder of my time there, she’d completely dedicated every waking hour to me. Soon we were to leave for our first day of exploring together.

But before we left, she did something to me that would forever alter how I would be remembered in the minds of hundreds of Chinese women.

TO BE CONCLUDED IN PART 2…

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It went like this:

The “Professional’s Code” is very simple: You show up where you’re supposed to be… when you said you’d be there… having done what you said you’d do. That’s it.

This “no excuses” approach is something I’ve tried to live by my whole life. In fact, you might even say I take a perverse bit of pride in honoring it.

But what no one knows is one of the fundamental stories behind HOW this mindset began in the mind of Young Greg.

In 3rd & 4th grade I had this PE coach, Coach Morrison, who would NOT take any bullshit from us at all. He burnt the extremes of the “no excuses” lesson into our brains with an entire series of little mindfuck exercises to see who could follow his weird instructions down to a literal T.

Anyone caught messing up was verbally “tarred and feathered” in front of the whole class – a punishment which, to a youngster just learning the ropes in life, meant nothing short of terrifying nightmare.

It was one of those situations rigged against you from the beginning, where it didn’t matter what you said; any answer was automatically the WRONG answer. The smarter ones among us quickly caught on that only ‘acceptable’ thing to say was “coach, I screwed up. I have no excuse.”

One of the more poignant lessons from Coach Morrison is when he’d have us jump in place, turning 90 degrees each time as he barked “RIGHT!” “LEFT!” “RIGHT!” “RIGHT!” “RIGHT!” “LEFT!”, getting progressively faster each time, eventually reaching a dizzy crescendo.

Finally he’d yell, “STOP!”

Then he’d begin the rounds, sauntering by everyone, like a drill-sergeant inspecting his misfit troops. Usually some goof would make a mistake and you’d get off scot-free. But the time I remember most was when he marched straight up to me and peered right into my eyes.

“Oh shit,” I thought, “My day has finally come. Now I’m done for.”

He screamed, “GREG!….” His words echoing throughout the now pin-drop-quiet gym.

…

…

…

I didn’t know what to do. Was I supposed to say something? You could slice the silence with a knife.

At last, he moved:

“…YOU’RE RIGHT!!!!”

My hair swayed a bit from the sudden blast of air. I nearly lost all blood pressure to my head, in what felt like being mere seconds from fainting dead away on the spot.

But I looked around the room and, sure enough, was the only one facing the “right” way.

I guess everybody else just looked to see what the other guy was doing when they got confused.

Morrison was always like that; never quite knew what he was really thinking. And I bet he loved it.

(As a brief aside: On my final day of his class before I moved to a different city, Coach Morrison took me aside and said I could walk the track that day if I wanted to, instead of sweating my ass off like everyone else. Apparently I’d earned it. Guess he wasn’t such a bastard after all.)

But my relief was only a reprieve, as I left one 4th grade class and landed into another.

Enter one Mrs. Rothwell. Rose lensed glasses. Mounted animals around the classroom (I sat in between the King Cobra and gigantic Moose head.) Hunchback crazy-woman with claws instead of finger nails who would sooner eat a live rat than deal with our bullshit excuses.

Because of those weird glasses, you could never tell if she was looking at you… or the kid next to you. This made every public scolding possibly YOUR public scolding, which made everyone pay attention to every last word she said.

And you learned real quick not to test her, either. Because yesterday when the kid next to you got out of line, all Mrs. Rothwell said was:

“Ok, that’s it. You’re gone.”

She dragged him by the ear outside into the hallway, and… all you knew was you hadn’t seen him since.

No one knew what “gone” really meant. It was exact enough to create news, yet vague enough to arouse rumor.

This new school made my old one in the bigger city look like Spring Break in Fort Lauderdale. The math problems might as well have been written in Egyptian, the homework piled up faster than I could possibly imagine, and during class the teacher switched from “Social Studies” to “Science” with a fluid-like invisible smoothness that left everyone wondering whether they should be looking at the frog diagram on page 98 or the Mayan pyramid on 212.

There simply wasn’t enough desk space to have 3 books open at once to cover all your bases.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Rothwell was up there at the front of the room spouting off on what the concept of “free enterprise” was at 88 miles per hour when you’d ask a question on somehting she covered 5 minutes ago (because that’s where you are)

“Don’t bother me, I’m on a roll!” she’d blurt.

Every time she said this, I’d imagine her running in place, literally atop a perpetually spinning dinner roll.

Yet for all her insanity, there was a method to her madness. In her mind, she was preparing us for the unmitigated horrors of Middle School as if we were troops about to land Omaha Beach on D-day.

And you know what? It worked. “Graduates” of her class were the finest, most disciplined group of multi-taskers the Middle School realm had ever seen.

But I’ve saved the best for last… because even if you mutated Coach Morrison and Mrs. Rothwell into some hybrid creature, you still wouldn’t begin to approach the Sterling Perfection forged in the heat of 7th grade English.

Her name was Mrs. Berkbuegler. Students feared the looming visage she cast on their schedules. Her classes ran with all the intricate precision of a Swiss watch, and a “good day” was when only one student openly wept.

Each day, she drilled us on new vocabulary, new literary terms, new grammar- sharpening our dull speech and even duller writing down to a fine tip, reaching a penetrating, diamond-like hardness by year’s end.

She drilled simile and metaphor. She taught literature, especially Shakespeare. (Every one of us literally memorized the entire play of Julius Caesar, word-for-word, and most importantly understood it.) Forms of “to be” – am, are, is, was, were, has, have, had, be, being, and been. Nouns, personification, onomatopoeia. She branded some definitions so firmly into your mind, you could easily repeat them to your children, 10, even 20 years later without batting an eye.

The speed at which you could flip through a dictionary was of utmost value, so The Good Book became your new best friend real quick… and those who got left behind were the ones who’d often stumble on the rocks in a perpetual cycle to keep up, eventually falling off the cliff (so to speak), cracking under the pressure.

Despite my initial dread and absolute hatred of her [class], I have said for years and will continue to proudly claim for the rest of my life, Mrs. Berkbuegler’s ruthless steel blade of discipline and absolute insistence on accepting nothing but one’s absolute best has served me better than any other single thing I’ve learned since.

That’s because it’s the real basis of learning anything else you need to be successful in life. Most people will agree with the fact, but few actually live as if love, fame, and fortune are NOT innate rights the universe owes to us all on a silver platter simply because we exist. These teachers, harsh as they seemed at the time, were really showing more love and compassion than their more easy-going contemporaries.

This was the Tyler Durden School of Hard Knocks years before Fight Club. “Shock therapy” weeds out the weenies and turns everyone else into pillars of iron. And in my book, it’s the best format of education anyone can get.

I used to think conformity and strict discipline stifled creativity and was therefore “bad.” But it’s only bad if it lasts forever. In reality, stuff needs to get DONE and needs smart, focused people to do it. If you learn your craft under the pain of the Iron Will, then strike out from that point with your own theories and ideas, creativity will bloom – this time from a place of intelligence that moves the world forward, instead from one of random accident.

So Hat’s Off to the Nazi Grade School Teachers of yore – without you, I’d hate to imagine the sad state of affairs I’d be in today.

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Maybe it should’ve been longer.

What follows are 2 pieces I wrote earlier, describing the “highlights” of our little journey:

[begin part 1, written 2 days after our arrival]

I’m writing now from cold, snowy, icy Seattle, WA – yup, my friend Matt and I flew the 2000+ miles up (and over) here for… well, for a few reasons actually.

One is, Matt used to live here and is considering living here again. Wanted to come back to see if the old places still felt like “home” or not. Also, there is this girl (isn’t there always?) and tomorrow they are seeing each other for the first time in 4 years or so. As the spectator who made it possible for them to be together again, I will be very interested to watch and see what happens with them tomorrow. And the next day… and the next (we’ll be up here for about 8 more days, and I’m sure several of them will be spent as a 3-set, and while they’re off “catching up”, I’ll go rouge and hunt around the city for my own breed of amusement.) It’d be a shame to come here for the 2nd time and not see the Space Needle thing, so we gotta do that. Otherwise, the city’s free game.

Getting here was an unexpected adventure in itself. Matt arrived late into St Louis to meet up, which threw off our MetroLink schedule, causing us to have to park is car in some weird back alley and RUN to the nearest station. Kinda makes me wonder if it’ll still be there upon our (safe?) return, but of course I’m not gonna worry my good friend of 19 years with that little ponderance

Passed annoying security, then on to the plane. St Louis to Chicago. Chicago to Seattle.

That was the easy part.

Next in store was taking the wrong bus to downtown Seattle, then – an amazing stroke of luck – getting off at a stop that just happened to be 2 blocks from where we could catch the “real” bus outta there. Well, 40 minutes later in the freezing cold with my heavy (yet oh so stylish) duffle, we jump on the bus to meet up with Matt’s friend.

This is the “express” bus that’s supposed to take us smooth sailing into Redmond where we’re staying…

Except… no, it doesn’t.

Instead, the sadistic lady drops us off at some weenie little outpost in the middle of nowhere in the slush and ice. Reminded me of some arctic desert with nothingness as far as the eye could see. A lone eagle cry echoes the expanse; you know, that whole thing.

Well, 30 minutes later (!) some other dude in a shuttle bus with chains wrapped around the tires comes by and is like “you guys look cold, wanna lift?”

“No thank you, sir, the process by which our balls slowly turn blue is rather fascinating…”

Of course we want a ride!!

So he takes us as far as he can; to the end of the line. But we’re still not in Redmond… we’re out in the middle of some abandoned little town-like area, wading in about a foot of snow. Strangely, not a single building in sight has a canopy or any other kind of shelter. We stand under the only tree in sight, because at least the ice bits it drops is better than all the crap coming outta the sky.

Matt’s friend calls some other guy and they come to pick us up. They bring us back to somebody else’s home (friend of a friend of a friend sort of thing) where a lot of people are already gathered around in a circle telling interesting stories and the occasional dick joke. We had some fun for awhile as I scavenged some dead lasagna and some kind of potatoe-and-vegetable mixture.

But still… “how we gonna get home?” Matt asked his friend in a stroke of foresight. Seems the friend hadn’t thought that far ahead yet. Thankfully some of the others offered a ride, so we piled into this little station-wagon-like-thing and fish-tailed our way home.

Except… not quite.

They drop us off at the base of this gigantic hill, because there was no way any vehicle short of a Sherman tank could make it up there. So we grabbed our bags, gritted our teeth and lugged… and lugged… and lugged our stuff up this big icy creepshow… in near-darkness.

Finally, we summit. (yes, that’s what I’ll call it, a summit) And reach domestic tranquility.

Except… not quite.

The next morning, I discover The Truth: this apartment is a total disaster. No towels, no silverware… barely any food. Kinda mucky but not nearly as bad as some I have seen. (my place back home is immaculate, by the way)

Welcome to Gilligan’s Apartment.

I did manage to find an apple, which I promptly ate like it was the only food left on earth. Then Matt and I got dressed to go to the grocery… 1 mile away… down Hell-Hill… on foot.

And back.

The fun part was when we stopped into this nice warm Japanese restaurant for about 2 hours to relax and eat some REAL food. Then it was back to our task.

