Monthly Archives: July 2011

10 Ingredients for a Perfect Summer Day

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At 8:30 yesterday evening, I got up from my spot on the sand, and made my way to the surf line. I was standing on the edge of the continent, camera at the ready, crashing waves from the Pacific Ocean lapping at my feet, as the westering sun dipped toward the horizon. I was there to capture the sunset, the culmination of an absolutely perfect summer day. I’d been worried about seeing the sun set all afternoon, as fog banks played a constant game of hide ‘n seek with the rugged Oregon coastline, but with minutes to spare it was obvious this one was going to be a beauty. A distant drift of fog offshore had blown to the south, and the wispy streams of clouds racing across the sky were not enough to obscure that magic moment. I glanced around me, and was amazed by the sight: hundreds of people lining the shore, all in roughly the same spot – just out of reach of the incoming tide – cameras in hand and tripods at the ready. I laughed out loud, the whole image was so surreal.

And then the sun touched the sea, and despite the massed throngs, I was completely alone for a minute.

Sunset over the Pacific - Haystack Rock, Cannon Beach, Oregon.

It was the ideal way to spend a Friday in late July. I had a full day, leaving the house shortly before 10 AM, and not returning until after 11 PM. Rather than give a blow-by-blow description of the day’s activities, I’ll sum them up in a list, because I have to say – if you’re looking for the ingredients for a perfect summer day – this is it.

List of Ingredients for a Perfect Summer Day

  1. Coffee to get you started. I stopped at McDonald’s for a cup to fuel up for the drive. The drive-through lanes were packed, so I went inside, where I encountered a girl in front of me who could not figure out the difference between a #2 combo and a #5 combo (the answer: one has an egg, the other doesn’t). I think she was hungover. Or stupid. Maybe both.
  2. Cheese. Upon arriving at the coast, I stopped at the Tillamook Cheese Factory for a bite to eat. Made a quick beeline through the place (been there many times), focusing on the free cheese samples, before heading to the cafe for a grilled cheese sandwich with turkey. You can’t have a proper adventure on an empty stomach!
  3. Wine tasting. Next up was the  Blue Heron Cheese Company (hey, Tillamook has a lot of cows). I paid $5 for five samples of wine. My favorite? The pinot gris from Eola Hills…but I’m already familiar with that one. There’s something naughty-feeling about drinking wine in the early afternoon.
  4. A waterfall. In this case, Munson Falls, the tallest waterfall in the Coast Range. Conveniently located seven miles south of Tillamook, the waterfall was an easy 1/4-mile trek from the parking lot. It was big, I’ll give it that.
  5. A lighthouse. The Oregon coast is notoriously rocky and wild, and as a result, lighthouses are plentiful. I drove out to Cape Meares, west of Tillamook, to check out the lighthouse there. It’s on the small side, as far as lighthouses go, but has a beautiful red octagonal-shaped lens, one of only two in the U.S. And the view from the cliff top? Stunning.
  6. A weird natural wonder. Minutes from the Cape Meares lighthouse is the Octopus Tree, so named because of its unique multiple trunks that sort of resemble tentacles from an octopus. It was even featured in Ripley’s Believe It Or Not.
  7. A “secret” beach. Oregon has an abundance of beautiful beaches, most of them well-known. But Short Beach, a small crescent-shaped swath of sand nestled between Oceanside and Cape Meares, is completely unmarked. I found the entrance only because I knew where to look for it; you park on the side of the road and descend “The Stairway of 1,000 Steps” to reach the bottom. Once there, you’ll find a fairly secluded beach with a large rock formation and a waterfall spilling over the cliffs through a wooden flume. Very cool.
  8. A panoramic viewpoint. If you’re a shutterbug like me, you’ll need a great place to pull off the road and snap a few pics. There were plenty of these on the drive north. The views, when not fog-shrouded, were incredible.
  9. A nice dinner. After a day spent exploring, you’ll have worked up an appetite. In Cannon Beach, I stopped at my favorite little spot, Ecola Seafoods Restaurant and Market, for a crab cake and salad topped with fresh Oregon bay shrimp.
  10. A sunset. As mentioned before. A great way to end the day.

Here are some photos of my outing.

Cheesemakers are pretty punny.

Free samples at the Tillamook Cheese Factory.

Munson Falls: tallest waterfall in the Coast Range.

Cape Meares lighthouse. What it lacks in stature, it makes up for in charm.

Oregon's famous Octopus Tree, a Sitka Spruce with character.

The secret beach. I'd tell you where it is, but then I'd have to kill you. (Don't worry, there's always Google).

The waterfall at Short Beach.

These fishermen didn't care that the fog was rolling in.

These Oystercatchers, with their distinctive red beaks, are common along the northern Oregon coast.

Misty beach at Hug Point.

One of several caves at Hug Point.

Fog rolling in over the Oregon coastal headlands.

View of Cannon Beach - my favorite spot on the Oregon coast.

Kites are synonymous with the beach, especially along the windy Oregon coast.

Somebody got really creative with this sand sculpture.

Another day comes to an end along the Oregon coast.

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I Think I’ll Lick a Stamp After Programming the VCR

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I started thinking the other day about how it had been a long time since I’d balanced my checkbook, and that I’d better get on that ASAP. But then I had a revelation that hit me hard, and I thought, why should I bother? You know how many checks I write each month? One. And even that bugs me – I like to pay my bills online, and my homeowner’s association bill can only be mailed in. (The mere fact that I even have a monthly HOA bill irritates me. HOAs are great…in the same way that Communism and Justin Bieber are terrific. But I digress). What is the point of balancing a checkbook if you don’t write checks? All the information is available through online banking, and it’s pretty much up-to-the-minute. Besides, it’s depressing when you’re jobless and counting your balance in pennies rather than dollars.

