It’s an autumn Sunday in London. Walking from the V&A Museum through the white Rolls Royces’ of Westminster through Hyde Park along the lake. Families pose for pictures while five brown ducks with red raccoon eyes look both ways before crossing the path.
The sky is gray and getting grayer. It begins to rain. A drizzle at first, and then a slanted downpour. I dash underneath a tree and stand next to a cyclist and a man on a Vespa and watch the rain come down. Across the lake we hear the screams and music of a distant party. Above us the drops smack the leaves in a muted *thwack*. We sit in silence. I’m the last to leave.
Several coworkers and I were in Portland for an event this weekend, and late on Saturday night the day was winding down. I had rented a car, and I offered to drive people home. Hayley, Liz, and Luke raised their hands, and off we went.
As we got into the car I warned everyone that I was going to make them ride around and listen to Kanye with me (more accurately, they would listen to me enthusiastically rap along to Kanye) before taking them home. “We’re going to drive across every bridge in Portland,” I said. There are a lot of bridges in Portland. Everyone liked this idea.
Liz piped up from the backseat: “You know, the ocean is about two hours away…”
I slowed the car. It was 2am. It was rainy. It was cold. It had been a very long day. I was wearing a suit.
"Let’s do it," I said.
"I’m in," Liz said.
"I’m in," Luke said.
"I’m in," Hayley said.
"So how do we get there?"
We turned left and headed West — music blasting and windows down, rain be damned. I drove, Hayley navigated, and Liz and Luke invented dance moves in the backseat. We marveled at the austerity of Oregon’s road signs: “Trucks,” “Rocks,” “Fresh water,” “Speed 50.” Cannon Beach was 80 miles away.
We climbed mountains in the darkness. We could just make out the silhouettes of the giant pines surrounding us. As we climbed higher we were doused in fog, and it became almost impossible to see. Very few cars were on the road.
Finally we arrived at Cannon Beach. It was very late — 3:30am — and the town was silent. We took a left, drove two blocks to the road’s end, and bounded out of the car. There it was: the Pacific.
The beach was long and wide. It was low tide, and the waves were breaking 100 yards from the water’s edge. From the waves to us was a shallow skim of water many yards long and many miles wide. We danced along it. Hayley shot a video of her hand touching the Pacific Ocean for the first time.
The moon was full and the sky was overcast. The world was a muffled shade of grey. To our left in the distance we could make out the beach’s giant iconic rocks jutting from the ocean. They looked like sleeping monsters. We laughed and shivered and walked in their direction.
We passed two small bonfires with a few people huddled around. We kept moving and eventually came across an unattended fire. We stopped. The fire was bright with blue and green flames. We warmed our hands and I warmed my bare feet.
Giant black birds stood in the waves nearby, and Liz and I walked into the water towards them. The shallow surf stretched from our feet to the big rocks hunched in the haze ahead. Moonlight glimmered on the wet sand. Everything was moving and perfectly still. It was a desert of grey. The world was infinite.
"This feels like death," I said. I meant it in the best possible way.
My eyes were locked on the big rocks, and they drew me ahead of the group. Even though I was freezing I walked with my feet in the water. I had to be immersed. Even the suit I was wearing was grey.
I reached the rocks and stood before them. Minutes later the others joined me, and the four of us stood and stared. They were beautiful, staccato silhouettes. Luke offered words of thanks to Poseidon. Immediately a wave burst from the ocean and rushed at our feet. We backpedaled with gratitude and laughter.
It was time to head back. The night hadn’t gotten any warmer, and we stopped again at our fire. We warmed ourselves before starting the walk back. I walked most of it with my eyes shut. The drive home would be a long one.
We piled back into the car and I took the wheel. It was almost 5am. Hayley and Liz dropped off into sleep, and soon it was just Luke and I talking. After a half-hour I pulled over and asked Luke to drive. The others woke to keep Luke company, and I dozed off in the backseat.