On the way out, we hijacked this little stray shopping cart and wheeled our load part way, dodging traffic like the little frog on Frogger.

Until it stuck in the snow.

Then we trudged the rest of the way on foot, back up the hill, grocery bags in hand… and on up to our Summit Arctic Retreat.

Now I’m here in a dimly lit living room, writing, telling you my tales of woe and triumph [laughs] It’s been a hell of a last 2 days.

I wonder what the other 8 will bring?

[...end of part 1 - continued below with part 2, written after I got back...]

I think Dorothy was really on to something with all the “There’s no place like home” stuff.

‘Cause I feel great to be back!

Near the end of that trip, I’d been on so many buses, planes, trains, and automobiles (literally), I could’ve swore the bed was shifting and churning underneath as my head hit my own pillow for the first time in 1/3 of a month at 6am Tuesday morning.

Yep, we were that late getting back.

My friend Matt’s a good guy, but not exactly known for punctuality or responsibility. These antics (along with his mule-stubborn refusal to run anywhere for any reason; something I’d wager on even if the guy was chased down face-to-face with the Grim Reaper Himself) caused us to:

a) trap ourselves in downtown Seattle with no shelter and a dead cell phone battery among the worst ice and snow storm the area has seen since 1880-something – I’m talking Guinness World Records shit. The other day I even read a news article about how the Pacific Northwest weather was quote “surprising even Alaskans” – geezus

b) covertly “borrow” a ride on the Metro since Matt forgot his wallet (containing our tickets) “in his other pants”, freaking out the crazy Korean driver I was sure would dump us off in the middle of nowhere (thank God for Holiday compassion and negotiating skills)

c) miss 3 key buses in a row on our way back to the airport, forcing us to lug our heavy travel bags over a mile across snow, ice, and freezing rain to the nearest major hub where the stops were more frequent

At last we arrived at the airport, waddled through a maze of security, finally settling into a comfortable lounge area to wait for our plane.

Which was delayed. And delayed again.

The plane was there, but since Dallas had some ice-issues, no one wanted us to take off since we’d get there too fast before they had time to clear off the runway.

Ah, a slip-n-slide runway. Fun fun.

One turbulent, unusually speedy flight later, we’re standing at a Wendy’s in Dallas – waiting for our plane back to St Louis.

Which was delayed. And delayed again.

The Dallas airport is so large, it has its own rail transit system to cart you around from place to place. We rode that thing at 40-50 mph for 4 stops and 12 minutes before even being in the remote vicinity of our gate.

Despite the extra time, we didn’t realize we were literally a whole MILE from the gate until about 15 minutes before the flight, thus sliding in just as the last person boarded the plane and the doors sucked shut.

Off the plane in St Louis. Over half an hour waiting to get our bags, then it’s off to the train, 3 hours late from catching our ONLY (cheap) hope of getting back to Matt’s car and my apartment.

Caught the last train of the night as it pulled out.

Now one last hurdle… would Matt’s car still be where we left it?

See, since Matt was late getting to my place the day we left for Seattle, we had to park his car in some dark, unmarked back-alley parking lot beside some delapidated apartments nearest the station to be on time for the train. Now, 10 days later, after everything that’d happened on this trip, this was the ONE THING we’d always counted on to go wrong in the end; the final cherry on top a big shit-Sundae.

We rounded the corner, and… it was… there. The tires were still on. And the engine still started. Amazing.

Matt drove me home and the rest was smooth sailing.

Smooth for me, I mean. Not for Matt. He stalled 2 times out on the highway and fell asleep once… didn’t make it home until NOON the next day.

Well, at least the trip was fun while actually IN Seattle, right?

Not so fast, Buckwheat.

Sure, we got to see some of Matt’s old friends, play some games, socialize, and toured around for awhile. That part was cool and I enjoyed myself. (and yes, we finally went to the Space Needle )

What was NOT cool was when Matt discovered this girl he went to go see (one of the major reasons I paid for most of the trip, so they could be together) had been lying to him the whole time. She’d lied about her feelings for Matt, desires for the future, and how she dumped this other guy so Matt and her could finally be together again.

None of it was true. Especially the part about dumping the loser.

He confronted her about it, she confirmed it, and they had a big fight. I found out about it 2 days later once all the dust settled.

Why she let things go on for as long as they did is still unclear, especially when there was no obvious benefit to anyone and things could only go downhill from where they stood.

You might think Matt got the entire bucket of bat turds dumped squarely on him.

But you’d be wrong.

Because on my first day back, I discovered the guy who was supposed to buy a part of my publishing business – the same guy I’d turned down another (good) offer for so I could accept his – backed out at the last second, for weird reasons that baffle us all.

Funny how everybody’s always so cool up until the point where they actually gotta pony up some cash.

Whatever. I’m back home now in my spacious, well-stocked, not to mention CLEAN home. It’s a new year and time to focus on getting back to work, making some damn money, and having some real fun.

Often, the only person you can truly rely on is yourself. Nobody’s gonna dust your ass off and throw you back in the game except you. So here I go for round 2. I have some important New Year’s wishes to start making come true!

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Before Google…

Before peer-to-peer file sharing…

Even before “mp3″ was a household word.

It was a time when your computer’s specs actually meant something, and you fought valiantly for every spare K of speed your dial-up modem could grab.

People who “knew computers” commanded Emperor-like respect. The enterprising young gentleman who was so inclined could re-install some poor old lady’s Windows 95, charge ridiculous prices that’d make even The Devil blush… and she’d thank him for it and invite ‘em back for milk n’ cookies next month to do it all over again.

Get several marks (er, “customers”) droppin’ cash like that, and… who needs college?

It was a time of double-dealers and fast talkers who’d promise you the world on a paper cocktail napkin if you’d only throw them some sweet Venture Capital Lovin’.

And among all of this, I was there – standing at the forefront of technological progress, overlooking the Grand Utopian Vista that lay in front of us all.

Every week, you could read of new heroes developing new gadgets, raking in new fortunes. New new new.

Success was ripe for the picking, or… so we were told. With all the hype and “new economy” bullshit flying around, even the elite among us got swept off our feet a little more often than we’d care to admit nowadays. Jealousy.

Those of us who were there remember it all too well.

But…

…behind the mainstream facade, some played a different game.

While Silicon Valley cranked out new computers and new software, the warez scene of the 90′s snapped them up, oftentimes quicker than they could be released to the public, and churned out their OWN versions. Fast, and best of all, for free.

Groups with names like CLASS, Army of Darkness, Paradox, Siege, X-Force, Devotion, Paradigm, Divine, Origin, and Razor dominated the underground landscape. Each had their own specialization. Some competed, some worked together. Some hated each other’s guts.

All were some pretty brilliant people.

What these guys would do is take a new software release, “crack” it by removing the imbedded protection, decrypting the special key codes, or finding some other clever workaround… repackage it, and “release” it out to the community under their group’s name.

When you opened the package, it’d usually contain archive chunks of the software, a customized installer, and a few .nfo files, which contained information about the release, group news, and also breadcrumbs of what networks the package passed through before finally arriving into your hands.

Some people will tell you they did it to steal. No. They didn’t do it for money, or to “get back at The Man” or even for fame or respect. It was just… fun… and gave bright minds something interesting to snack on.

And when they traded, they traded like how kids trade baseball cards; they didn’t want to “use” the card, they just wanted to store it under protective plastic and show it off to their friends.

In fact, they didn’t even condone illegal use among themselves. Here’s a line from an old nfo (information) file I found from Siege [sic]:

“We do not maIl out misSing disks, nor  do we mail out any information reGarding public distribution sites cOntaining pirated software or cracks, nor Do we mail out information regarding the sale of pirated software on CD or DAT. We do NOT condone the sale of pirated software. Rather than fill some guppy’s pockets with funds he did not earn, support the software developers.”

The bottom line is, those of us who liked the game or software application, BOUGHT it after we played around with the warez version first. That’s how it worked. The logic is easy; why dedicate yourself to Photoshop or 3d Studio Max if you’re not sure you’re gonna like it or be good at it anyway? Ya can’t take graphics classes in high school (at least not those kind, and especially not back in the late 90′s and early 2000′s) and the “shareware” or demo versions were too lame to make a real decision.

Glory days aside, some of the things these guys said in their packages was downright hilarious and often included bits of insider conversation and references that no one but them could possibly understand:

Protection by FlexNET. Greetz fly out to all members and friends of team PDX – Team Paradox, still alive and kickin after 7 years of getting bitched at for being No 1!

WE DO NOT WANT OUR RELEASES THERE AT ALL! YOU ARE NOT SUPPORTiNG US iN ANY WAY iF YOU SPREAD OUR STUFF AROUND! ONLY GAY MOTHERFUCKERS DO THAT, WE SHiT ON YOU! OUR RELEASES ARE MENT FOR THE SCENE ONLY AND NOT FOR ALL YOU WAREZ HUNGRY FUCKERS!!!

a example how much scene suxx those days:

lame groups like zone / midnight / DWP are selling leeches and warez dvds and still none cares…even more they get supported by lame siteops for example sj the mdn leader got busted… haez the dwp leader busted… and also some zone members are busted cause of their selling and public warez activities sj was selling leeches on his sites… haez sell leeches over toppis dumps and also sell on organised way warez dvd on china streets

Hey, just because I said they were brilliant with computers doesn’t mean they were good communicators

Here’s a good one I found in a Paradigm release:

Good luck to Elijah who turned him self into the police today … I hope you learned your lesson about picking up pre-teens at the local mall. =)

One from X-Force, giving you an idea of the kinds of names these guys went by:

We would like to give a warm welcome to Werner & Tardy, the former PTG, GENESiS, and TDU-JAM leader; we also welcome back an old member, Luke, the super arcentine cracker, the best in the whole South America!

OUR DiAMONDS-4-EVER GREETiNGS MUST GO TO:

Stingray , Mach One , Ones Wally , Slain , Wildchild , BlackMagic , Wayward , The Riddler , Longshot , SWC , Dim, Blueyes, Winterhawk, Solar and the ones who deserve it …

One from Divine (signed by “Merlin”), demonstrating the rivalry:

We expected to release this game 2 or 3 days agoo. Unfortunatly razor managed to steal our suplier. So we immidiately ordered the game, knowing razor would never be able to rip it below the disk limit. We all saw the 94 disk release from that group called indor or razind or whatever the fuck they are called. They needed 2 days to produce that one while it only took us 2 hrs (1 hr and 45 mins of that used for playtesting)……

A special word to our friend jkowall: We told you not to believe everything you’re told. Most of the guys in this scene are full of shit. You deserve better!

Special group greetings go to our hero’s in razor: You guys are our gods! We bow in your presence….. NOT!

Merlin,
Divine Intervention….

And this one is my favorite of all:

Well, Bluewater said we couldn’t do it but Datakill proves him wrong and comes through with a tough crack for this game – Origin would like to send a special shoutout to our new Canadian Headquarters – Extra special greetz to Hoppermania who is presently paying the ultimate price for everything he did for the scene in the early 90′s. When you get outta the big house Hopper, look us up – your family hasn’t forgotten you!