So, forget it. I’m no longer bothering with balancing the checkbook. The practice feels about as antiquated to me as using a typewriter or a rotary telephone. This made me think about other once-common practices – and things – that are no longer relevant in today’s society. Stuff like…

  1. Cursive writing. Other than signing your name on a check (which I’ve just explained I no longer do), is there any use for writing in cursive nowadays? On the rare occasion that I write anything by hand (birthday cards come to mind, and…well, that’s it), I use print. My handwriting already sucks. Add in cursive, and it’s worse. I agree that it looks more elegant, if done legibly – I can’t imagine the Declaration of Independence written in block lettering – but it’s sort of a lost art form. Not to mention pointless.
  2. Cameras with film. It’s hard to believe that once upon a time, when we took pictures not only were we unable to see the image immediately, but we had to send in the film for processing and developing, and pay for it! There was no such thing as instantly deleting a blurry photo on your camera, and you were limited to 24 (or 36, if you splurged) shots per roll of film. Depending on how often you used your camera, you might wait months between the time you snapped a pic and actually got to see it. Remember how revolutionary one-hour photo developing was? And how expensive?
  3. Video stores. Remember the ritual of heading to the video store on a Friday evening to pick out a movie or two on VHS? You had to get there early if you wanted a shot at the newest releases, which were always in frustratingly short supply. Otherwise, you’d be relegated to the older sections, and stuck with schlock like Police Academy 32. It’s hard to believe that such things as late fees existed, and “be kind, rewind” was a slogan we all knew and appreciated. How irritating was it to slip a tape into the VCR and find yourself midway through the latest Danny DeVito flick?
  4.  Porn magazines. Thumbing through a well-worn copy of Playboy in order to catch a glimpse of boobies was a rite of passage for many a young male. Sadly, you had to either be a certain age to buy them, or know where your dad hid his secret stash. If you really wanted to get your jollies, you’d seek out Penthouse, which was considerably dirtier (and contained the awesome Forum section). (I mean, or so I’ve heard; oh, and hi, mom and dad!). The mere act of paying to see naked people who just stare back at you on a page and don’t, umm, do anything else harkens back to a more innocent era.
  5. Not knowing what everybody else was doing every second of the day. How strange it was to have no idea what your friends were doing at any given moment! How did we survive without knowing that Adam was enjoying his morning coffee, or Denise was watching So You Think You Can Dance (with 5,648 others), or Tom was Frosty, baby! at Wendy’s – with Matt and Laura? How many funny cat videos did we miss because we didn’t have a handy link to them? We were certainly living in the dark ages back then!

Anybody know what this is? Anyone...? (Courtesy of co-buildings.com).

There are a million more. Manual car windows, stamps, watches, answering machines, boom boxes, encyclopedias…the list is endless. And that’s not counting things our parents or grandparents knew, like milkmen and girdles and slide projectors. On the one hand, it makes me sad that so many of these things are obsolete. Take, for instance, the once-ubiquitous phone booth. They were not only handy if you needed to make a call, but served other essential functions, as well. Lex Luthor would have taken over Metropolis long ago if Clark Kent hadn’t been able to duck into a phone booth and change into his Superman costume. And Bill and Ted? Not only would they have not had an Excellent Adventure, but they also would have flunked their history exam, as well. I miss phone booths!

On the other hand, viva technology! Progress is a good thing…right? (Except when it comes to books. Now that I’m publishing one, they’d better never go away. E-readers are fine and dandy, but nothing can replace the look and feel and smell of a real book).

What are some of the things you miss most from the “good ol’ days”?

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Disembodied Voices, Cold Spots & Channeled Spirits: Just Another Night in the Ghost Hunting Business

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The moment I walked through the door of the 108-year old house we investigated last night, I noticed a bed in the living room. My first thought was, is the owner too afraid to sleep upstairs? Which turned out to be exactly the case. As the investigative team of four – including yours truly – made ourselves comfortable in the sitting room, the homeowner and her adult son talked about the paranormal activity they’d been experiencing. It felt like a group of friends gathered together for a friendly little visit, complete with hot coffee and freshly-baked brownies. And then Steven leaned toward me ominously and asked, “Do you feel anything?”

That was when the evening began to get interesting.

The Spirits make their presence known. 

The ghost-hunting team – Steven, Rene, Melissa and myself – had met at Steven’s apartment before heading over to the client’s house. It was the first time I’d met Rene and Melissa, and they were both warm and friendly, putting me immediately at ease. Neither seemed to be the least concerned that it was my first time. I had vowed to act professionally during the investigation, though inside I was giddy with excitement. It isn’t every day that one goes on a real, live (dead? undead?) ghost hunt, after all!

The subject of our investigation.

The homeowner, whom I’ll call K, was an older woman probably in her early sixties. She was accompanied by her son (“Jack”), who was my age. Both were outgoing and eager to talk about their experiences. Jack told us he regularly communicates with the dead, and if he was expecting slack-jawed skepticism, he did not receive it from any of us. We are believers, and his stories were incredible. Jack is kind of like a real-life version of Bruce Willis’s character in The Sixth Sense. K talked openly of being harassed by often-violent spirits in the house for years, and claimed to have received scratch marks on her leg one evening. Activity had picked up recently, especially since they’d contacted Steven for assistance. I experienced a brief, fleeting moment where I thought, Angry, violent spirits?! Hope I haven’t bitten off more than I can chew here! Fortunately, it passed quickly, replaced by my natural curiosity and excitement.

Steven asked me if I felt anything, because he was suddenly cold. I should note that the house was stifling – it was a warm day, there was no A/C, and we had them turn off their fans to eliminate any background noises. He told me to move my hand near him. I did, and guess what? The air was ice cold.

It was Game On.

I thought this stuff only happened on TV!

Rene began taking photos, capturing a pink orb hovering around Steven’s chair. Most orbs caught on camera are nothing more than dust particles, but this one was emitting its own light. At this point, the batteries in that camera and in another inexplicably drained completely. Back at Steven’s apartment, we had meticulously checked each battery, and inserted new ones in all our devices. Luckily, we’d brought spares. We decided to check out the rest of the house, so K took us upstairs. When we stepped into bedroom # 1, it was cold, which made no sense because heat rises, and the rest of the house was hot. This was the room with the most activity, K explained, and she refused to open the closet doors because doing so seemed to lead to increased activity. They were, in fact, taped shut with masking tape. Bedroom # 2 was nice and toasty. We were drawn to a closet where it was obvious there had once been a lock on the outside of the door – up at the top of the door jamb, as if something (or somebody) were kept inside against their will. Rene was drawn to the closet. Turns out she is very much in tune with her spiritual side, and a natural empath, like Steven. I learned to rely on her uncanny psychic senses quite a bit as the evening progressed.

Living room/stairway in the house we investigated.

We all had digital audio recorders running for the duration of the investigation, and I left mine in the upstairs bedroom while we all returned downstairs. Steven then began monitoring the first hour’s worth of recordings, and discovered what he calls a Class A EVP: a clear, distinctive female voice saying, “Where was I going?” We quickly eliminated any of the three women in the house as being the source of the voice. It came in at a much higher frequency and was talking over somebody else for a second.