An hour later I opened my eyes to see the outskirts of Portland. It was after 6am and the Eastern sky ahead was beginning to fill with light. It was morning, and we were home.
We woke up in San Francisco on our last full day. The plan was to explore the city and then drive to LA that afternoon. Our flights were out of LAX the next day.
The morning got off to a rocky start. We had a heavy day of walking in front of us but Dylan had worn flip-flops. A half-hour into our day he was struggling. So I did the only sensible thing a New York big brother could do: take him to the nearest store and buy a pair of shoes.
Minutes later Dylan was sporting a sweet pair of Campers, but with one small problem: we didn’t get socks. Three blocks later Dylan was in searing pain that was getting worse by the second. We tended to his heels — they were bloody and blistered after just ten minutes — and bought socks. Poor Dylan.
Our comrade had fallen, and yet we marched on (in a taxi). Dylan had one request for the day: that we go to a record store. We went to Amoeba Records on Haight Street, one of the biggest and best record stores in the world. Stephen and Dylan (even with his injury) sprinted to the vinyl racks the moment we walked in.
We spent more than an hour thumbing through albums. I told Stephen and Dylan to each pick out three records to buy. I decided that I would do the same for each of them. And they on their own decided that they would each recommend an album that the other buy for themselves. It was a system of reciprocity where everyone would benefit, Amoeba especially.
Stephen got Neutral Milk Hotel, the new Boards of Canada, and Bonobo (Dylan’s recommendation). Dylan got Toro y Moi, Bonobo, and the Eraser (Stephen’s recommendation).
I had a lot of fun deciding what to get. I picked out a similar record musically for each of them, but specifically tailored to their personalities. For Stephen, I got Isaac Hayes’ “Hot Buttered Soul.” For Dylan, James Brown’s “Live at the Apollo 1962.” For Stephen, Terry Riley’s “A Rainbow in Curved Air.” For Dylan, Terry Riley’s “In C.” For Stephen, the reggae compilation “Studio One Roots.” For Dylan, the reggae compilation “Studio One Funk 45s.” In the end they were pretty pleased with their haul.
I walked us up Haight to the corner of Ashbury, and asked them to pose for a picture at the intersection. Its significance was lost on them, but I assured them that their parents would appreciate it.
It was time to leave San Francisco. We piled into the car and headed south towards LA. We were going to go through Big Sur, one of my favorite places on earth. But first we had to stop at In-N-Out, this being California after all.
A week earlier we began our trip by taking the Pacific Coast Highway north along the ocean to Malibu. We were going to finish our trip by taking it south through Big Sur. There aren’t good enough adjectives to do Big Sur justice. Huge, lush mountains dropping straight into a rocky Pacific Ocean. A two-lane road winding right along the cliffs. It’s unfathomably gorgeous.
The drive was incredible. This time I was behind the wheel and Stephen and Dylan hung their heads out of the windows.
"My jaw keeps finding new places to drop," Dylan said.
"We’re so spoiled," Stephen said.
I timed our San Francisco departure so that we would drive through Big Sur at sunset. I wanted to watch the sun sink behind the Pacific while we watched from the cliffs. The sun cast its magic-hour light across us as we drove.
Ten minutes before sunset we pulled over. It was just like I imagined. We stood on a cliff and watched the sun go down. It’s something the three of us will always remember.
A mile ahead was a stretch of coast where you could get down to the beach. We stopped. A huge, undisturbed field separated the road and ocean, and Stephen sprinted across it to the water. Dylan, mangled feet and all, and I followed, running as fast as we could towards the last strips of sunset.
We scampered down the rocks, took off our shoes, and ran into the freezing Pacific. Darkness was falling but the white caps of the waves and the orange streak of the horizon lit our faces. We laughed and played in the surf. Our feet shivered but we didn’t care. It was us, the ocean, and the huge sky above.