Classic.

Anyway, what made a particular release so memorable wasn’t any of these things at all. No, what really glued all this stuff to my brain over the years is the extreme amount of TIME and ENERGY these guys put into creating their own customized MUSIC for each crack they put out there.

Because more often than not, each of the custom installers these guys made would play some song while they chugged away in the background.

And the song was always different. Some were pretty complex.

But they all had that certain indescribable “warez music” quality about them.

Here, see what I mean for yourself. Below, I’ve archived 8 of the old warez songs I got ahold of during my search:

Since I hunted all these down, I’ve started a little collection of these silly things. If you have any you could contribute, I’d love to hear ‘em.

Most of these guys may not be around anymore, and as for me… I left the “scene” many, many years ago and have seldom looked back – but warez music is certainly worth a tiny niche spot in our collective History of Early Computer Days.

I’m just doing my bit part to keep it alive.

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“THE CITY OF SAINT LOUIS SUMMONS YOU TO APPEAR FOR JURY DUTY ON SEPTEMBER 8TH, 2008 AT 8:00 AM AT THE CITY CIRCUIT COURTHOUSE AT 10 NORTH TUCKER BLVD. – BLAH BLAH BLAH… IGNORE THIS NOTICE AT YOUR PERIL…. BLAH BLAH BLAH… BETTER BRING SOMETHING TO READ IF YOU KNOW WHAT’S GOOD FOR YOU… BLAH BLAH BLAH…”

Excuse me? Monday? 8 in the morning? And you’ll pay me how much? $12 a day, you say?

Omigod, I’m so there.

Actually that’s not true. About the pay, I mean. You see, $12 per day is only for the saps – the guys who just sit around all day and never called. But if you’re chosen from the sea of misfits to be on an actual jury… you get a whopping 50% pay-raise. Boo-yah! Now let’s see, that comes to…

$18 a day to decide the life-long fate of our fellow man!

Seems fair enough.

So I wake up Monday morning to my obnoxiously loud bell alarm clock, grab a quick bite to eat, and I’m off to St. Louis Circuit Court for the very first time (with book in hand, of course, per their suggestion. Mine was “Breakthrough Advertising” by Eugene Schwartz.)

They direct us to park in the nearby stadium arena. I grab the first spot I see, and take the shuttle down to the courthouse. I feel particularly pale among the other faces with me on the bus. But after living in St Louis over a year now, I’m more than used to it. Comfortable, even.

Entering the unusually gigantic courthouse reminded me of how Greeks must’ve felt after building a temple to Athena. Surrounding me were towering columns, majestic tablets with mysterious Latin inscriptions, and…

…Metal detectors.

Wearing jeans and a polo, I emptied my pockets and walked though onward to the jury calling room where they called out our numbers 20 or 30 at a time, to go to an upstairs for consideration on a trial.

There must’ve been hundreds of us in there, seated 10 to a row with devil only knows how many rows in all. They gave us little booklets to read about how awesomely cool jury duty is and how proud we should feel to be there, called out among the muck of our fellow citizens to do our duty for mankind.

Hell, if I’d sat there too many more times watching that video loop around, I’d might actually begin to believe it all.

Instead, I dozed off where I sat. Slumber the night before had never truly greeted me.

FIVE HOURS LATER I jolted awake. Did they just call my number? I don’t know. Maybe. I looked down at my tag: 400-something. Yep, that was me.

We take the stairs down, down, …down to the basement. Then up – up the elevator to the long hallway just outside some courtrooms; 4 of them to a floor, all connected by the same humongous hallway; a long wooden bench dividing the camps into north and south, reminding me of old Matlock episodes.

And there we waited yet again. All of us perfect strangers, bound together only by this common thread. Some of us old, short, young, fat, thin. Black. White. Two cute girls. Many ugly men. And then me.

It wasn’t long before the bailiff called us. We marched in, sat down in the pews. Nervous silence. And then…

BZZZZZZZT!

“All rise!” (we jolted up with a start as the bailiff mumbled something incomprehensible, as I’m sure he’s said it thousands of times) “…the honorable John J. Riley presiding.”

The judge sombers in with the enthusiasm of an undertaker and a demeanor to match. He sits down in his large wooden Chair of Judgment with the letters “LEX” carved in the headrest above. “Lex Luthor?” I wonder. Nah, that can’t be right.

“Be seated.” he says calmly, surveying the room. We obey.

For the next day and a half, we sit there in that large courtroom overlooking The Arch while the two attorneys (prosecution and defense) interview us in a sort of group-style public forum format – both trying to assess our suitability for serving as juror on this case – about which, at this point, all we know is it’s a serious criminal trial where a man’s liberty is at stake.

Since I assume they’re both competent attorneys (my first mistake), I’m under the impression they only want it to SEEM like they’re aiming for a fair jury. Because in reality, the goal of jury selection is to use your cunning verbal skills and powers of observation combined with demographic and psychographic profiling to tilt the odds of a verdict in your side’s favor as far as possible.

Er… maybe that’s a little too “New York City Slicker” for these two.

They ask us fair enough questions like: “Does anyone have a criminal record?”, “Have you or anyone you know ever been involved with violent crime?” and “Would you give testimony by a police officer more, less, or the same credibility as anyone else?”

But my personal favorite was “Does anyone here already think the defendant is guilty?”

Hmm. That last one’s a bit strange. I couldn’t imagine anyone in there standing up and explaining to the entire room how they “KNOW” the defendant sitting over there (a black man, by the way) is “already guilty” without even knowing what the case is about, let alone the details. I suspect it would be a fantastic way to make a few surprise enemies out in the hallway.

I decide to keep my mouth shut unless specifically asked something. But a few guys in the room definitely did NOT want to be there, and knew EXACTLY how to ensure their place back on the streets tomorrow afternoon while the rest of us slogged it out in court.

So here then are:

5 Ways To Guarantee You Will Not Get Picked To Serve On The Jury

#1. When they ask how you feel about the American judicial system, simply raise your hand and say “I do not believe in the circuit court and I am anti-legal system.” They’ll label you as a “crazy” and not ask any more questions. If you try to answer another, they’ll say “We’ve heard enough from you, thanks.” Worked like a charm for this one fellow that day.

#2. When they ask if you were ever convicted of a crime, start to tell virtually any story that begins with the words “Yeah, this one time – me and my girl – we were in a situ-A-shun…” (that’s street-talk for “situation” in case you couldn’t tell.) If you’re stuck for ideas, proceed to tell about the time you left an IHOP just as it was being robbed and were questioned in the case since you were the last on the scene, OR alternatively – tell about the time the “PO-lice” got all up in your “bizness” when you walked into a room and found some guy holding an AK-47 up to your little sister’s head because she wouldn’t have sex with him. (yes, these were some of the real stories that day in response to a simple yes or no question.)

#3. Tell them about how the idea of judging people offends your religious beliefs. And while you’re at it, refuse to be sworn in. They hate that.

#4. Tell them you think the guy’s already guilty. To seal your fate as a non-juror, you might even use the words “I mean, look at ‘em! If that ain’t a guilty face right there, I don’t know WHAT is!” (use this one at your own risk )

#5. When the lovely female prosecutor asks if you know anyone else in the room, say “Yeah, you look just like my girlfriend…” Then she’ll ask if you think you can put aside those feelings for this case. Simply reply thusly: “Man, I hated that bitch!” She might ask again. Just say “HALE no!” (yes, pronounce “hell” as “hale” – it’s a nice little touch – this one also takes some brass balls to pull off, but, guess what? It gets you off the hook like a charm.)

So there’s a few excuses for ya… should be more than enough for any jury dodger’s arsenal.

5 o’clock comes around. The lawyers wrap it up, and the judge debriefs us on the quantity and quality of donuts in the deliberation room. We’re done for now.

The following day, I enter wearing jeans and another polo. Strip search at the metal detector and then… more of the same relentless questioning. We break for lunch. I meet some nice people out in the hallway. We talk “jury talk” and end up dining together. I… actually… had fun… maybe this stuff isn’t so bad after all.

Back in court. We’re seated in all our positions. The bailiff stands there and you just KNOW that scary buzzer is gonna go off at any second… but… but when?!

You can cut the tension in the air with a knife – everyone poised to stand in a millisecond. It’s clear none of us wanna get caught with our pants down like last time.

… wait for it…

… wait fooor iiiit…

… … … …

BZZZZZZZZZT!

The room leaps to their feet!

“Stay seated!!!” the bailiff yells.

What?! What’s this? So we’re supposed to stand the first time, but not the second? Embarrassment and confusion circle the room, a spell broken only by the almighty judge as he makes his grand entrance…

…only to tell us to go back out into the hallway while the attorneys decide which ones of us they want.

WTF. Why not just keep us out there?

We go back out and I lean up against the marble wall like I own the place. One of my new acquaintances is talking to me about how he just KNOWS I’ll be chosen and out of the corner of my eye, I notice one of the two cute girls get up off the bench and walk 30+ feet over to where we’re standing, curiously lingering around. She’d seen us before. It’s obvious she wants to talk to me, but too shy to initiate.

“Omigod, is that a Louis Vuitton?” I blurt out, pointing to her shiny new handbag. “Just last week my little niece dragged me ALL OVER the city trying to find THAT, EXACT, BAG! Nobody even had it in stock! Finally we got to this ONE store that said they JUST sold the LAST one! So… all I’m sayin’ is… if you got that at Saks last Saturday… you’re dead!” I finish, smiling.

This got her smiling and opening up a little. We talked for awhile before the bailiff called us back into the courtroom.

We seated, and the bailiff read off the 14 juror numbers, one-by-one. 12 jurors and 2 alternates. Mine was the 3rd number to be called, and I took my new seat on the perch overlooking the judge and witness stand.

Afterward, everyone else was dismissed, and surprisingly, the trail started immediately after a brief break so the attorneys could assemble their final notes.

Revealed: The Case Of The Retarded Lawyers

Finally we got to hear what all this was about. Well, it was a rape case. And if they couldn’t get the guy on rape, they were also charging him with “sexual assault” for good measure (which is legally different, as I came to learn.)

After hearing this, I expected the whole thing to be pretty clear-cut. I thought most rape cases were. But not this one, not by a longshot.

The prosecuting attorney opened with an over-the-top melodramatic plea to us jurors to take into consideration how “special” (e.g. mentally challenged) this girl was and how all she wanted to do was leave her lifestyle here in St. Louis and go back to Arizona where she came from. She came here a couple years ago to visit this guy and they ended up getting married 2 months later. They lived in the guy’s friends’ basement in what came off to me as a very filthy, miserable, and sometimes abusive existence. Anyone could see it was bad, but then again these weren’t exactly society’s finest we were dealing with here. Finally they had a big fight and she left to go back to Arizona, leaving behind husband, life, everything with nothing more than a small bag of her stuff and the clothes on her back.