Rene and I returned to bedroom # 1 after an hour to check things out, and that’s when I had my first personal experience. I stepped into the room, and felt ice cold. The skin all over my arms and legs erupted in goosebumps, and my hairs were standing on end. Rene very soothingly took my arm, explained that I was feeling the energy of a presence in the room, and had me take a deep breath while the energy dissipated. After a few seconds I felt normal again. I can’t explain the sensation – it was like nothing I’d ever felt before. I wasn’t the least bit nervous; instead, I was really wired now! We opened the closet door, sat down, and conducted a fifteen-minute EVP session, taking turns asking the spirit questions. I listened later to see if we had captured anything, but came up empty. However, about half an hour before we entered the room, there is the sound of what appears to be a child screaming briefly. At the time I attributed this to kids playing outside. Near the end of the investigation, I asked K and Jack if there were children in the neighborhood, and they said no. Their house is on the west end of town, near an industrial area. Definitely not a family-friendly neighborhood. I can’t say this was definitive evidence of a spirit – it could have been somebody passing by outside, after all – but based on what we learned next, it’s interesting.

Things get really weird.

Back downstairs, Jack went into a trance. I am not kidding: one moment everything was normal, the next he had tears in his eyes and was channeling the spirit of a little girl. (Despite anybody’s beliefs, I am writing this narrative as fact. The whole night tipped the Strange Scale past Level 10. You had to be there to see it). Thanks to a session with Rene, we learned that there was a 12-year old girl named Melissa who had been raped by an uncle when she lived in the house decades ago, and had been imprisoned in the closet. She was still afraid of the uncle’s spirit, who in turn did not want to “pass on” due to a fear of judgment. During another trance session upstairs (which I regrettably missed, as I was busy monitoring our laptop for EVPs), the angry male spirit mocked Steven’s attempts to get him to leave the house, at one point laughing in his face and saying, “You have no power over me.” Working with the homeowner, they told him he had no right to be there and demanded he leave – and suddenly, the presence was gone.

Steven monitoring for EVPs while investigator Melissa chats with the clients.

Straight out of Hollywood, boys and girls. Only minus the special effects. We’ve got it all on digital audio and camera. This is unbelievable stuff.

Afterwards, the house felt peaceful. It had seemed heavy and oppressive before, something I hadn’t really paid too much attention to until the atmosphere was suddenly changed and noticeably different. We sat around for another hour and a half while K and Jack regaled us with many stories. In the end, they thanked us for our help. Jack feels that the evil entity is gone, and said the little girl feels safe for the first time. Everybody was pretty emotional; no matter where the truth may lie, in the end these people feel that we helped them reclaim their house and, in the process, their lives. That alone is an amazing feeling.

We have a lot more audio to listen to in the coming days. It’ll be interesting to see if we caught any other EVPs.

Bidding our clients farewell shortly after 1 AM, we walked outside to our cars. The night was dark and still, a crescent moon hanging suspended from the black heavens. Steven and Rene were in awe, assuring me that this was not a typical case at all. Never before had they experienced such an intense level of interaction. It was quickly deemed one of the best cases ever. I guess I got pretty lucky! They both said they were impressed with me, and Steven asked if I’d be interested in accompanying them on future investigations. My reply?

“Oh, hell yeah!”

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A Merit Badge in Ghost Hunting

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Like A Vampire

Yesterday evening, I came up with the bizarre idea that it would be fun to move the furniture around in my bedroom. I’ve lived in my townhouse nearly five years now, and my bed has always been in the same spot: with the headboard right in front of the window. Truth is, though the master bedroom is roomy, it’s got weird angles and short walls that pretty much limit your options for placing a bed. Still, I’m a guy who likes to change things up every once in awhile, so I decided to get creative and flip the bed around, placing it at a 90-degree angle to where it was previously, which necessitated moving the nightstand, lamp, clock, etc. It looked okay where it was, though it made the room look slightly smaller. I was excited about the change, and when it was time for bed, eagerly dove beneath the covers to enjoy my first night’s sleep in the new layout.

Only, right away, the arrangement bugged me. Where before I slept facing a wall, now there was the window, and a tiny frame of light outlining the curtains. I’m a guy who likes to sleep in the dark; the smallest amount of light can drive me crazy. So I turned onto my left side instead, facing into the room. The big, empty room, without a wall there like I was used to. Worse, my smoke detector’s little green light blinks constantly, despite the addition of fresh batteries. You can’t even tell during the day, but at night, it seemed bright as a lighthouse warning ships to steer clear. I couldn’t believe that such subtle little differences would bother me so much, so I willed myself to ignore them, but the hours passed by, sleep as elusive as ever. Finally, at 4 AM, I did what any sane person would do under the circumstances: turned the light on and rearranged my bed and nightstand to where they had been originally. Yeah, I know. Anal much? During my road trip, I spent thirteen nights in strange hotel rooms, and never had trouble falling asleep. You’d think that because this was my bedroom, I’d be fine, never mind where the bed was.

You’d be wrong, though.

It wasn’t until 5:30 – with morning light already streaming in – that I finally fell asleep. Made me feel like a vampire. I was up three hours later. Would have loved to have slept in longer, but I have the kids this week, and I had an exciting day ahead, anyway.

Today, I earned my ghost-hunting merit badge.

I Want To Be The Next Jason. Or Grant. I’d Even Settle for Dave Tango.

A while back, I mentioned my ghost-hunting friend, Steven. He is a professional investigator, the president of GERCSA (the Ghost Education and Research Center; he dropped the San Antonio part when he relocated to the Pacific Northwest) and has been involved in many cases – both here and in Texas, where he’s from originally. He was even approached by the executive producer of Paranormal State to make an appearance on that show, though it didn’t happen due to scheduling conflicts. Well, I have a huge interest in the paranormal, having been weaned on a steady diet of Ghost Hunters episodes for years. This is something Steven and I bonded over. I basically begged him to let me tag along on an investigation sometime…and he actually listened!

I earned my merit badge in ghost hunting. Bring it on, boys and ghouls! (Courtesy of seo.com).

He was contacted a while back by a homeowner in Vancouver, Washington whose mother’s house has been experiencing a lot of paranormal activity. It’s a 100-year old Victorian downtown, and she is hearing noises at night, seeing things moving, etc. Her adult son is scared for her, and looking for somebody to come in and help. Steven asked me a few weeks ago if I’d be interested in joining his team for an official investigation, and I said yesyesyesyesyesOHMYGODYESPLEASE!!! sure, I suppose I could tag along if my schedule is clear. OK, so I jumped at the chance! It’s the opportunity of a lifetime. I won’t just be hanging out with them, I’ll be participating fully. They’ve got EMF meters, digital voice recorders, HD cameras, and a laptop where we’ll be doing real-time monitoring for EVPs. Before I could be cleared, though, Steven insisted I attend a mandatory ghost hunting training class at his apartment, and today was the day.