The movie version of this trip would roll credits at this point, but there was still a little ways to go. We were four hours from LA and 12 hours from our flights home. On the drive’s final leg I shared some Big Brother advice. I asked them to look out for each another in a way that I’m not able to in New York. Be positive influences on each other. Help each other be your best selves. Do this for me and for each other. They agreed.
We got into LA late, and woke up early the next morning. We gathered our things, dropped off the rental car (that Jetta is the trip’s unsung hero), and went to the airport. Stephen and Dylan were flying to Virginia, and I was flying to New York. It was actually over.
While Stephen checked his luggage, Dylan and I reflected on the trip. “I’m coming home with a new brother,” Dylan said. I managed not to cry.
Stephen rejoined us and we stood together quietly. They hadn’t left yet and I was already missing them. How could it already be time to say goodbye? We hugged tightly, and then tighter still. I told them I loved them. And with a wave they were gone.
Today we woke up on the Utah-Nevada border. Yesterday we (Stephen) drove 12 hours nonstop to get here. Today’s goal was for us (Stephen) to drive another ten hours to San Francisco.
We woke up looking for breakfast, and found it in a diner that doubled as a casino. This, we soon learned, was true of everything in Nevada. Anything — absolutely anything — could be a casino if you tried hard enough. Eight new casino-somethings have opened in the time it took you to read this sentence.
Breakfast was tired and grumpy. Dylan was particularly quiet.
"What’s wrong?" I asked.
"A girl is giving me grief on Facebook," Dylan said.
"Grief over what?" I asked.
The drive across Nevada was, in a word, boring. It was a lot of nothing. Interstate 80 stretched infinitely. We’d round a smallish mountain only to see an identical valley in front of us with another smallish mountain ahead. The only entertaining sights were the signs telling us not to pick up hitchhikers near prisons.
Four hours into Nevada we stopped at a rest area. A few women were selling Native American jewelry. Stephen bought a necklace and bracelet, and Dylan bought a necklace.
"I was going to get the necklace with a bear on it, which means courage," Dylan said. "Instead I got one with a turtle." It might be the most Michael Cera-ish thing anyone has ever said.
We kept driving. Dylan slept in the back seat and Stephen and I talked up front. The world around us was covered in a deep haze, and we couldn’t figure out what it was. Eventually we realized that it was smoke from forest fires in Yosemite ahead.
Finally we crossed the California border, and the change was immediate. Tall mountains, regal pine trees, a beautiful river hugging the road. It was awe-inspiring. We agreed that whoever negotiated the Nevada-California border for Nevada had no idea what they were doing.
As we crossed the border, Stephen made a very smart California joke: “Did Interstate 80 just become ‘The 80’?” I was proud.
Hours later we came upon San Francisco. Stephen navigated traffic, and suddenly there we were crossing the Golden Gate Bridge. It towered above us.
I booked us a room on the water between the Golden Gate and Bay Bridges, and we headed there. The room was very swank, with a separate living room and a big patio underneath the skyscrapers and stars. Even if we hadn’t just spent seven days wandering public parks, this was some cosmopolitan living.
For dinner we went to a tony San Francisco restaurant called AQ, which got its start via a Kickstarter project a few years ago. It was the fanciest place Stephen or Dylan had ever been, and they took full advantage of it.
Our meal started with two appetizers: peaches and ham (delicious) and swordfish and cactus (after being around cactus so much the past week I felt it was important that we eat some). For our entrees Dylan had sirloin and bone marrow, I had black cod, and Stephen had squab that the waitress warned him four times about before allowing him to order.
"It’s very medium-rare,” she cautioned repeatedly.
What she didn’t realize was that these warnings only made us more excited to see what would come. Apparently “very medium-rare” meant that it was essentially raw. Stephen — who lives on a dare-based diet — happily ate it all.
During dinner we talked about our trip and the three of us being together for the first time. Several times I had joked about something “bringing shame upon our family,” but it wasn’t clear what family I meant. They were both family to me, but what were they to each other?