Ok so far, right? Sure. But then…

…when she arrived at the Greyhound bus station, turns out she forgot her confirmation number. No number, no ride. So she spent the night there at the stop, rather than go back to that house. Next morning, she wanders around town aimlessly and bumps into a guy named Sam. Sam lets her use his phone and they spend the rest of the day together. Sam says she can spend the night over at his place and he’ll feed her. So she comes over to Sam’s crappy apartment. Sam takes her in, gives her food and lets her use his phone as much as she needs to try and get that Greyhound confirmation number. She calls some people, but to no avail… and then…

…this is where the story begins to get all muddled.

Some accounts say Sam cajoled her, using guilt and flattery. Some say Sam pushed her down. Some say he pulled her forward. Some have him taking her clothes off, others have her taking off her own clothes willingly. One time she told him “no”, the other time she never told him a thing… But no matter what happened, it’s a classic case of “he said, she said” because they were the ONLY two people in the room.

So how can there possibly be so many different versions, if there were only 2 people present? Simple. Because of idiotic questioning from BOTH attorneys that frustrated us on the jury and tried the patience of the judge…

…the girl contradicted her own testimony and deposition no less than 5 times!
Sometimes even minutes apart from each statement!

This was one of the major things that called into question the very validity of the whole thing. Another biggie was the fact that after the act happened, she stayed the night at his house (didn’t leave)… AND spent almost the entire next day with Sam, even going shopping and over to his buddy’s house to watch them play chess! Then afterward, Sam made sure she got on a city bus back to her former house to finally get that damn confirmation number.

What’s more, is that the vaginal swab test they did at the hospital revealed NONE of Sam’s little boys… however, they did find some on the panties, which were now torn and looked pretty dirty from what I saw (didn’t surprise me… this was NOT a clean girl by any stretch of the imagination.) This proved that SOME kind of inappropriate activity occurred, but not necessarily what they were trying the defendant for in this case. The prosecution lost even more ground with me when she presented the torn panties as “evidence” Sam had been violent, but then later on in the trial, we learned that they’d simply been cut by forensics when they took the test sample. C’mon, she should’ve known that.

More amateur hour antics over at the county courthouse were played out when the prosecution annoyed the shit outta everyone (even the judge) by CONSTANTLY asking to “approach” the bench to bicker every last little detail in private. 98% of the time, Judge Riley shot ‘em down anyway, ultimately accomplishing nothing. The guy would’ve looked infinitely better if he hadn’t cried every time someone spilled his milk and cookies.

On top of that, the line of questioning by both lawyers was clearly unplanned, on-the-fly, and usually led the witness around in circles or… nowhere at all. Often they repeated the EXACT SAME QUESTION multiple times in a row (after it was JUST answered), frustrating the judge and angering the jury. Through this, we the jury learned tons of irrelevant, useless information that was never even discussed in deliberation.

Finally…

…it was all over and the day came where those of us in the main 12 of the jury were systematically locked up in a little room with donuts and pizza for 8 HOURS while we discussed the case far too long into the night.

On that last day, I arrived wearing one of my better suits. I walked up to the metal detectors and began the usual drill of emptying my pockets.

“Oh no, sir, you don’t have to do that. Come right on through.”

Well hell. There just ain’t no breaks for a guy in jeans and a polo.

Deliberation began, and within 15 minutes we had already eliminated rape (the more serious charge) from the table completely. At this point if Sam was gonna get convicted of anything, it was going to be “sexual assault” – which is different than rape in that sex still occurs, but not by force or threat of death or loss of a body part or vital function.

But it was still an uphill battle. About half of us were unsure of anything and we needed to discuss the finer points, or “elements” of the charge as they say in legal terms.

I just didn’t think it would take 8 friggin’ hours.

Almost from the beginning I had the “reasonable doubt” necessary to let the guy go. It was clear he did something he shouldn’t have, but whether that thing was what he was being charged with, well… the evidence just wasn’t there. Also adding onto that the absolute incompetence of both attorneys in the case, none of us had very much hard info to go on.

Except for ONE guy. Or so he thought.

There was this one old man in our jury who rained torrents of shit on our parade.

We discussed everything, every relevant part of the case in minute detail. 6 hours into the thing, ALL BUT TWO of us were in favor of a “not guilty” vote. It came down to two guys… one was David, our excellent, fair, and logic-minded foreman… and the other, this crabby old fart of a man.

We sent down a note to the judge saying we were having trouble, hoping he’d just let us off the hook. He called us down, asked if we reached a verdict. No, of course not.

“Go back up there and try some more.” was his answer.

We did. And after reviewing his notes again, (and if you ask me, the prospect of staying here all night didn’t set well with him) David changed his vote to a “not guilty.” One down, one to do.

But the old dude wasn’t budging. No matter what we asked or how hard we tried, he kept repeating the same tired old diatribe:

“When she was up there on the witness stand and said she told him “no”… I just believed her.”

And we would say, “Ok, but what about when she contradicted her testimony 3 minutes later? And what about what she said in the deposition?”

“I just believe what she said.”

“Just that one time?”

“Just that one time. It was the look in her eye.”

David tried various “thought experiments”…we tried logic, we tried emotion… we even said we could agree with him if he only could explain his decision.

“I just… it’s just… when I saw that look in her eye, right there in the moment… I believed her that she said no.”

Ok, so maybe she really did say no. But there’s still the issue of whether or not intercourse actually happened and that she properly made Sam understand that she was resisting (both of which were legal requirements.) The evidence to support all that just wasn’t there. This is what “reasonable doubt” is supposed to mean, and there’s no way we wanted to send a man to prison and get him listed as a sex offender over such flimsy evidence.

Still he persists, “I just saw that look in her eye.” Ah yes, the brilliant hunch. Lest we forget.

Everybody groans as the old guy sits there smugly with a slight grin crossing his face every now and then. Personally I think he just enjoyed being shitty and illogical just so he can feel important for awhile. (And… I can’t prove this, but… he might’ve had some racial issues with the defendant.) Either way, we all agreed there was definitely something going on in this guy’s head that he wasn’t telling us about… and that we’d never discover for sure.

At one point, it got so heated we stopped talking about the case altogether and I began what became an enthralling conversation on theoretical physics and the fate of the universe.

We couldn’t agree on Sam’s guilt, but we did manage to reach a consensus on the ethics of oversized cyclotrons and what might happen to one’s field of view as they approach the speed of light.

…Annnnnd then back to the case, which was going nowhere fast.

Several of us, me included, began to just not care too much anymore. We were worn down and irritable. Eventually we sent down another note to the judge that basically said there was no way on God’s Green Earth we were ever going to agree on a verdict. He called us down for our official take.

“Ladies and gentleman of the jury, have you reached a verdict?”

“No, your honor.”

“Then I declare this a mistrial and you are free to go.”

After the official stuff, he debriefed us on how we served our duty well and how it was illegal for the city to call us back for duty for at least a couple years or so. Then he informed us that since it was so late at night, we’d be escorted back to our cars at the parcking garage by means of the St. Louis City Police “meat wagon” – a lovely term that means “caged 10-passenger van with metal seats and unforgiving shocks.”

As we parted ways that cool, wet night in the city… and despite our mistrial due to fart-face, I couldn’t help but think “The system isn’t half bad.” Take 12 unbiased strangers off the streets and have them decide the damn case.

It works more often times than not, and… I certainly can’t think of any better way, save God Himself coming down and telling us all what really happened on the night in question.

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The drive from my place in St. Louis takes about 3 hours. In New York they call suburban houses lining the streets with a few trees mixed in “the country.”

Ha! That’s not the country.

Out here is the kind of territory where miles separate neighbors, and a simple trip to town easily consumes your entire afternoon. The nights are absolute black and if a day goes by where you hear more than the wind and chirping wildlife, you had something to talk about down at the cafe – next time you managed to make it over that way. Which could be a week. Maybe more. And if you stay longer than 7 days, even the finest English gentleman is guaranteed to take home a rather unflattering accent.

In other words… not really Greg’s cup of tea. Never was.

Don’t get me wrong though – it’s a beautiful place to visit and I’m convinced that Missouri country folk rank among the World’s Most Friendly People – you just couldn’t pay me enough to actually settle down here.

Yet… this place, my grandparents’ farm, is where I spent a good portion of my early childhood (as in, ages 0 to 6 and then a few summers after that.) Even though I’ve spent my entire life (so far) always wanting to live “somewhere else”, there are a lot of good memories here.

And since now the farm is mere weeks away from being sold, gone possibly forever, this is the last time I get to walk around and take note of all the little memories that would certainly otherwise be lost to time.

So here this midnight I fondly sit, in the old living room dimly lit
Pondering many quaint and curious stories from days of yore
While I think, nearly napping, from my keyboard comes a tapping
My hands clickety-clacking, fingers rapping… until sore.

Thank you, Mr. Poe

So here are some random memories, in no particular order, of little Greg’s life on the Missouri countryside:

Driving up to the place from the road, the first things you notice are the large cattle fields, the sturdy wooden fences, the barn, and the single story white ranch house where we lived – everything built by hand and maintained by my grandpa… even up until his early 80′s. (I hope I’m as healthy up until the very end too… and if I’m anything like my “tough as nails” dad, I probably will be… assuming, of course, a I’m not hit by a bus or something )

Anyway, I used to go along with grandpa out on his chores to feed the cows and check up on his little rural empire to ensure nothing went awry. It was novel at first, but got a bit monotonous after awhile. As long as I can remember, I always had this feeling inside me that “something better” was happening “somewhere else” so I was never really indoctrinated into real “farm life.” But grandpa had his own ways of making it better for me with some of life’s simple thrills.

One day, after chores, grandpa was driving us in his truck back to the house. There were several fences to pass through on the way, with the last one always gated closed to keep cows from wandering out toward the house and running away. At that last fence, he’d stop the truck, get out, open it, drive through, stop and close it again before continuing on…

…But not this time.

This time, he wasn’t slowing down. I looked over at him. He smiled. I looked back at the gate ahead of us, fast approaching. I glanced back at him again, nervously.

“What are you doing?” I asked, a little worried now.

“Better hold on, son” he grinned, calm as can be.

I latched onto the door and whatever else I could get a death-grip on. I can remember thinking the little kid version of “Oh crap oh crap oh crap oh crap!” as we rammed the gate full force, slinging it open with a bang and rattling aftershock.

It didn’t break because grandpa had this planned all along. Before we left, he’d purposely left the gate unsecured so I could experience this little stunt.

Grandpa was always like that. In small doses, he’d surprise you when you least expected it.

Another time I remember sitting around on a bright sunny day, dreadfully bored. Grandpa came up to me and asked, “Would you like to go for a drive?”

“Where to?” my little logic-based mind needed to know.

“No where in particular,” he replied, “just a drive.”

And we did. It was nice. He showed me a few things I would’ve never noticed before. With his guidance, I even (reluctantly) took the wheel for awhile. And it was on that drive I learned that not everything had to have some kind of purpose, goal, or task to complete – you could just go out… and… take a drive – enjoy living, breathing, and feeling things most people are too busy for.

Kinda funny the small things that stick in your mind like that.

My two earliest living memories happened at this house. I must’ve been two, three years old at the latest. Mom was bathing me in the bathroom sink. She left to go get something as I sat there having fun just splashing around.

Then somehow, for some reason… it occurred to me that what she went to go get was a camera. And it dawned on me she would return in short order to snap a cute shot of me playing in the sink.