I arrived about 12:45. We drove into Portland first, where I treated him to lunch at Bunk Sandwiches. As much as I love their pork belly Cubano, I wanted to try something new, and ordered the pulled pork with apple slaw. Steven got the same thing, and we both loved it. Afterwards, we returned to his place, where he spent the next few hours schooling me on the tricks of the trade. I learned how to properly use an EMF meter, what to look for when listening to EVPs, and how to conduct myself, both professionally (in front of the clients) and in the presence of any spirits (i.e. do not provoke; treat them with respect, instead). He played me a bunch of EVPs he has collected over the years, and some were quite clear and convincing. I was impressed. He quizzed me throughout the training session, and I passed with flying colors. I like Steven and his group because they exude integrity. They are not out to do this to get rich or famous, but rather, to help people while satisfying their own natural curiosity.

Saturday night, we’re meeting the clients at their house at 6 PM. We will then conduct an investigation until 2 AM. Steven warned me that it’s possible that we’ll end up with eight hours of nothing, but did say this case sounds very promising, and they usually have something interesting happen. I am super excited! Just to be involved in the process will be loads of fun.

I hope it’s a boo-tiful night!

Six Weeks To Immortality

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Eggceptional…But Worth The Price? 

One of the comments on my last post had to do with the eggs I purchased from the farmer’s market on Saturday. The ones that cost me $6.00 for a dozen. This blogger asked if they were really worth the price, which was funny, because not more than an hour earlier my mom was wondering the same thing (though she took things a step further and berated me for paying so much for eggs, when she just bought them for $1.19 at WinCo…I know, I know, you can find them a hell of a lot cheaper, but I was curious and always wanted to try farm fresh eggs and, by the way, mothers never stop mothering, even when their children are slightly north of 40, do they?).

First off, I have to say, the eggs were delicious. I cooked them over-medium and served them with bacon and toast. I thought the yolks were big and creamy and a beautiful golden color. When I told my dad they were the best eggs I’d ever had, he wondered if I wasn’t just swayed by the perceived quality of the eggs, not to mention the high price I had paid, and suggested a blind taste test might be in order. I’ll admit that he could be right, and that’s not a bad idea. I think we’ll try that one day soon.

Are they worth $6.00, though? It’s hard to believe a dozen eggs would ever be worth six bucks, to be honest. But then I started thinking about economies of scale and how that translates to fifty cents apiece; the breakfast I had yesterday probably cost me $4.00 but would have run double that in a restaurant, and I have to wonder. Maybe it isn’t such a bad price after all, when you look at the big picture.

I’d have a more convincing argument if I weren’t unemployed, of course.

Dreams Do Come True. Even if You Have to Pay for Them. 

When I began this blog, my goal was to chronicle my journey from cubicle-dwelling aspiring novelist to published author. Along the way, some things changed – like, well, the cubicle disappeared, for instance – and I branched out to talk about a wide variety of topics. I like it that way; being able to write about whatever I feel like is liberating. My overall dream, of course, never changed. I always said I’d one day become a published author, or die trying.

A dozen years ago, when I decided to take a serious stab at writing novels, I balked at the notion of self-publishing. It didn’t feel legitimate, I thought, and screamed “vanity project!” more than anything else. I wanted to get published the real way, and went about my due diligence through traditional channels, crafting query letters and sending them off to dozens of literary agents. For every request to see material I had to wade through fifteen or twenty rejections. It’s frustrating to not have anybody even want to read a chapter or two of your work, but that’s the nature of the business. The marketplace is full of agents and publishers who deal with hundreds of queries, proposals and unsolicited manuscripts a week. Breaking through is next to impossible.

Over the past few years, however, the industry has changed. Even many established authors are self-publishing their books and bypassing the traditional publishing houses – it’s the best way to maintain creative control over their visions, I suppose. Self-publishing doesn’t carry the same stigma it did even five years ago, and there are success stories out there, people who have sold a ton of books on their own and then been picked up by a big-name publishing house. Granted, this is the exception to the rule, but it can - and does – happen. Social networking provides authors with so many unique and far-reaching marketing channels that, with a lot of hard work, you can really get your book out there…and hopefully noticed.

Plus, with the rise of POD (Print On Demand) publishers, the expense has gone down drastically. You no longer have to buy a hundred copies of your book and try to sell them; the publishing company will, instead, print each book on demand, as it is ordered. This keeps everybody’s costs down, and makes the whole process affordable.

So, when I secured funds for my life-changing road trip last month, I also put enough aside to self-publish my book. I have been waiting for years to have my book published, and this would be the culmination of all of my hard work and determined effort. It would be a dream come true! Albeit, a dream I was paying to have come true, but at this point – who cares about the how’s.

I’m going to be a published author!

Six Weeks To Immortality

The first step was finding the right company. There are a lot of big names out there – Lulu, Xlibris, AuthorHouse, iUniverse and Amazon’s CreateSpace, to name a few – but I chose a smaller outfit called Booklocker. Why? Not only do they offer competitive pricing and receive high satisfaction ratings, but they have standards: contrary to the practices of many companies, they look for quality books with potential, and don’t publish just anybody’s. They have to approve your manuscript first. They are essentially a mom ‘n pop outfit (something that appeals to my anti-corporate sensibilities) but offer all the same perks as the other guys: 35% royalty on book sales, your own ISBN (International Standard Book Number) and barcode, distribution through Amazon and Ingram, e-book options, cover design services, etc. Last week, I uploaded my manuscript, and nervously awaited their response. I’m so used to rejection, I think I expected it. Finally, they replied.

While I don’t have time to read entire manuscripts, we do have a specific formula for reviewing them. Basically, if we start reading and want to keep reading, that’s great. We also look for errors and try to determine if we feel there is a market for the book.

Your book has been accepted for publication by Booklocker.
Give yourself a pat on the back. We reject the vast majority of incoming proposals. (You would not BELIEVE some of the stuff we see…and, sadly, our competitors are putting this low-quality material on the market).

Welcome to the family! We’re very happy to have you!!

I was ecstatic upon reading that! I have waited so long for this to happen that, even though I’m paying for it, it still feels like a WIN!

The past few days have been an exciting blur. I’m already marketing my novel – I created a Facebook fan page for No Time For Kings. Feel free to click here and “like” it – I’m posting daily updates on the progress of my novel and sharing fun things like character backgrounds, cover proposals, etc. My friends have spread the word to their friends, and I’m conversing with people I don’t even know, trying to build “buzz.” I’ve always been pretty good at this marketing stuff, and I’m off to a solid start!