This was apparent even with the simple use of nouns. Stephen and I share a mother, and Dylan and I share a father. Both parents remarried years ago, and I grew up with two step-parents who I remain close with. Stephen’s father is Tommy, and Dylan’s mother is Karen. Growing up I called them by their first names.
Whenever I’ve spoken to Stephen or Dylan about Tommy or Karen, though, I’ve always called them Dad and Mom. I’d ask Stephen how Dad is doing, meaning Tommy. I’d ask Dylan about Mom, meaning Karen. But with all of us together, this was confusing. Mom who? Families were colliding. I had to either make very direct eye-contact with the person whose Mom I was talking about, or I had to use first names. It was strange.
We walked home from dinner. I felt a palpable excitement at being in a city again — even San Francisco, a city I’ve been to many times and have never liked. We got home and sat together on our patio, laughing late into the night. The end of the trip was coming, and we were savoring every last second.
Shortly before we started I asked Twitter and Facebook where we should stop on our trip. The overwhelming choice was Arches National Park in Utah. Today we got to see whether you guys know what you’re talking about.
The answer of course is yes. Arches was wonderful, and reminiscent of many of our stops with its alien landscape. The huge outcroppings felt like the walls to some ancient civilization.
The park’s main attractions are — surprise, surprise — arches of rock. We pulled over and hiked to the first of these that we saw.
And as has been the theme this week, Stephen and Dylan immediately set to work climbing as high as they could on them.
They actually climbed even higher than this, but they were so high up that they don’t show up in my photos. That’s where this happened:
Maybe somethings are best left unseen… Meanwhile I chilled down below.
It was an incredibly hot day, and our next hike to Landscape Arch was a lot farther. Stephen was prepared.
Landscape Arch was worth every bit of the walk.
Nearby was another trail with signings warning of a very difficult hike. Of course we had to try. There was little in the way of a trail — more a series of boulders that led in a general direction.
Let the record show that both Stephen and Dylan were tired long before I was, and asked that we call it off. I was ready to go on.
Still, the view was amazing.
The plan from Arches was to drive into Colorado as far as Glenwood Springs on I-70 (about a two-hour drive), and then head northwest towards Salt Lake City. We at least wanted to put our feet in Colorado even if we couldn’t spend longer than a few hours there.
The drive to Colorado was well worth it. It was our first time seeing the Rockies.
We got to Glenwood Springs, and then headed north on Route 13. It was by far the most beautiful road we traveled the entire week. A simple two-lane highway with a 65 speed limit and incredible landscapes.
We even drove through a town called Dinosaur.
We all left huge fans of Colorado. It’s a place we need to explore more in the future.
The real story of the day, though, was Stephen, who was a beast behind the wheel. He drove our trusty Jetta for 10 hours straight from Arches to Glenwood Springs all the way to Wendover, Nevada. This was us that whole time:
Just before our final stretch across Utah, we stopped at a 7-11 to stock up on supplies. When we told the clerk we were completely sober and buying this, she did a double-take.
(Don’t worry Mom — everything else we’ve eaten has been vegetables.)
Finally we reached Nevada at 1am. In the morning we would wake up and drive nine hours to San Francisco. The trip is coming to a close.
We woke up this morning in Zion. This was the view from the balcony of our room:
We set off for a couple of hikes: Weeping Rock and the Narrows. Neither was challenging, but it was amazing to explore the canyon. It felt like we were members of some secret order, the select few who had been invited to stay there.
The hike to the Narrows took us on a trail along the Virgin River (who names these things?) sheltered by the steep rocks. We stopped by the river for some R&R:
And for walking sticks (or should that be logs?):
On the walk back we had an incredible moment. Standing right next to the path was a deer with two fawns. We stood feet away from them for about ten minutes without them looking at us once. It was beautiful.
As much as we loved Zion this is a road trip and we had to go. We piled back into the car — Stephen the day’s driving hero once again — and headed to Bryce Canyon nearby.
Bryce Canyon was beautiful and an entirely different kind of landscape.