“Well,” I remember thinking, “I’ll show her!”

So when I heard her footsteps coming around the corner, I prepared my face for a surprise just for her and her sneaky little photo. Here was the result:

To me, at the time, it seemed like I was just messing up her photo… you know, raining on her parade. But when it was finally developed, I guess the last laugh was hers indeed Oh well.

My second earliest memory is one where grandpa actually took a sick calf inside the house for awhile one winter so it could get well where otherwise it would’ve died out in the cold.

And in this same bathroom, I used to break into the shaving cream, foam my smooth face up and “shave” with an old-fashioned blade razor (don’t worry, I never loaded a real blade.) I considered it practice, because when I was young all I wanted was to grow up and be older. As I write this now, I’m not yet old enough to want to be younger, but I am at the age I always dreamed about when I was little. Being 26 is good… I like being able to have my own place, buy what I want and travel… but I miss some of those early days too.

I remember watching James Bond movies (in this living room I’m writing in now) with mom. I remember going out to the garden to pick fresh carrots, go inside, wash and eat them right away. Used to leave the green stalks on so I could be like Bugs Bunny.

I used to build with blocks. Play outside in the snow – one time I even jumped off the porch very high up and can remember how amazed I was when the soft snow protected me so well from something that would’ve hurt.

By the way, see that blocks photo up above? Just as an aside, mom always said I should marry a girl who loves it (or thinks its cute, or whatever) when I make that “concentration face” with my mouth… which I still apparently sometimes do to this day, unconsciously.

I remember finding a one of those pressure-based little-black-label-making guns among some old junk and taking it as my own. I had someone buy me some black label tape and for the next several weeks, I went around sticking little custom labels on everything; my gun, my baseball bat, my cup in the fridge… I even stuck little labels on everyone’s bedroom door in the house, indicating whose room it opened into. To this day, even as I write this right now, those labels are still on all those doors. One says “Dallas $” (my uncle’s name with a dollar sign after it, indicating how I thought he was as good as rich back then), another “Grandma” another “Papa”…

I remember nailing nails – as many as I possibly could – into the front porch. Some were so close together the heads overlapped.

I remember, on my 6th birthday, staring out my grandma’s kitchen window at the clearest blue sky I’d ever seen. Ever.

I remember trying to play the piano they have here in the living room… poorly. I didn’t care. It was fun just trying to make the sounds make sense together. I tried to memorize the good note combinations and eventually played little tunes I discovered.

I remember playing out in the fall leaves, hearing them crunch under my feet. One time I went off aimlessly into the woods, walking for a long time, eventually discovering a little waterfall. It was beautiful. I stayed there and played for as long as I could before evening. When it started to get dark, I found my way back home. Strange… I never found that waterfall ever again.

I used to go outside with my BB gun (later, my pellet gun) and shoot birds. This is also one of the million things my cousin Caleb and I did a lot together. Those were great days. Some of the best. We were perfect friends for many years.

We went out and discovered unseen parts of the farm. One time, my uncle bought us a 4-wheeler and riding around in the fields to the far reaches of the territory was one of the most fun days in years. Another time (when we were older, in our early teens) he bought a dune buggy and we rode it around everywhere. It had this peculiar quirk about it though: since it was a stick shift, it would stall and die if not handled just right. And when it did, for some bizarre reason it wouldn’t start back up again with Caleb in the passenger seat. So when it died, Caleb had to get out, I had to start it, get it going, and run around in circles at 10 MPH until he could (literally) jump in with me. Hilarious watching him try to jump at the perfect time.

Caleb and I used to shoot bottles, cans, rabbits, windows… anything that would produce a noticible difference if hit. But our prime target was always birds. Since grandpa hated it when birds got into his garden, Caleb and I waged our own personal little war on birds for years. We always used to say that “country birds” are where you develop real marksmanship skill… they’re hard to hit. But “city birds” will just let you walk right up to them and kick ‘em in the face. And what fun is that?

We also used to play a game…one that we made up ourselves called “Trap” – the object of the game was for one of us to go into the back bedroom and prepare every kind of obstacle he could possibly devise (including ones that hurt!) to prevent the other guy from reaching the end of the house. We’d take turns. When it was my turn to make the trap, Caleb would wait at the opposite end of the house until I said the key word “READY!!!”…at that point, his goal was to make it to the other end of the house by running as fast as he possibly could… and continuing to run even if he encountered a staggering blow from one of my traps. What made it so fun was the speed. We’d spend all this time creating these traps for each other, only to have the whole plan unfurl in a matter of seconds. Sometimes they hurt but that was all part of the fun. One time I remember Caleb reaching the end of my trap when, exhausted, he hit a matress resting up against a wall with his back and slid down to where he was then sitting on the floor, catching his breath. A heavy flashlight I’d placed on top of the matress wobbled… fell, and… missed his crotch by mere inches. We laughed at that one for days.

Speaking of traps, Caleb and I also used to set them for my uncle, who often came home late at night when everyone was fast asleep. The first few really got him good, but eventually he learned to avoid them… so we had to get more and more devious with each one. What began as simple things like black wire to catch his neck and legs on in the dark and short-sheeting his bed, eventually evolved into knocking over water traps, and playing tape recorders with scary/funny messages on them set to go off when he opened the door. We also experimented with different methods to stick his hands to doorknobs and adhere his feet to the hallway floor.

Once when I was little… very little… I apparently jammed a paperclip into the wall socket in grandma’s bedroom. It shorted out the whole house and when the lights went black all at once, everyone rushed back to the room to see if I was OK. They tell me I was found there sitting on the floor, smoke streaming out of the outlet. I looked up at them and exclaimed only one word: “HOT!” – not hurt, just very very surprised. They say the only reason I wasn’t hurt (or worse) was because I’d jammed the paperclip’s prongs into separate holes, creating a path for the electricity to travel through my body and out the other side, rather than INTO it. Whew…

I remember a kid I didn’t like who visited grandma’s house one time. Caleb was there too. We played tricks on him like saying that all the mole hills outside in the back yard were actually land mines so when he goes back there to play, better not step on one or… else. I don’t think he ever went back there to play. I remember the kid wasn’t black, but he wasn’t white either. So Caleb and I called him “grey.” … He wasn’t that, either

And then… there’s the smell of toast from grandma’s super-early-morning breakfast. It’s such a simple thing but brings back good memories. When I was little & staying the summer at this house, my grandma would wake up super-early (like 5am) to fire up the stove and begin making the most mouth-watering breakfast. Of course I was still asleep, but the smell often woke me up and sometimes I would stumble into the dining room bleary-eyed and grab a bite to eat. She’d give me a piece of toast with her homemade blackberry jelly  and a couple eggs before I creaked back down the cold hallway to bed. Those were some happy times. So I’ve associated these feelings somewhat with the smell of good breakfast food, but especially toast, for some reason.

These days, I rarely have a breakfast like that. Usually something more like a simple piece of fruit or vegetable; just something small and healthy so I don’t start the day hungry. But once in awhile, I admit it would be nice to wake up to a smell like that again.

I remember going deer hunting once with grandpa and dad. I was little, far too young to shoot… I was just there for the experience, which, in my opinion was VERY boring… just waiting around quietly for something that may or may not happen for hours… or ever at all. But when it finally did happen… a good sized deer appeared in the distance… I’ll never forget how the ringing in my ears felt when that gun blast went off. The feeling reminded me of something like solidified earwax slowly oozing out of both ears in the shape of a cylinder.

Then there’s all the times Caleb and I played with fireworks. Every 4th of July, we’d get excited over all these fireworks catalogs arriving in the mail. And every 4th of July, it was “rich” uncle Dallas who footed the bill for our little hobby. We had a huge cache and used it sparingly. Sometimes we’d have little firework wars. I caught Caleb’s hair on fire with a Roman candle. A firecracker blew up in my face, taking with it all the surrounding air. I remember being shocked and not able to breathe for a bit. For a few seconds there, it was kinda scary and thought I’d actually blown my nose off or something. Nah, I was fine. Just a little surprised.

I remember the gorgeous sunsets on the horizon and the crystal clear black nights, the sky unobscured by light pollution like the city. You could see every star.

Grandpa taught me how he liked the lawn mowed when I was little. He always made the first round on the riding lawn-mower, and then he’d let me take over afterward. I’d finish it up for him. One time he wanted me to get off the mower to talk to him. I left it running but for some reason must’ve forgot to put it in park. While he was talking to me, he noticed my eyes get real wide, and turned around to see the runaway lawn mower about to crash into the house. He ran after it, hopped on, and averted disaster just in time.

I remember my uncle Dallas’ penny collection. He had (has) more than I’d ever seen at once in my entire life. I think he stopped saving them many years ago, but back when I was little, the large jars were everywhere. Every night when he came home, he’d empty the pennies into the latest jar. I have no idea why he started doing this, but it went on for years.

I remember watching PBS television. My favorite shows of all time back then were Ghostwriter (I had a crush on the girl who played Lenni (Blaze Berdahl), 3-2-1 Contact, Sesame Street (of course), “Where In The World Is Carmen Sandiego” and “Square One” (my favorite of favorites, next to Ghostwriter… they had a setment on there called “Mathnet” (imitating Dragnet) that was awesome.) OH! And Mr. Rogers! Can’t forget him. I loved Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood while growing up. He taught some great lessons on his shows and was an inspirational role model for several generations of little kids, me included. He had such an influence on me that I actually got a little teary-eyed when I read the news about his death in 2003. I have all of his books and think his simple advice on how to live a good life is some of the best out there. In a time when parents are at work and there was no one around to play with, Mr. Rogers made being a kid a little less lonely.

I remember clothes on the clothesline outside and grandma cutting up and canning all the food from this seasons garden harvest. It was always more than enough for everybody and I personally credit their clean meat (no hormones or other artificial weird shit) and fresh vegetables to my excellent health growing up and to this day.

Many years ago, grandma gave me a large tray loaded down with about $120 worth of old silver dollar coins, half dollar coins, quarters, and dimes (which I still have, by the way!) Ducktales was a favorite cartoon of mine and being the money-loving Cancerian I am, wanted to be just like Scrooge McDuck and have this big multi-story money bin with a diving board at the top so I could leap off, dive into my money and swim around. In my young mind, this coin collection started me on that journey. But… obviously I needed to accumulate far more coin if I were to ever swim in it. So what’s a little boy to do? Start a lemonade stand, you say? Naw… far too plebian for the Cancerian boy. Instead, I started charging admission to the bathroom: 25 cents per person per visit… or $5.00 for a full week up front. Capitalism at its finest. This actually worked for awhile, but eventually the ploy lost its cuteness quickly after I demanded payment for past dues. This taught me a valuable lesson in business: to charge admission for something, you first need to control the resource

Well, I’ve been at this for hours now and… I think that’s about all I can do for this brain dump. If I think of anything else, I’ll edit the post. But for now, I’ll say it is good to spend some last few days around this place again, especially so I can remember all these things and record them here to my site. That’s one of the reasons I have this site here, you know… to serve as a sort of “living record” of where my mind’s been and where I’m going – so that some day I can look back and nothing important is lost to time. I can remember how I was at different times, and others (if they’re interested enough) can discover a few of my innermost thoughts as well.