I also formatted my novel, going through it once more for any last-minute changes; signed the contract; uploaded the files; created a dedication and an “About The Author” blurb; and, most exciting of all, am working one-on-one with a graphics designer to come up with an original cover. I talked with him today about the ideas I have – dark and brooding, incorporating the environmental/terrorist themes, suggested color schemes, even a few possible images. I can’t wait to see what Todd comes up with! I’ll own the cover artwork when it’s complete, as I’m “buying” it as part of the contract. Oh, and I came up with a tagline that I like, too. Saving The Earth is Bloody Business. It fits.

My friends are being amazingly supportive, and my kids have jumped on board, too. Rusty even designed a promotional poster using a photo of Mount Rushmore I took just a few weeks ago. It’s related to a pivotal scene in the book, and I think it turned out fantastic. Audrey, meanwhile, has decided she’d like to become a writer too, and is working on a book of her own. I’m proud of them both.

This is all very exciting, and I plan to update progress here on my blog, of course. In just six short weeks, my book will be available for sale. I can hardly believe it!

Not the cover (though it would certainly work)! Rusty designed this promotional poster based on an image I took a few weeks ago. It's been doctored a bit - I promise I didn't destroy any national monuments while on my trip.

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I Have No Beef With Cows

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Yesterday was National Cow Appreciation Day. I would not have known this if Tillamook Cheese hadn’t been so kind as to remind me in an e-mail that morning. I’ve got no beef with cows – I love ‘em, in fact! – and I figured the best way to appreciate them would be to not eat them that day. At the grocery store, I picked up a nice cod filet and decided to make fish tacos. I was very moo-ved by this whole dedication to our bovine friends, and felt quite committed to keeping them off my plate for one day. Naturally, I updated my Twitter/Facebook accounts to wish everybody a happy Cow Appreciation Day and to let them know about my meatless dinner plans.

My friend Laurie brought up a good point, though. She responded to my Facebook post, I don’t get it? Isn’t the best way to appreciate a cow to savor the flavor?

I had to admit, I was suddenly flummoxed. The logic behind Laurie’s reasoning seemed sound. In order to clear up my confusion, I turned to the internet for the answers. According to holidayinsights.com, Cow Appreciation Day should be celebrated thusly:

Our appreciation for cows can be expressed in many ways. Some websites suggest you go out and give a cow a big hug and/or a kiss. While it might sound like fun, you don’t have to go to extremes to enjoy this special day. It can be as simple as pausing for a moment to think about cows, and all that they do for us.

Not having a cow handy for hugging purposes, I figured I was right on in keeping my evening beef-free. But then Laurie – she’s got a quick wit, that one – said, in response to the above quote, Maybe you could kiss a burger and thank The Grand Bovine in the Sky for providing such a juicy and delicious dinner for you. Had I read the holiday website further, I might have done so, because it went on to say,

Now that we’ve had our moment of silence, it’s time to celebrate. Have an ice cold glass of milk. Add chocolate syrup, if you prefer. Then, fire up the grill, and cook some burgers or a steak. And, don’t forget to get your fill of cheese. Sorry, goat cheese is not allowed today.

Clearly, I had taken the wrong approach to Cow Appreciation Day! But the fish was fresh and the accompanying creamy lime/chile sauce had already been prepared, so I went ahead with my taco plan. They were good, too! No complaints. I figured I would appreciate cows the next day instead.

Making crepes at C'est Si Bon.

Saturday morning dawned cool and wet. I would have sworn it was early October had the calendar not been stuck on July. I grabbed rain gear (seriously?) and headed downtown to do some shopping at the Portland Farmer’s Market at PSU. Having been limited to asparagus during my last two visits to a farmer’s market, I was thrilled this time to see a wide assortment of fresh fruits and vegetables. Though it may not feel like it, summer is finally in full swing around here. I found a parking meter, and had ninety minutes to visit the market, which is less time than you might think given the fact that a) it was many blocks away (a good ten-minute walk…oops, should have searched for a closer spot), and b) the market is huge. First I made a circuit, stopping to browse and try many free samples while planning what to buy. Then, since it was lunchtime, I stopped at a booth selling French crepes. Called C’est Si Bon, they offered a selection of both sweet and savory crepes. Tough decision – they all sounded good! – but I was in the mood for lunch instead of breakfast, so I chose from the savory side of the menu. I opted for a pork confit crepe: it was stuffed with slow-roasted pork, caramelized onions, apple butter, and organic herb salad. Oh. My. God. Delicious!! I later learned that Bon Appetit Magazine ranked the Top 10 Farmer’s Market Lunches and the Portland Farmer’s Market made the cut…and, in fact, they specifically mentioned the crepes at C’est Si Bon. I chose wisely!

Savory pork confit crepe. Heaven on a plate.

After devouring my crepe, I went back through the market and filled my ecologically sensible canvas tote (it’s Portland, after all) with Rainier cherries, green beans, cherry tomatoes, blueberries, a wedge of handcrafted artisan cheese, and a dozen farm-fresh, organic, free-range eggs (go, me!). I’ve never tried fresh eggs from a farm, but my brother swears they are nothing like the kind you find in the grocery store, so I figured the steep price ($6.00) would be worth it. They’re a fun mixture of colors, mostly brown and beige. Can’t wait to try them for breakfast! Time was running out, so I hurried back to my car, making it with three minutes to spare. Whew! From there, I stopped at Gartner’s Country Meats, a local meat market that I’ve been going to for about fifteen years now. By meat market, I mean butcher shop and retail purveyor of beef, pork and chicken, not a seedy, dimly-lit bar where men hurl vapid come-on lines to bored-looking, curvy women. It’s a very well-known (read: packed to the rafters) place where you have to take a number for service. I was 98, they were on 67, which is about par for the course. Totally worth the twenty-minute wait, though, as I came home with a marvelous-looking ribeye steak that will truly show my appreciation for cows, especially when it’s plopped on the grill tonight and cooked to medium-rare perfection. I also grabbed some pepper bacon and garlic smoked bratwurst. I hardly ever get to Gartner’s anymore – it’s been about a year – so when I do go, I try to buy several different meats.

I have really been “getting my Portland on” these past few days, and loving it! The rest of the afternoon will be spent on my back patio, magazine in hand, records playing, cold drink by my side. My kind of Saturday!

Oma…huh?!