The perfect backdrop for a triple-selfie:
Our time in Bryce was short — only 30 minutes. After Joshua Tree, Sedona, Grand Canyon, and Zion, we got it: nature is awesome.
So we drove west on I-70 across Utah, and Mother Nature quickly showed us up. The mountains of the south fell away and the Moab Desert emerged. Things began feeling very apocalyptic. As the sun was setting we pulled over to this stunning sight:
And this sunset:
Wow. We stood there quietly and took it in until the sun disappeared behind the horizon.
We kept on trucking. In the car Stephen played us dubstep mixes and bro-splained the tracks to Dylan and I. (I remain unconvinced but love his enthusiasm.) We screamed along to Tom Petty, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, and Kanye. By the end of the day my voice was weary from all the scream-singing.
Hours later we finally pulled into Green River, our destination for the night. We sat down for a horrific meal at a diner, and sketched out the rest of the trip. The original plan had us going to Jackson Hole before making our way back to LA, but time was getting tight.
After a lot of discussion we decided that the next day we would go to Arches National Park, briefly venture into Colorado, and then pull a U-turn back towards California. The boys wanted to see San Francisco, and so there we would go.
Today we traveled over mountains, through valleys, and across great plains to Zion. It felt every bit a pilgrimage, each landscape outdoing the one before. Stunning doesn’t even begin to describe it.
The day started in a foggy Grand Canyon. It was a huge, geologically crafted bowl of clouds. They billowed like liquid nitrogen from the canyon, and if you stood long enough the landscape would crack through. The depth was impossible to comprehend. I had to consciously tell myself that it wasn’t a matte background or oil painting to understand what I was seeing.
A friend in LA had told me that the north rim of the canyon was the best spot, so we set off on a four-hour drive around the south and east edges. As we moved around the canyon’s edge we would catch glimpses of its largeness. Each time we would quickly pull over and sprint to the rim for yet another look. It’s magnetic.
By the time we had reached the north rim it was getting late. We took a right instead of a left, and headed north to Zion National Park in Utah.
The drive was poetic. We drove along the steppe, beautiful red cliffs building a wall between us and the north. We crossed huge plains. Every inch was majestic.
The drive was also silly. We listened to music as loud as we could bear and played along in ridiculous ways. Dylan and I played both air bongos and air trombone out of our windows and toward the mountains. We hung our heads out of the windows like dogs, lapping up the fresh air and freedom.
Soon we crossed the border into Utah, tiny cowboy towns and gun-related slogans greeting us. And then we were there: Zion.
Zion first greeted us with pale, softly rounded rocks spotted with trees. The road serpentined between them in a way that presented them to us. “Look what I have brought you to,” it said. We craned our necks and pointed in every direction. “Look at that!” “Over here!”
Suddenly we arrived at a long tunnel, a mile long at least, and we emerged into a sight that I will never forget. Towering mountains of rock circling us like a protective huddle. They were colorful and textured. Reds, oranges, and grays. Smooth surfaces, grottos, rocky crags. Everywhere we looked was something we had never seen before.
Dylan and I hung our entire upper bodies out of the car as we crawled along the switchback road. We kept looking from the sky to the mountains to each other with slack-jawed grins. Zion. "Ten out of ten," Dylan said. "No, twelve,” replied Stephen.
We took a bus deeper into the park, and the landscape kept getting crazier. It’s the only time in my life I’ve been some place where I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a dinosaur. It would have completely made sense.
Because of the rain we were limited in how much we could explore, so we decided to stay in Zion for the night and see more in the morning. We were hooked.
Last night we drove from Phoenix to Sedona in darkness. This morning we opened our curtains to see Sedona for the first time. This is what we saw.
Incredible. Suitably awed, we sat down for breakfast. Stephen and Dylan spent most of it talking about video games, as you can see from Dylan’s blissed-out face:
We decided to go on a hike. Stephen came across a trail called Devil’s Bridge, which immediately settled all arguments for what to do next. The trail was amazing. In every direction there were huge mountains soaked in a deep red clay. The ground was the same deep red, and it was covered in cacti, trees, and other desert details.