So I’ll close now with a few more photos of “little Greg” here on this farm… and get myself to bed!

Me, showing off the fish I caught in the stream

Little Greg playing in the fall leaves down by the mailbox

Little Greg wearing a helmet I found in this old storage trailer that my grandpa always wanted to get rid of but grandma wanted to keep around… LOTS of random crap in there. To the right you can see the swing grandpa made for me. It lasted years and years.

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Now imagine that day existing in a timeless state – a bubble of time made just for you – separate from the cares of the rest of the world.

Perhaps you’re at your favorite restaurant, talking and enjoying each other’s company late into the night…

Perhaps you’re outside, walking together in the park, playing games in the sun…

Or perhaps you’re together on a great adventure into uncharted territory, just like old times.

At this point, God (or whoever you may believe in) descends on the two of you like a soft breeze and whispers into your ear:

“This time the two of you have right now – this day, this very moment – will last as long as you choose. No one else but you will notice the infinity. As everyone else around you calmly waits for a future that never comes, you will enjoy this day until you choose to end it.

“But when you do choose,” God continues, “Know this will be the last time you two will ever have. Forever.”

How would this revelation change your day? What would you do differently?

Obviously in life, we seldom get such divine warnings. When someone’s last day on earth is finally here, we’re never the wiser. We keep plodding along like we always have, saying the same things we always have, acting out the same scripts we always have – asleep in some kind of mental fog.

Then you blink – it happens just like that – someone you loved is gone.

And it is at that point, you finally consider all the “woulda, shoulda, coulda”‘s – and regret begins to mount.

Well, fortunately – very fortunately for me – it never happened like that for my grandpa and me.

On September 28, 2008, during a warm sunny Sunday afternoon – my grandpa died at 89 years old. But sad as it was, everything was OK for me – because I knew his last good days and last smiles were because of me, and I made them count.

It was only 45 days ago or so, he was up here to visit me in St. Louis in fine enough health. Then earlier this month, my mom called to tell me grandpa’s health had taken a sudden turn. He was having trouble breathing. No real reason, just started happening.

Ever since I was a little boy, as early as 5 years old running around on my grandparents’ farm, I remember times when grandpa pulled me aside to tell me things like “I won’t always be around, you know” and “I don’t have too much longer” – like he was preparing me for it or something.

A full twenty years after he said those things to “little Greg” he was still going strong. Of course I knew it had to happen someday, but he was always so healthy and could run circles around men his age (or younger!), it was always easy to imagine “someday” pushed so far into the future – far and faded enough to just kindof forget it completely.

But after hearing that call from mom, “someday” suddenly became “any day”

One day, after I got home from jury duty, I called my mom to update her on my schedule change for the week. She’d taken a trip out to see grandpa and he was right there nearby. Asked if I wanted to talk to him.

Of course I did.

I’d never heard him like this; for the first time ever in his life, he sounded old. It was work for him just to draw enough air out of each breath.

I tried so hard to talk normally, but I could feel my normally rock-solid composure cracking.

He said, “They sent me some new medicine this morning, so we’ll see if that helps. If it does, I hope to see you soon. If not… we had some good times.”

I managed to blurt out “Yeah….. we sure did” ………

That was enough. It was at that point I finally lost it, and cried – only a little, silently… to hold it back the best I could so he wouldn’t know. And tried to stop my voice from crackling and speak normally for the rest of the call.

Among my feeble attempts at a normal conversation, I told him not to say that, and that I’d try my best to see him soon… as soon as I was let go of being a juror on this trial. He said it wasn’t good to judge people and that he hoped the trial would be resolved without my judgment (it was – the judge declared a mistrial and the 12 of us all parted ways, absorbed back into society.)

Soon afterward, he got worse. Then a little better. Then worse than ever. I left St. Louis as soon as I could to go see him in the excellent hospital they have at St. John’s in Springfield, MO – a little more than 200 miles from my home. There were times he was in a lot of pain, but his mind was always clear. Eventually it was obvious he was dying. The only thing I could do was let him know I was there at his side to show I cared. I told him I loved him. He smiled his only smiles then because he saw I was there. Those were the nights for crying.

A couple days before he died when I came to see him again – privately when no one else was around – I said “See grandpa? I came to see you again just like I said I would.” He nodded and smiled faintly. His last words to me were “Yeah, son, you did what you said.”

Grandpa was never afraid of death. In fact, even in his last days he talked about it casually and just wanted to make sure everyone else was taken care of. He wasn’t a great novelist, a discoverer of science, or a shrewd businessman – I don’t even think he took anything past the 8th grade. He was just a great grandpa to a little boy growing up – a model of a “good guy” to a boy with no father. And that was enough for me.

I’ve been thinking about something a lot lately. It’s one of those obvious-sounding statements that no one thinks about much, but is nonetheless profound … something that becomes a little more meaningful with each consideration:

There’s a last time for everything.

There’s a last time you ever kiss your girlfriend or boyfriend…

There’s a last time you ever hug your mom…

There’s a last time you ever talk to a good friend…

And, there’s a last time you get to spend with someone you care so much about.

For me, for my grandpa, the last real quality time was the weekend of August 16th 2008.

It’s strange because… there was such a strong pull on me to do it – I was in such a rush to get him up here to spend some time with me because I was afraid something unexpected might happen and lose the chance forever. There were problems. It almost didn’t happen – but I MADE it happen.

How did I know it was now or never?

You can call it intuition or blind luck. Either way, most people miss their chance.

Feels a bit strange that only last month he was up here to visit me in good health – stayed a few days, saw some of his friends, showed him St Louis’ more attractive parts he hadn’t seen since the days of World War II, treated him to all my best things, went to the park on a sunny day, and watched old westerns late into the night. He even had a few of my beers He was so glad we got to do these things. He talked about his trip a lot afterward to anyone who’d listen.

The point is: I treated it like the last time – ever.

If only we were always so lucky to know when our various “last times” were, there’d seldom be any regret.

We all have our different beliefs as to what happens after death, if anything at all. But no matter what the belief, none of us really KNOW. I certainly don’t claim to know. It’s a bit of a mystery.

So when you’re with someone you care about, try the best you can to say the things you never say and do the things you always want to do – just like it’s the very last time. It’s not always possible, or even practical, but you’ve got to do your best.

For all you know, it might be the last time. For all we know, this may be all we get.

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I’ve always been one to tinker with things a bit before gradual acceptance or outright dismissal.

And astrology has always been one of those subjects that fascinated me. Now before you go jumping to any conclusions here, the kind of astrology I’m talking about is REAL astrology… with numbers, formulas, calculations, and charts… not that stupid commercialized crap you find in newspaper horoscopes and in the back of Cosmo.

Yes, there’s a difference. A big difference.

Most people don’t even know the “real” brand of astrology exists. The limitations of their criticisms go something like this:

“Horoscopes are silly. Any one of those descriptions could fit pretty much anyone. Cancer, Leo, Aquarius, Aries, it doesn’t matter – They’re all too vague to be useful.”

or…

“How can you describe the behaviors of everyone who’s ever been born with only 12 personality types? There are certainly more types of people out there than twelve.”

or maybe…

“I don’t believe in astrology. There’s just no way any of that could be true. I believe we’re fully in control of our destinys.”

or even…

“Since the 12 signs system was originally created thousands of years ago, the Earth’s orbit has gradually changed by about 30 degrees, thus rendering all calculations based on the old system off by an entire sign.”

All common arguments, all equally ridiculous – except perhaps for the last one.

First of all, astrology is not like a God – something to be “believed in” as if it were some kind of ethereal mist. No. Instead it it based on exact measurements of observable celestial bodies. Very reproducible and very testable. The only caveat of this is the demonstrability depends largely on the knowledge and skills of the one doing the test. Meaning, you can’t expect to just come out of a 2 hour class and start throwing this stuff around by the end of the day. Just like anything else worth knowing, it takes months, years of study to get really good.

Second, just because there are 12 astrological signs does not mean there are only twelve personality types. It only means there are 12 sun signs – twelve divisions of the sky, together forming a 360 degree 3d view. In addition to the 12 sun signs, which are based on an approximate 30 day span in which you were born, there are 2 other factors in astrology that most people are not aware of: the location (longitude and latitude) and time (hour and minute) you were born. These 2 factors act as “modifiers” to your base sun sign. So if you’re a Cancer (like me), it is not enough to just leave it at that; Cancer traits will describe my base default personality – my temperament – but will not suffice for many other things. You need ALL the data in order to form a complete picture of yourself that makes sense and actually works.

Third, anyone who says the personality descriptions are too vague to be useful and could apply to anyone is either: 1. Not looking at correct information, or 2. Basing their comments on those silly tabloid horoscope sections which were not created by real astrologers, but by writers trying to make their publication sell more copies by being interesting. In a moment, I’ll do a breakdown of Cancer traits, compare them with myself, and show just how accurate they really are.

But first, the issue about the Earth’s orbit gradually skewing off by 30 degrees over the last few thousand years, while true, does not affect astrology. This is because modern day astrologers (real ones, at least) take into account actual real-time sky data when calculating – information that can be found in almanacs and on the internet in NASA databases. One astrologer I went to here in St. Louis had 6 books out on the desk simultaneously, busily thumbing through all of them and making comparisons as I fed him my data. This man was no “guesser” nor was he a mystic.

Ok, so anyway, I used the excellent, though shoddily designed website Astrology-Online to read about the traits of a Cancer, and below I will go almost line-by-line quoting you what is said, then following it with a comment from my personal life.

The Cancerian character is the least clear-cut of all those associated with the signs of the zodiac.

Hmm, just as a fun note, this may explain why I’ve historically had such a difficult time finding a place in the world that seemed most natural to me. Anyway, moving on…

It is a fundamentally conservative and home-loving nature, appreciating the nest like quality of a secure base to which the male can retire when he needs a respite from the stresses of life, and in which the Cancerian woman can exercise her strong maternal instincts. The latter tends to like and to have a large family.

A person could argue here and say “Yeah but everybody likes to have a nice place to relax at the end of the day and get away from it all. That’s just common sense.” However, this comment fails to realize just how strongly attached a Cancer is to his place over a “normal” person. It’s not just a box with 4 walls to spend time in when not outside, it’s a WAY OF LIFE and more importantly, a SENSE OF IDENTITY. A Cancer will take a stronger interest in making his abode “perfectly match” how he views himself (or wants to view himself) down to every detail he wears and every piece of furniture he buys. No detail is left unexamined. No thought not considered. While it’s NOT true I desire a large family (or at the time of this writing, I do not desire ANY family), I am also male and it mentions this is a characteristic of the Cancer females only.

“Nest like” is an appropriate adjective for the Cancerian home, for its inhabitants tend to favor the dark, mysterious but comfortable type of house which has something of the air of a den about it, a place which belongs to the family rather than existing as a showcase to impress visitors.

Here is a photo of a room in my place… need I say more?

That is not to say that the Cancerian is unsociable, just that for them there is a time to socialize and a time to be solitary, and this is part of the apparent contradiction in their nature.