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A few days ago, I was in a weird place. I don’t mean physically – there’s nothing odd about my townhouse – but rather, in a strange state of mind. How do I know this? Because I found myself looking at classified ads in Omaha. Omaha! WTF is that all about?! Omaha isn’t even one of the places I visited, though I did pass through. For some reason I got it in my head that Omaha might be a nice place to live, so I started researching the job market and the climate and looking at the demographics, cost of living, etc. My reasoning for this temporary bout of Nebraska madness? I’ve always said I wished it would snow more here, and Omaha is not hurting in the snow department. No, sirree: they average 30″ a year. Plus, I reasoned, there’s a Raising Cane’s about an hour away. Anytime I craved chicken fingers, I could get ‘em! Based on the abundance of snow and the proximity of chicken fingers, for a few brief minutes I seriously considered uprooting my whole life and moving to the midwest.

Fortunately, sanity prevailed. An hour later, I wondered what the hell I had been thinking! I’m sure Omaha is great – the Counting Crows sing a nice little ode to it, after all – but, come on. I don’t have a Cornhusker mentality! The Pacific Northwest is my home, and I love it here. I don’t want to live anywhere else. Something similar happened years ago, after I took a business trip to Boston. Suddenly I was sending away for Massachusetts relocation packets and studying the housing market. I even started watching Good Will Hunting often, so I could pick up the Bahs-ton accent and blend in with the locals. Again, that time too, I came to my senses. I guess it’s just the allure of something new. I’ve often said, those first six months after moving up here in 1994 were the most exciting and happiest time of my life. Everything was new, and life was one big adventure. I sort of feel like a crack addict trying to chase after that elusive first high – it’s never the same again, no matter how many hits you take.

I’ve heard, that is.

I attributed my weird Omaha craving to a passing fancy, a fleeting “what if” moment in time that quickly disappeared. Still, I figured the best cure of all – one sure way to guarantee this wouldn’t happen again (and I mean no offense to Omaha people, of course) – was to give myself a fun day in Portland. It had been about a month since I’d even seen my favorite city, so I was overdue anyway. I needed a big ol’ dose of the Rose City in order to set myself straight again and ensure those crazy thoughts would not return. Kind of like a Portland immunization, if you will. An inoculation to prevent any weird I-think-I’ll-become-a-Nebraskan! diseases from developing.

So this morning, I took myself to town, if you will. It was lunchtime, so my first stop was the food cart pod at 10th and Alder. After debating my choices, I opted for a Thai chicken and rice dish from Nong’s Khao Man Gai, which I ate in O’Bryant Square, beneath a gunmetal gray sky that carried with it the hint of a light breeze. I love the hustle and bustle of the city – it energizes me, and makes me feel electric. And the weather? Perfect! A lot of people are complaining about our lack of summer this year. It has been unusually cloudy and cool – the temperature hovered only in the mid-60s all week, and we barely saw the sun – but with news reports of this massive heatwave gripping 2/3 of the country, I am certainly not complaining! I experienced heat and humidity aplenty during my trip. I am loving our weather this year! (Seven day forecast for Omaha: 92/93/96/100/100/100/97. Seven day forecast for Portland: 76/69/73/72/74/70/74. It’s not even close: we win, hands down. And I’ll bet those 70s are optimistic).

After lunch, I drove myself to Forest Park. Forest Park is a sprawling, vast forested wilderness that covers 5100 acres and stretches for eight miles over the hillsides of the Willamette River. It’s a leafy green oasis that is within the Portland city limits, making it the largest forest in a major metropolitan city in the U.S. It’s got a vast network of hiking trails and is home to all sorts of wildlife. And, shockingly, before today I had never been there. This was a serious wrong that needed righting! After all, not only do I love Portland to death, but I’m also an avid hiker. This month’s issue of Portland Monthly featured a big spread on Forest Park and a handy, detachable map, so I stuffed that into my backpack, wound my way into the park, stopped the car, and commenced my hike.

And promptly got lost.

Actually, that’s not true. I was never lost! I just didn’t exactly know where I was at all times. But I knew how to get back to my car, so again, I contend that there is a difference and I was. not. lost. The problem? Forest Park is so big, it’s overwhelming. There are trails bisecting other trails that intersect still other trails. Many of them are interconnected, like a giant spiderweb. But they’re not all marked. Case in point: I came to a junction of five trails, and only three had signs. I studied my sort-of-worthless map for a good five minutes before deciding the trail I wanted was second from the right. The good news: it turned out I was correct! The bad news: I was by now way off course. It really didn’t matter, though – the scenery was stunning. After walking forever, I came to a sign for the Ridge Trail, and came to a screeching halt. “What the hell?” I said out loud, whipping out my map and studying it again. The Ridge Trail was a hike I had contemplated originally, but decided to save for another time as it was way out of my way. Only, apparently, I had hiked so far off course it was right there! “How can this be?” I said, still talking to myself out loud, when another approaching hiker made me jump. She was coming off the Ridge Trail and had clearly heard me holding a conversation with, umm, nobody. How embarrassing! We chatted briefly, though – she was cute, after all – and I decided to walk the twenty minutes or so down the Ridge Trail for the fantastic view of the St. John’s Bridge that had caught my eye in the magazine. Cute hiker assured me it was worth it “if you like bridges,” and I’ve never met a bridge I didn’t like, so I decided to check it out. The Ridge Trail descends 1000 vertical feet (!) and though I wasn’t starting from the top, it was still plenty steep enough. Sure enough, the view of the bridge was breathtaking. Then, of course, I had to conquer the uphill portion of the climb, and that was a killer. Totally worth it, though. I finally made it back to my car 3.5 hours after setting out. I had planned on taking a gentle, scenic 3-mile loop hike, but ended up doing nearly 9 miles instead. Oops.

But you know what? I had an amazing day. This was exactly what I needed! Omaha who?! Portland and I are a match made in heaven.

View of the St. John's Bridge and Portland, from a confusing junction of five trails in Forest Park. Love the cloudy, cool day!

Forest Park is aptly named.

Tiger lily (according to my Nat'l Audubon Society Field Guide). These were growing in clearings throughout Forest Park.

Most definitely not scenery you'd find in Omaha.

Forest Park, Portland

The St. John's Bridge, as seen from the bottom of the Ridge Trail.