The trail took us up one of the mountains, and each step gave us a better view of the valley below.
We didn’t even get lost.
Finally we reached Devil’s Bridge. Victory!
Stephen and Dylan celebrated.
And Stephen found time to play in puddles, which makes him happy.
The trail conquered, we hit the road for the Grand Canyon. We took 85 north, a beautiful road that winds up and down huge mountains and through a thick forest. It felt surprisingly like the Pacific Northwest. Arizona: who knew?
Out of the forest, we stopped for a late lunch in a town called Williams. The restaurant was straight out of Guy Fieri’s horrifying dreams. The bathroom used a car door to separate the urinal. Classy.
After lunch Stephen took over driving. Dylan sat shotgun. I marveled at what a weird world this is. We sang along to “The Funeral,” “Maps,” and a bunch of other songs. Dylan played “Where Is My Mind” and we all yelled “STOP!” at the right moment. I was a proud big brother.
Hours later we arrived at the south rim of the Grand Canyon. We parked the car, none of us having any idea what to expect. We rushed ahead. We were immediately overwhelmed. Wow. Even full of clouds, it’s stunning.
We decided to stay at the Grand Canyon lodge nearby. After checking in we visited the lodge’s college-style cafeteria for a game of Cards Against Humanity. The game’s most exciting moment came when a mouse suddenly ran along the railing next to us and others. But rather than try to trap or kill the mouse, everyone — us included — reached for their iPhones to film it. Sadly we were unsuccessful (and the mouse got away too). Rodents will thrive in this post-iPhone era.
It was a long and exhausting day, and we were more than ready to turn in. Tomorrow will bring more of the Grand Canyon and maybe even Utah. Wish us luck.
We woke up this morning in Beverly Hills, packed the car, and headed to Hollywood for breakfast and the view at the Soho House.
Breakfast was perfectly ostentatious. A latte course and a French press coffee course. Stephen got steak and eggs. Dylan got a BLT. I got eggs benedict. We were happy.
After breakfast, we visited the photo booth because obviously.
The day’s plan was to drive to Joshua Tree and then make our way to Sedona that night. We drove out of LA and into the desert air-drumming to Tame Impala and enthusiastically off-key singing to Sweetheart of the Rodeo.
Finally we reached Joshua Tree. The bizarre landscape stretched out in every direction, occasionally interrupted by huge mounds of boulders and the park’s eponymous trees.
We pulled over, walked into the desert, and started climbing an enormous pile of boulders. Stephen and Dylan scampered up with ease. I was slower and more risk-averse. Soon I was looking up at them.
"I think we’re a lot more limber than you are," 22-year-old Stephen said. I did not disagree.
After they conquered the mountain we continued driving through the park. There were alien lands.
And more alien lands.
Once we were out of the park we drove through a big storm. Stephen captured this photo of the lightning after I badgered him to try. Success!
Mostly there was driving. We drove three hours to Joshua Tree from LA and then three hours from Joshua Tree to Phoenix. There we stopped for an incredible meal at a place called Gallo Blanco (we found it via Foursquare — thx Foursquare!) where everything was delicious.
From Phoenix we drove another 90 miles to Sedona in darkness. We’re in a hotel for the night, and in the morning we’ll awake to see Sedona for the first time. We’re ready for whatever tomorrow will bring.
Today at 4pm I picked Stephen and Dylan up from LAX. They had flown together from Roanoke to Atlanta, and then Atlanta to Los Angeles. I found them curbside:
We made our way with the bags to the parking garage, and along the way ran into my friend Eleanor, a musician who was here with her band to play a festival in LA this weekend. A good omen, I thought.
Neither Stephen or Dylan have been to California before so I wanted to begin the trip dramatically: by driving up the Pacific Coast Highway to Venice. We crawled through traffic blasting music, finally making our way to Venice, the Pacific Ocean a flash at the end of a street.