If not dealt with actively, this tendency can lead to sociopathic behavior. I’ve met other Cancers who were the same way. Think of them as a kind of loner who occasionally comes down off his perch to mingle with the natively social folk. This is out of genuine interest, not an attempt to appear “normal.”

Outwardly they can appear formidable – thick-skinned, unemotional, uncompromising, obstinately tenacious, purposeful, energetic, shrewd, intuitive and wise, sometimes with a philosophical profundity of thought verging on inspiration. Their intimates, however, may see a very different character, one with a sympathetic and kindly sensitivity to other people, especially those they love.

It this were a movie, it’d almost be cliche… but to a Cancer it is the living truth. Think of it like a Clint Eastwood “new stranger in town, lone man with no name” – calm, cool, tough – yet secretly goes home at night, reminisces about the past and philosophizes about the future… over Vivaldi and hot pasta – sometimes with a tear.

They are able to identify with the situations of others because of the keenness of their imaginations.

This is true, but can be a two-edged sword. More on this later.

They are often over-imaginative and prone to fantasy, sometimes trying to shape their lives to fit some romantic ideal.

This is more true than most people closest to Cancers realize. Spaghetti Westerns, James Bond, trenchcoated 1940′s private-eyes, and the like all play a vital role in helping the Cancer articulate what it is he wants out of life. Why? Because more than anything he wants to live a romanticized ideal. He’ll buy anything, do anything that will move him closer to real life “riding off into the sunset in search of the next adventure” or “games, girls, and guns” romanticism. He wants his life to read like a novel and feels he’ll be a worthless insignificant speck if he doesn’t succeed within a reasonable time frame. This is serious business here, folks – real life-or-death stuff. Don’t take it for granted.

They are appreciative of art and literature, and especially of drama, where the spectacle and ebb and flow of action and feeling particularly excite them. They may themselves possess considerable literary, artistic or oratorical talent. Their sharp ears and talent for mimicry can sometimes give them success on the stage, though their tendency to be emotional may make them overact.

This only serves to reinforce the romantic ideal. Cancers are good writers, actors, and can move crowds with speeches. They have a certain way with words; a grasp over the more subtle elements of language. This is because despite the cold outward appearance, they are in fact very attune to emotions, especially the base instincts coming from the “reptilian brain” section of the mind. I can relate to other people very easily through imagination and visualization, guess what they are feeling, and then write about it as if I actually felt it myself. This helps in sales situations or any other time when persuasion is required.

Interestingly – because they give the impression of being down-to-earth – they are often fascinated by the occult and are more open to psychic influence than the average.

In my opinion, the “down to earth” thing is merely a shield – a social mask – covering the true feelings underneath. I’ve been fascinated with the occult and psychic stuff for years – ever since I was a little boy playing in my grandma’s living room. Even back then I wanted the ability to make myself invisible and cast spells on people and affect their lives… sometimes for their benefit, sometimes to harm them. Interesting side note: I always have, even to this day, liked myself to be a “dealer of justice” – a sort of vigilante of the universe.

If they can reconcile the personal conflict of their urge to be outgoing with the reserve that causes them to withdraw into themselves, then at best they can inspire a generation, especially the youthful part of it, by their idealism. A job in which they can express this, and in which they can do well, would be as a leader in a youth organization.

They’re not kidding here; it is a very harsh conflict to be reconciled – often teetering on the verge of sociopathic behavior, but never quite making it over the edge in any real sense. Interesting though how they mention leader in a youth organization; there was once a small part of me who wanted to command and inspire an army of little people. But this conflicts with my current view that children are essentially spoilers of my romantic idealism - e.g. it just wouldn’t be the same movie if James Bond had a toddler in tow. Therefore, at the present time, I simply don’t see how they fit into the world I want to create. This disappoints a lot of girls, but I see no real solution around it. At least not right now.

In their personal relationships they are mentally a mixture of toughness and softness, often emotional and romantic to the point of sentimentality in their fantasies; but in real life and in marriage, their loving is not so sentimental but tenaciously loyal. Even if they have affairs (and they may do so, for the male in particular is open to sensual stimulation), their first loyalty remains to spouse and family, of whom they regard themselves as the protector.

Loyalty and trueness to my word are, for some reason, very important to me. There may be some issues in the world certain types of people would view my stance as “unethical” on… but one thing they can never argue against is my sense of loyalty – and if I say I’m going to do something, there must be a catastrophic event (physically or emotionally) for me not to have done it. Their comment on loyalty in affairs is interesting, because I might be inclined to view an affair as something “extra” merely to satisfy some desire completely unrelated to the goals of the “family team”… this making it somewhat acceptable… UNLESS, of course, I specifically made a pact – a promise – not to do ever do it. Paradoxically, however, I might view a similar transgression against me more personally and therefore feel inclined to some brand of vengeance. Call it a double-standard if you will, but it’s the truth.

Both the Cancerian man and woman love unreservedly, giving much and asking little in return – in fact, one of the most important lessons they have to learn is how to receive gracefully. They are too easily influenced by those they love and admire, and swayed by the emotion of the moment. They are also loyal friends, the negative side of their faithfulness being clannishness, the narrow patriotism of “my country right or wrong”; and closing ranks in suspicion and coldness toward outsiders.

Yes, I’ve always had a difficult time accepting compliments gracefully. I like and enjoy them just as much as the next guy, but there is a sense of “don’t say that, you’ll jinx it” that goes along with them – feels like a spoonful of bitter sugar. And yes, it is quite easy for a Cancer to get “caught up in the emotion of the moment” – which makes certain sales pitches and emotionally charged situations things to watch out for. And while I am not particularly loyal to ANY country or ANY political party (I’d always rather be in control of my own than join some other guy’s thing), there is a definite sense of clannishness that’s followed me around over the years. I’ve always wanted to form little clan-like groups of people under my control – which is what probably attracts me to business and, more remotely, an “evil genius” sort of underworld-empire-fantasy.

Cancerians have a retentive memory, particularly for emotionally laden events which they can recall in detail for years afterwards. they are strongly governed by childhood memories and since they live intensely in the past in memory and in the future in imagination, a chance meeting with someone for whom they had an unrequited love, even if they thought they had conquered the feeling, will easily rouse the emotion all over again.

Fond memories stick around in vivid detail… but so do past wrongs. I can carry around a hidden grudge for an amazing length of time. However, it’s also true that time erases pretty much everything, so give it long enough and it’ll probably go away. I’m not sure if anyone could wrong me so seriously that I’d dedicate the rest of my life and every waking moment to ruining theirs, but who knows? I’m not gonna say it couldn’t happen. To say that would presuppose I know everything about my temperament… which I do not. Now you might say “yeah but Greg it’d be your personal and conscious CHOICE if you did something like that” – and I’d tend to agree with that. Yes, it would be my choice, my temperament merely providing the jet-fuel. And that is something very important to understand about all of this and astrology in general: astrology only says what is LIKELY to happen or how you are LIKELY to behave… it does not dictate events in solid stone. Just like in quantum physics, it is a set of probabilities.

The Cancerian has many potential faults. They can be untidy, sulky, devious, moody, inclined to self-pity because of an inferiority complex, brood on insults (very often imagined), yet are easily flattered.

I’m the opposite of untidy, however sloppiness (as long as it is not on any of “my” things or in “my” home) does not bother me in the least. In fact, sometimes I feel more comfortable in the messy environments of others than I do in my own perfectly sterile ones. But that’s a lot less true today than it was several years ago. Seems to be fading, as my own restrictions on myself have been loosening. Moody? Inferiority complex? Yep, and yep. I used to think I was not moody at all, until I started to really pay close attention to my feelings… then I could see it all quite clearly. I have a swing of “up” days, weeks, months… and “down” days, weeks, and months. Sometimes extreme. My mom always said I had a difficult time finding the “happy medium” in most circumstances, instead always opting for some kind of wild swing in a particular direction. Like going from super clean, weashing hands many times per day and taking 2 showers per day… to letting myself go for several days without a shower, bath, or sometimes even forgetting to brush my teeth; things that would’ve been unheard of only months before. These days, I am a lot more balanced, but still carry with me some of that old “swing” behavior, though on smaller scales. Also, it is true what they said; I can brood on insults (often figments of my imagination) for days, and can even recall them months, sometimes years later, if the memory is triggered somehow. And yes, I am easily flattered and always welcome it – though I will most certainly play it down when given.

They can be tactless and difficult yet, because they are normally ambitious, they will curry favor by floating with majority opinions, outlooks and fashions of the day. As a result they often change their opinions and loyalties and, indeed, their occupations, and lack stability.

I think this “lacking stability” comes from having a hard time finding a place in the world that both makes sense and is admirable, fitting into the romantic ideal spoke of earlier. Yes, ambition certainly plays a central role. I’ll do anything if I know (and I mean really BELIEVE) it will move me closer to that ideal.

They are easily corrupted and, because they are convincing romanticizers, can make successful confidence tricksters. Their romanticism in another sense make them ardent supporters of causes, for example a football team with whose heroes they can identify in a world of fantasy.

Ah, here it is at last; all the mimicry, and attention to emotional detail, while being more easily brought over to the “dark side” than others, makes for excellent con man career potential. Now isn’t that just wonderful? Well, it’s true… I can vouch for it all. And this issue of supporting causes is important too, though at the time of this writing I can’t say I’ve ever found a cause I’m willing to throw everything into, other than the cause of Me, Myself, and I. But that’s not to say I wouldn’t WANT to find such a cause. Sure I would. That’d be great. I’d probably want to be in charge of it though.

Their abilities fit the Cancerian for a wide range of occupations. As they are interested in what people are thinking and able to judge what they can safely be told, they can be good journalists, writers or politicians, though in this last capacity they are more likely to remain in the background rather than attain prominent positions of power. They may, indeed, change their party affiliations. They can serve in other departments of public affairs, especially those which involve looking after others, for example in any kind of service from welfare and nursing to catering – their own love of comfort and good living makes the Cancerian an excellent chef or housekeeper. They sometimes have a penchant for trade or business and are often successful as a captain of industry. This is because they are excellent organizers with a good sense of value and economy which they may combine with a flair for inventiveness and originality.

This last one here, this “captain of industry” is where ol’ Greg’s interests lie. I want to be the leader, the top man, the “go to guy.” I’ve always been interested in business and its seemingly unlimited potential. This combined with being a writer all my life is why I publish and sell books right now as my main income source. Isn’t it strange how all the little Cancer pieces come together? As for the politics, my name “Gregory” literally means “The Watchman”… and I can see myself behind the scenes rather than out front as they say, at least with respects to politics. I don’t think I could ever play their stupid games of pander; the only political environment I could see myself having a prominent position in is a sort of “No B.S.” Hitler-style Fascism. That way there would be no systems of pandering… no silly social games to play… and a guy could just step in there and get done what needed to get done without hassle.

The romantic side of their natures make them enjoy grubbing about in places where exciting discoveries may be made (old stamp collections in attics, etc.), and if they can do this professionally as a secondhand dealer or specialist in antiques, they will be happy. More common occupations which suit some subjects of Cancer are real estate broker, gardener and sailor.