Why I’ll Never Be A Trucker

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I’ve been back from my trip for a week now, and have had a surprisingly difficult time readjusting to a normal routine, both physically and mentally. After going for two weeks with little sleep, it seems my body has been overcompensating in that department. I find myself tired early, and sleeping soundly every night; last night I got about 9.5 hours(!), and this was after dozing off in my chair earlier in the evening. Not sure what’s up with that, but I decided I need some stimulation, as yesterday was the epitome of a lazy day spent doing nothing. I had planned on going for a hike today, but the weather was cool and wet, so I’m saving that for later in the week. I went to the movies instead – it’s $5 Tuesday, after all. My choice? Horrible Bosses, because I really like the cast (they’re all excellent: Jason Bateman, Charlie Day, Jason Sudeikis, Colin Farrell, Jamie Foxx, Kevin Spacey in his best role since American Beauty, Jennifer Aniston in her nakedest role since The Break-Up, and a couple of surprise cameos). And also, because I’ve had some horrible bosses. I had come across a scathing review in the local paper, but Rotten Tomatoes gave it a pretty good score, and it received an A- in Entertainment Weekly, so I decided to check it out…and I’m glad I did! It’s raunchy and crude (but not obnoxiously so) and riotously funny at times. I would say it’s probably the funniest movie I’ve seen since The Hangover (and similar in tone). Trust me, that’s high praise. Getting out seems to have done me some good, too: I feel much more energetic today.

I've had a few in my day! (Courtesy of stickerhunt.net).

I’ve also been missing the open road. For a few days I was thankful to be back home; everything felt new again. But then, pretty quickly, it felt old again, and I found myself longing for the excitement of traveling to new destinations and seeing new sights. I wrote that my trip cured the aching sense of wanderlust that had gripped my very soul, but maybe that was short-lived. I suspect the travel bug is more contagious than I assumed, for I began fantasizing about hopping in the car and doing it all over again…somewhere, anywhere. But of course, that can’t – and won’t – happen. Unless I become a truck driver, an idea that flittered briefly through my head last week. Driving an 18-wheeler, I thought, would give me the perfect opportunity to see the United States! But then I realized two drawbacks. First off, I would be on a tight schedule. Sure, I’d get to see a lot of the country, but always from the bed of my cab – I couldn’t just pull off into some random cornfield on a whim. Second, I would hate myself. Those damn semis irritated me to no end; they were constantly going too slow or, worse, pulling out right in front of me to pass another truck that was going too slow for their tastes. I cursed them repeatedly, admonishing them to “stay in their own damn lane” time and time again, or at least to wait until I passed to pull into the fast lane, but they never listened to me. Plus, truckers are a little scary. I’m much too clean-cut to fit in. So, no career in the long-haul trucking industry for me, apparently. I am, in the meantime, buckling down and trying my damnedest to find a job. And, this ennui – this desire to be on the move, exploring, driving, adventuring – appears to be on the wane, as well. I find myself eager to get out and see and do the things I love around Portland the most, rather than heading off into the great unknown. Today is the first time that I feel like “myself” since returning. This is a good thing!

It would never work out: I'd annoy myself to death. (Courtesy of hubpages.com)

I also inadvertently forgot to write about one of the highlights of my trip – meeting a fellow blogger and long-distance friend, Laurie, my first night in Dayton. I blame a crappy internet connection in which I was “stealing” wi-fi from the parking lot of Bob Evans in a hot car with rolled-up windows on a muggy evening as the sun went down – I was in such a hurry to write about my childhood home and elementary school, I never got a chance to mention our meeting. Better late than never, though! I have known Laurie for more than five years now; we used to write on the same online journaling site, and got to know each other through our posts. We have a lot in common: an Ohio connection, we’re the same age, both divorced, both parents, both Whose Line Is It Anyway? connoisseurs, and we’ve both had dating “adventures” that – trust me – you simply wouldn’t believe. Ahh, if I had the freedom to write about those…but, anyway. We’ve helped each other out through some difficult times, and pretty much know one another’s deepest, darkest secrets. I just always figured we’d be online friends but would probably never meet, since we were thousands of miles apart, but then suddenly there I was in Dayton, about an hour from her home in Columbus. How could we not?

My first evening there – Wednesday, June 29th – she and her son, Neil drove down to visit me at the Day’s Inn I’d checked into. It was hot, and the A/C in her car wasn’t working, so she practically collapsed into a chair next to the air-conditioner upon arriving, while her son entertained himself mostly by jumping up and down on the bed. There was nothing even remotely awkward about seeing her; we chatted easily, like two old friends, which is pretty much what we are. After awhile the three of us walked over to the Bob Evans next door for dinner (I got a chicken pot pie that was one of the highlights of my trip, and Laurie ordered breakfast), where the excellent conversation continued. We hung out for awhile longer back in the room, where Neil decided I was a pretty likable guy and stretched out beside me on one of the beds (mom was on the other) while listening to music on an iPod. It was getting late, so eventually I walked them out to their car and we said goodbye.

I wanted to mention all this because it is one of the most appealing aspects of blogging to me: the friendships that I have made over the years, beginning with nothing more than words on a computer screen and culminating in actual meetings in person. By and large, these people have become confidantes and – I am sure – lifelong friends. Monica in Sacramento, Tara from Nevada, Heidi from California, and now Laurie – I feel close to them all, and lucky to count them as friends. I never had lasting friendships as a child thanks to all the moving around, so these relationships are extra special to me, and I treasure them all.

And because I’m a perfectionist completist, I’ve added the Laurie story (ooh, it rhymes!) to my official Day 8 report from the road.

Cauliflower in my In Box

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This morning, I opened up one of the cans of SPAM I bought from the museum in Minnesota. It was the Garlic variety, and was – true to its word – quite garlicky (and delicious). Audrey and I enjoyed SPAM ‘n eggs, while Rusty opted for a SPAMburger. We all cleaned our plates. And this got me wondering why, exactly, we refer to junk e-mail as “spam.” That’s such a negative connotation for such an amazing, inventive and tasty product! So I did a little research, and here’s what I learned, courtesy of Wikipedia.

According to the Internet Society and other sources, the term spam is derived from the 1970 Spamsketch of the BBC television comedy series “Monty Python’s Flying Circus“. The sketch is set in a cafe where nearly every item on the menu includes Spam canned luncheon meat. As the waiter recites the Spam-filled menu, a chorus of Viking patrons drowns out all conversations with a song repeating “Spam, Spam, Spam, Spam… lovely Spam! wonderful Spam!”, hence “Spamming” the dialogue. The excessive amount of Spam mentioned in the sketch is a reference to the preponderance of imported canned meat products in the United Kingdom, particularly a brand of spiced ham (SPiced hAM = SPAM) from the USA, in the years after World War II, as the country struggled to rebuild its agricultural base…In the 1980s the term was adopted to describe certain abusive users who frequented BBSs and MUDs, who would repeat “Spam” a huge number of times to scroll other users’ text off the screen. In early Chat rooms services like PeopleLink and the early days of Online America (later known as America Online or AOL), they actually flooded the screen with quotes from the Monty Python Spam sketch. With internet connections over phone lines, typically running at 1200 or even 300 bit/s, it could take an enormous amount of time for a spammy logo, drawn in ASCII art to scroll to completion on a viewer’s terminal. Sending an irritating, large, meaningless block of text in this way was called spamming.