We parked the car, took off our shoes and socks, and walked down to the beach. “We need to start this trip by putting our feet into the Pacific,” I explained. And so we did. Pants legs rolled up, dancing around in the waves, all of us shooting iPhone videos of each other shooting iPhone videos of each other.
"I was just in the Atlantic Ocean yesterday," Dylan said. We all agreed this was cool.
We made our way back to the car and kept driving north. I wanted to take them to Malibu, that stretch where the foothills, road, and ocean are one. We swung around curves, the road almost disappearing into the surf like the beach levels in “Super Mario Kart,” tires skidding along the sand and surf.
My friend Stacey had texted earlier in the day to invite us to the set of a movie she’s producing: “Wish I Was Here,” the new Zach Braff movie that was funded on Kickstarter. They were filming on the beach in Santa Monica. We turned around and headed that way.
We found them in a parking lot under tents. Stacey and Zach gave me big hugs, and I introduced them to Stephen and Dylan. Standing around were people who had backed the project for the reward of visiting the set. I introduced myself and amazingly two of the people had lived in Floyd, Virginia (a tiny town not far from where I grew up and Dylan and Stephen live), and knew Haden, my best friend since I was 15. The smallest of small worlds.
That night they were shooting a scene where Zach and Kate Hudson sat and talked on a lifeguard tower by the Santa Monica Pier. Behind them a ferris wheel and roller coaster flashed.
We stood in the director’s tent (Zach is also the director, so in the tent were Renetta, the script supervisor, Adam, Zach’s brother and the movie’s screenwriter, and Stacey, the producer) and watched the monitor while wearing headphones that carried the sound from the boom mic nearby.
The experience was amazing. It was an open mic, and we got to hear Zach directing Kate, and commenting on the shot. “It’s amazing when you picture something and then it’s actually like you imagined it,” he said. I knew exactly what he meant.
The sun fell fast, and soon it was freezing cold and we were three idiots in T-shirts and shorts. Before we knew it the crew brought us coats and someone gave Dylan a huge blanket that he wrapped himself in like an Afghani villager:
Dylan plans to be a filmmaker, and Stacey took the time to introduce him to members of the crew and explain what they all did. The key grip, first assistant director, gaffer, hair, makeup, the whole works. Dylan took it in with a big grin. Soon he was standing with another of the movie’s producers, a man named Michael who made “The Big Chill” and a bunch of other movies. They were sharing their love for “Lawrence of Arabia.” Michael was impressed that Dylan knew what it was.
It was getting late and the boys were hungry. Before leaving Kate Hudson wanted to say hi, so we stayed and talked with her and Zach for a while. I told them about the trip we were about to take, and it made them wistful for the roadtrips they’d taken before. Interminable drives through Texas. The amazingness of Sedona. Everyone wished us a safe journey.
The night ended with dinner at a place called Jones Cafe in West Hollywood, a crowded room of leather booths, loud music, and people making the scene. After our dinner I drove us along the Sunset Strip, the billboards, signs, and crowds lighting our way.
Last week I decided that I should take a trip. I would rent a car in Los Angeles and spend 10 days driving through Arizona, rolling by the Grand Canyon, moving north through Utah, Colorado, and Wyoming before turning around and coming home. Four days ago I booked this trip with plans of doing it alone. Later that night I was struck with another idea.
I have two half-brothers, Stephen and Dylan, aged 22 and 17. They come from different families and don’t really know each other. So I decided to buy them flights to LA and the three of us would take the trip together. “Three Ami-bros,” as my mom called it.
In the Lower East Side there’s a pothole so big it’s become a tourist attraction. It’s a black, bare-gummed chasm that gapes from the asphalt. It appeared this week after the street began melting from six straight days of temperatures above 100 degrees.