Yes! Exciting discoveries! One of the things I love. Which is why I love exploring and love science. This is interesting because I was talking to my friend Jason Summers (an Aquarius) the other day about our mutual interest in science; his comes from a desire to find universal truths and purpose, while mine stem from a desire to explore, break new ground, and make new discoveries. It’s more about excitement and thrill and possessing secret esoteric information than anything else - information that may someday be used to construct my top-secret doomsday super-weapon, thus bringing the world (or at least a significant chunk of it) to its knees. All for no other purpose than the thrill, the romanticism of it all. Madness? No. Just a boy playing “cops and robbers” on a grand scale… and doesn’t care if he wins or loses; only that he has fun and makes an impact.

Physically they are average to below average in height, with a fleshy body and short legs in comparison with the rest of them. Their hair is usually brown, their faces round, their complexions pale, their foreheads prominent, their eyes small and blue or gray in color, their noses short, perhaps upturned, and their mouths full. They sometimes walk clumsily.

I do sometimes step clumsily. I do have a longer torso, making my legs appear a degree shorter than they would. I believe I am average height (is 6 feet, 1 inch tall average?)…I have blonde hair that has turned brownish-blonde over the years. Prominent forehead that I usually cover with my choice of haircut (the haircut is vitally important; it’s the thing that keeps the face within ideal Fibonacci proportions)… blue eyes, short nose, slightly upturned. Nice mouth. Yep, I’d say that fits me close enough.

Ok, so there you have it. I’ve just ran through everything they say a “Cancer” is supposed to be, and guess what? 95 to 98% of it matches me, minus a few small details. And you know what else? If I go on there and check out the OTHER astrological signs… none of them describe me; they each describe a different base temperament of a different person. They’re there for a reason.

Go read yours. You may discover things about yourself or ways of describing yourself that you never considered before. The best site I’ve found to read the sign descriptions is Astrology-Online.com – they’re not very good at the matches between signs, but they are excellent at the individual sign traits.

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It was the blurting, telephonic, and pornographicly obnoxious noise of an Admin broadcast message – from an old software-friend of mine called Hotline Connect.

These days it’s a sad lonely digital ghost town. But back in the mid 90′s, a 17 year old named Adam Hinkley developed a file transfer technology way ahead of its time. This was BEFORE Peer-to-Peer, BEFORE mp3 files were mainstream, and BEFORE most people really even knew what the internet WAS, let alone how to exploit it.

We were all on 28.8 or 33.6 modems back then – the lucky among us with 56k – and the lofty Internet Gods boasted shiny new cables, new-fangled DSL’s, and… *gulp*… heaven forbid the almighty T-1 or T-3 connection.

Hotline began innocently enough as a way for companies and small groups of people to share files and keep in touch with one another… but it wasn’t too long before the bony claws of seedy society grasped at opportunity… transforming Hotline into one of the internet’s top underground networks of black market digital goods.

High-end graphics software, the latest operating systems, games, utilities, graphics resource packs, mp3′s, full-length movies - and yes, all types of porn - hell, some guys even had GOVERNMENT files available for download - all now within reach of anyone who cared enough to look.

Well, sortof.

You see, Hotline wasn’t like the anonymous P2P networks of today – where you can just go on, download streams from tons of different sources, get what you want, and shut down. No, Hotline had a distinctive and fascinating social aspect to it.

And it was THIS that made it so damn addictive.

You couldn’t just go anywhere you wanted and download whatever. You had to play by an unspoken and oftentimes weird set of rules. Weird to outsiders, but made perfect sense to warez guys like me. We knew the code, knew what we had to do, and played the game.

To understand the madness, first you need to know how Hotline basically worked.

First, there were 3 parts to the network:

1. A server. Simple enough, a guy who wants to share his warez with the world sets up the Hotline Server and configures what he wants to share.

2. A client. People who connect to the server do so with their own little program made for browsing files, chatting, viewing what was called “News”, interacting with whoever else was on the server (which usually included fighting with or flat-out scamming admins), and posting to makeshift message board.

3. A tracker. Trackers tied everything together. After all, you couldn’t connect to any servers if you had no idea what servers were out there. So what you did was get a list of trackers, which led you to servers… which led you to more trackers… which led you to even more servers. Usually you’d start out on the nicey-nice “official Hotline approved” trackers and servers, then, realizing how much they sucked, you’d quickly migrate to trackers deeper and deeper within the system.

And the deeper you got, the more mouth-watering your options became.

So whenever you got a listing from a tracker in the old days, it might’ve looked something like this:

Notice the names. Stuff like “Erik’s Hangout”, “The Puddy Lounge”, and oftentimes some weird shit you couldn’t even understand (let alone pronounce) were norms of the day.

So you’d connect to a server and, if you were lucky, see something like this:

Then you’d be able to check the place out and see what kind of BS operation they were running. Usually you were presented with a folder structure resembling something like this:

You could easily waste hours and hours searching, hunting, and pecking around. That’s because most of the good stuff was on private servers. And to get into a private server (if you could find one), you’d have to somehow sweet-talk the administrator into bestowing upon you the highly coveted privilege of download.

But he wasn’t just going to “give” it to you… oh, no. You had to WORK for it. And this is where it usually got interesting because different admins had different ideas of what it took to get a download account.

Some guys just wanted to see you upload something, anything. Some didn’t care. Some had a very strict “no crap” policy and would “boot and ban” anyone who tried to slip one past ‘em. (Note: booting was the 2-click action they had to perform to disconnect you from their server by force, and banning was when they not only kicked you off, but permanently blacklisted your IP address from ever connecting again.)

With all the boot n’ ban policies going on, you had to learn the game fast or just forget the whole thing.

So Mr. Admin had “requests”; things you had to go fetch for him – and then he’d give you an account on his server… maybe. Sometimes he did.

Or, sometimes he’d just be a bastard and cheat you.

So you had to learn how to talk the talk, how to hunt and search for all the ultra-rare (and sometimes impossible to obtain) software, games, porn, whatever he wanted – and finally you had to be able to tell – BEFOREHAND – the telltale signs of a faceless online rat-bastard.

But if you were smart, diligent, and a wee bit crafty (sometimes flat-out dishonest) you could get an account on a GOOD server. And that’s where the fun began.

With your good account, you could leverage your findings to give OTHER admins of private servers the stuff THEY wanted… get an account there, here, there, there, and… before you know it, you’ve got your own private little undergrand trading network established. Each new account gave you more and more power and swing you could use to get the next account. It only got easier and easier.

Eventually you had enough going on to open up your OWN server… transforming the pawn into the broker. Now people came to YOU and were forced to do YOUR bidding.

A lot of stuff to share + a super-fast connection could equal enough clout to get new titles before they were even released… before even magazine reviewers got ahold of them, let alone the general public.

Yes, in these days “rare” was king, file trading was a learned skill combining bastardized social etiquette with Donald Trump dealmaking savvy, and cash could get you in the door to the underground so fast your head would spin once you saw what was on the inside.

And after all the wasted time and dealing with the massive glut of CRAP out there, it was this element of black market social intrigue that kept us warez guys coming back for more and more.

We didn’t care about the software. Hell, most of us didn’t even know what programs like “Maple”, “Maya”, and “Toonz” even DID, let alone how to use them. The software was just a means to an end, like a hunter proudly displaying trophy heads on a wall in his den.

That was the part most outsiders didn’t understand about the warez scene. It wasn’t about using any of it. It was about the having and hoarding of something exclusive. Something that made us all different from other “normal” people and special.

So with that in mind, I’d argue none of us were thieves. (besides, the concept of piracy is largely a myth drummed up by software industry giants to bloat their numbers and them ‘em an excuse to raise their prices, because like it or not, if it weren’t for file trading, Adobe Photoshop would’ve never become the industry standard it is today – and Doom wouldn’t be considered one of the greatest PC games of all time)

Try, then buy. Works every time. And the people who try, and DON’T buy… they wouldn’t have bought anyway.

And THAT’S the source of one of the greatest lies the software company’s feed – by claiming they’re “losing” XX million to piracy implies that every single download is from someone who would’ve purchased if no download were available.

Having lived on the inside of this culture, I can say it is simply NOT TRUE. Most of the people trading this stuff don’t even use it and out of the ones who do, most are too young to have enough money to purchase it to begin with!

So what you’re left with is a very small fraction of actual abusers. And I would argue that these people should be quietly allowed to continue, especially the young kiddies who don’t have the cash to pay… cause guess what? Sooner or later, if they’re serious about how they use the software – they’re gonna buy that latest version eventually. Maybe that swiped copy of Photoshop they got in High School is the one thing that got them good enough for a high-paying gig later. And what software are they gonna to want to buy? They love Photoshop. They were raised on it. The answer is simple.

Ok, the rant’s over. But before I go, here are some of my fond (and not-so-fond) memories from the high school Hotline days…

• once I hawked an entire album of Irish Pub Songs to a guy who in return gave me an admin account on his server. The power-rush went to my head and whenever I got on there, I’d ban everyone so I’d have all the bandwidth to my scrawny little modem. I sucked the server dry, uploaded a link to the guy’s raw C:\ drive, then totally molested his computer and privacy. Where on earth did I get the Irish Pub songs, you ask? K-mart. Five bucks.
• one time I got access to a server run by a guy who called himself “Macros The Black” – a Mac guy for sure, but ran a mean PC game. This was one situation where sweet-talking actually worked and I didn’t have to pony up a thing of my own (back in those days, uploading was a big deal because most of us were on snail-like modems) – this was the guy who had a lot of the government stuff. I have no idea how he got it, but I never messed with it. I knew better than that.
• my cousin Caleb and I used to get on the high-speed connection at the local internet cafe and within 4 minutes we’d have dual Hotline clients running and suckling at the nipples of some site or another. We’d do a smash n’ grab, work together to get requests, and then raid the same server with the same account at the same time, sucking it dry before moving on to the next target.
• the first mp3 I ever listened to – EVER – was one I got from Hotline. It was Meredith Brooks’ Bitch. I can still remember expecting to hear something slightly better quality than midi, and being blown away by how clear her voice was through my crappy little IBM speakers.
• I first discovered one of my now-favorite bands – Garbage – on Hotline. Downloaded the song “Only Happy When It Rains” just to see what the heck it was. Was instantly addicted to Shirley Manson’s voice.
• as you might expect, not many girls on Hotline, well except for this one; a very nice girl named Myriam:
  
• many of the appz (oops, I mean “applications”) I use regularly today (and PURCHASE today) I first discovered on Hotline. Try, then buy. Works great.
• I allegedly almost got my friend Ryan Qian allegedly deported, allegedly due to a Hotline scandal… allegedly. *cough*

Yes, in many ways I was a jackass SOB bastard in high school.

Live and learn.

P.S. In an ever-so-small nod/salute to Hotline, I nabbed the memorable “admin broadcast message” sound effect to use in TodoPRO for OUR admin broadcast sound. We need something loud, obnoxious, and attention-getting and this’ll do just the trick.

P.P.S. Thanks Hotline, for all the wasted hours, priceless introductions to new things, brushes with the law, and haunting sound effect memories. You will be missed. Eh, but not THAT much.

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