There's no such thing as "Spam" in my In Box anymore! (Courtesy of hackinghome.com).

That’s all well and good and interesting, but I object. Furthermore, I demand we take back SPAM! It should be returned to its rightful status as the tin can American icon that it is, rather than being relegated to something we groan at when we see it waiting for us every time we fire up our computers. So, I’m starting a revolution! From this point forward, I’m going to call all that annoying junk e-mail piling up in my In Box cauliflower. Why cauliflower? Because that is a truly awful and hideous thing to behold. I have never liked cauliflower – I think it’s pretty disgusting, actually (and lest you accuse me of disliking vegetables in general, I can assure you this is not true – I enjoy most veggies). Other possibilities I considered – but eventually rejected – included lima beans, Brussels sprouts, oysters, and skim milk. I even thought about straying from a food analogy altogether and calling junk mail something like Walmart or Bush or Oakland Raiders, but things were getting a bit too complicated (and confusing), so I decided to stick with cauliflower. Cauliflower it is. That annoying message from Nigeria claiming I’m privy to loads of unclaimed cash if I just forward them a nominal fee? It’s called cauliflower. Do I want to magically enhance my manhood? Cauliflower, baby. Replica watches? That’s cauliflower that takes a licking but keeps on ticking. I trust I’ve made my point!

I realize this is a one-man battle I’m fighting. There’s nothing I can do about Gmail (or even WordPress) with their “Spam” folders built right into the program, although in the case of the former I can always create a custom Cauliflower folder and redirect the Spam stuff to go there. It’s going to be an uphill battle, but I’m ready, willing and relatively stable. Err, I mean, able. Spam is out, cauliflower’s in!

If you could help spread the word, that would be spamtastic…

The Art of the Mixtape

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I bought a new coffee maker yesterday as my old one was on the fritz, and this first cup tastes a bit like rubber and plastic. Not sure why – I cleaned it first, and brewed a cycle using hot water as the instructions indicated – but, bleh. Maybe I’ve become used to free motel coffee, which was invariably good wherever I stayed.

I’ve been back home for three days now, and am still adjusting to the new old routine. Nothing feels the same, but that probably has just as much to do with the fact that the kids are now home for summer vacation and it’s a shortened holiday week as anything else. It feels weird to wake up in the morning (late) and not hop in the car for an eight-hour drive that will have me in a strange city before the sun goes down. It’s been nice though, relaxing and catching up on TV shows and reading quietly on the patio. Strange, not posting in my blog every day, a habit I’d grown used to – I want to write all the time, but don’t always have interesting topics to dish on. Everything feels odd in its normalcy; a trip to the grocery store on Wednesday had me walking down the aisles, wide-eyed and full of wonder over the stupidest things. It was as if I hadn’t been grocery shopping on my own every week for the past ten years! Sheesh. I can only imagine that I’ll get used to all of this again…eventually. One thing that I can’t seem to get enough of is sleep. It’s been glorious being in my own bed again, and every night I’ve gotten 8-9 hours of solid sleep. That whole time I was on the road I averaged 5-6 hours of sleep a night, so I guess my body is making up for all that lost rest. Oh, funny thing; I was looking through some job postings and came across a promising sounding one for a communications specialist. The job was based at Cabela’s world headquarters…in Sidney, Nebraska. Ha. There wasn’t a lot going on there save for the tornado watch and crazy lightning and weird sideways stoplights, but a part of me thought, hmm. I’ll bet the cost of living is cheap!

One really nice thing about being home has been the weather. Yesterday was overcast, and our high temperature was 65. Sixty-five degrees! In July! After the heat and humidity I encountered on my road trip, this felt heavenly. I took a walk after dinner and would not have felt uncomfortable with a sweatshirt. Viva la Portland!

Creating the ultimate mixtape is fun! And you don't even need to use a cassette. (Courtesy of thecampussocialite.com).

One of my blogging friends, Jess Witkins over at The Happiness Project, suggested I write a post about making the ultimate mixtape, since I’m probably an expert on that now. I don’t know if I’d go that far, but I do take music very seriously, and thought that was a great idea. I’ve been making mixtapes since I was twelve years old, when I’d record songs off the radio and listen to them later on my Walkman. The technology has changed quite a bit over the years – a good mixtape is now easier than ever to put together, and can be enjoyed anywhere and anytime.

Whether you’re planning a road trip or another special occasion, here are some keys to putting together the ultimate mixtape. And yes, I realize you’re probably burning music to a CD or creating a playlist on your iPod rather than using an actual cassette, but “mixtape” sounds more romantic and charming. What can I say? I’m an old school sort of guy.

Creating The Perfect Mixtape

  1. Choose a theme. For my road trip, I obviously wanted songs about driving, and came up with quite a few classics. Born To Be Wild, I Can’t Drive 55, Ramblin’ Man, Highway Star, Radar Love and Turn The Page all made the cut, among others.
  2. Stick to one genre. The road trip mixtape is filled with classic rock songs, all of which are at least 25 years old. Going from Bob Seger, Tom Petty and Judas Priest to Lady Gaga would be jarring, and just…wrong. Songs that sound similar work best.
  3. Don’t mess with the tempo. The tempo is the speed or pace of a song (think rockers vs. ballads, for example). I aim for about a 90/10 split – for every nine fast, hard-charging, upbeat songs, I might throw in one slower tune to cool things off for a bit. If you go fast/slow/fast/slow/slow/fast it sounds like you’re stopping and starting or, worse, stuttering. You want the playlist to flow and that is achieved through repetition.
  4. Make sure the music is appropriate for the occasion. You don’t want to drive across the country listening to Enya! I love her, but her music is more suited to lazy Sunday mornings or the background of your cubicle – you’d risk falling asleep on a flat stretch of Indiana highway listening to Orinoco Flow. Likewise, if you’re trying to woo a girl you like, I Want Your Sex will probably send the wrong message (true as it might be), and Nine Inch Nails’ Closer would be a really awful choice for a children’s birthday party.
  5. Get creative. One of my favorite mix tapes is called The Day The Music Died and features songs from Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens and The Big Bopper, topped off with Don McLean’s American Pie. The sky’s the limit when it comes to creativity; you can take something that interests you – flying, for example – and include songs by artists like The B-52s and Jefferson Airplane while throwing in some R.E.M. (Man On The Moon) and David Bowie (Space Oddity). The point is to think outside of the box!

There you go! Those 5 simple rules should help you put together the perfect mixtape for any occasion you can imagine. Crank it up really loud, and happy listening!

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