From my apartment I’ve tracked the pothole’s growth by the sounds of cars scraping over it. The first couple of days it was a rough *scrape*, bumpers dipping into the hole and dragging their nails as they pulled out. As the hole has gotten deeper the scrape has become a more alarming *thunk*, and then the pull of the accelerator as the driver escapes.
When the hole first appeared someone put an orange traffic cone on top of it, and drivers inched their way around. This wasn’t always easy, as it’s a small street with parking on either side. As the pothole has gotten bigger the cone has gotten smaller, sinking further. Now only the top two inches of the cone stick out like a shark’s fin warning the most diligent of the danger below.
The pothole’s growth has accelerated. At first it sat astride the “O” in “STOP” that’s painted in white letters on the street. As the hole has stretched it’s overtaken and finally anthropomorphized the “O.” It’s a clever camouflage.
With the orange cone’s usefulness fading, two men today decided to protect traffic from the pothole on their own. One man was in his 50s, Latino, and wearing a visor and a white golf shirt. The other was about the same age, Asian, and wearing khakis and a striped golf shirt. The men tried to ward off traffic with the cone from inside the hole and a second one that had appeared.
The men mostly made things worse. Soon a block of cars stretched toward Grand Street while the Latino man barked (“WAIT! STOP! WAIT!”) and the Asian man shuffled the cones in various unhelpful configurations to guide the cars. With each car the dance repeated itself. Finally the cars gave up on the whole situation and the line began to slowly reverse. Eventually the men gave up too.
Right now traffic outside is light and the two men and one of the cones are gone. The original cone has returned to its watch in the street, and nearby a pair of tourists take a picture. Just wait until everyone back home hears about the potholes in New York City.
“The desire to make art has always been inherently social, not economic, and now, even in a society defined by the free market, the means to produce art can come from an inherently social mechanism as well.”— New York Times
“How has it been possible for banks to grow from less than 4 per cent of the global economy to more than 12 per cent of the global economy without impoverishing others? How has it been possible for profits in the financial sector to be consistently higher than profits from other human endeavors with more tangible products or impacts on our daily lives - such as agriculture, transport, health care or utilities?”—Lies, Damn Lies, and Libor
“If attempts to manipulate LIBOR were successful—and the regulators think that Barclays did manage it, on occasion—then this would be the biggest securities fraud in history”—The LIBOR Affair, The Economist
“This place is crazy. Like the stuff of dreams, and then so much more. At the moment I’m snugged in here inside the boat as an early evening thunderstorm is passing by outside….which, given that it’s a Saturday evening here, is, like, the greatest gift ever. Because rain means that the ol drunkards won’t fight the elements to congregate at the “resort”/shitty watering-hole next door to beat the living daylights out of each other. It means there will be no punches thrown, no retreats behind my slumbering boat, no exchange of large boulders that will or will not knock dear friends of mine out cold. It means there will be no homemade bombs hurled over the fence, no burning of homes in retaliation, no sunrise wakeups to find buggy-eyed boys milling around with axes and other such homemade murdering tools. So, yes, rain - it’s a good thing.”—Emily Richmond has been in Papau New Guinea for the past three months. Stay safe Emily! We miss you!
“As creative people, we have always been trained (and with good reason) to view money like an illegitimate child — don’t ever ever talk about it; if you have it, don’t admit it; and if you find yourself without, definitely don’t ever openly desire to have some.”—Something I wrote while inviting Amanda Palmer to use Kickstarter way back in June 2009.
“The awesome, and final, powers of the Justices are best exercised sparingly and with restraint. Their normal burdens of interpreting laws are heavy enough. No one expects the Justices to be making health-care policy any more than we expect them to be picking Presidents, which, it may be remembered, is not exactly their strength, either.”— Oh snap, Jeffrey Toobin! (New Yorker)
“United States government scientists recently reported, for instance, that February was the 324th consecutive month in which global temperatures exceeded their long-term average for a given month; the last month with below-average temperatures was February 1985.”—Weather Runs Hot and Cold, So Scientists Look to the Ice (NY Times)