textfiles/fun/CAA/gecaa-18

From slcpi!govt.shearson.com!mjohnsto@uunet.UU.NET Mon Jan  7 17:20:24 1991
To: wordy@Corp
Subject: chapter-18

BE IT EVER SO HUMBOLDT...



#18 in the second online CAA series



by



Steven K. Roberts, HtN (WORDY)



Eureka, CA; 1,153 miles.



January 1, 1987



     We would have pedaled down to Ferndale today if it hadn't rained.



     For over a week we've been planning our New Year's Day departure from this

place that has grown TOO familiar.  All through December the sun shone brightly

-- by Christmas I was so sure that it would rain on January first that I almost

called the National Weather Service to offer them a hot tip.  Hitting the road

on a bicycle is a more reliable rainmaking technique than washing your car...

try it sometime.



     Oh, I suppose it's just as well -- we were up until four A.M. celebrating

the end of 1986 and the resumption of our travels. Imagine the scene:



     Over a thousand rubber bands turned loose in a small house, with seven

schnapps-soaked loonies firing them at every hint of exposed flesh -- raising

welts, cries, and crazy guffaws of short-lived victory.  Maggie in the new

mini-dress, her pantyhose-clad cycling legs an achingly inviting target; June

sniping from behind furniture and giggling at every strike; Micki dashing into

the open for ammo only to yelp at the unexpected zinging barrage from all

sides.  The Fathers of Trollo waged their own war, thundering at each other

like F-4 Phantoms as I crept about on missions of private intrigue: gathering

ammo, ambushing the unwary, and hiding rubber bands in odd places to serve as a

perpetual reminder of our visit.  Yes, it was a gentle night... at the stroke

of 12 we dashed to the alley and fired salvo after salvo from Ken's homemade

oxy-acetylene cannon -- potatoes mashed against distant walls, our ears

ringing, our retinas seared with hot streaks of muzzle flash, the

scratchin'-lickin'-bitin'- snortin'-stinkin' dog trembling against June in

mortal terror.  More schnapps... more nachos... more rubber bands... and then

gradual acquiescence after far too many hours of defying gravity, bodies

sinking to couches and floors, whimpers of pain and exhaustion mingling with

the surreal sounds of late-night television and the dwindling drunken traffic

of my third New Year's Eve on the road...



     And there are thirteen years until the 21st century.



     So.  It's 1987.  It is traditional for columnists to rhapsodize at length

about the past and future as viewed from the standpoint of that infinitely

small point moving between them.  But the former is colored by the present and

the latter is pure conjecture, so instead of putting travel predictions in

print I'll just tell you what I WANT to do.



     If you've been following these writings for a while, you have probably

noticed a certain variance of purpose.  Sometimes FUN is my bottom line;

sometimes I'm seeking a resolution of the old freedom-vs- security trade-off.

Sometimes I want to travel forever; sometimes I get all misty-eyed over the

sense of HOME that appears wherever I take the time to look.  I go on great

technoid binges of logic design and system integration, getting so deeply

immersed in electronics that streets with NO OUTLET signs seem vaguely

primitive -- then I turn my back on all this gizmology and refuse to discuss

it.  Peer over my shoulder one day, and you'll find me celebrating my nomadic

lifestyle for its variety of contacts; do so the next and you'll hear me

muttering about the exhausting sameness of endless beginnings.
 about it is an ideal lifestyle for a

confirmed generalist living in fear of commitment.  It sounds a lot like

large-scale Brownian motion, but my life can actually be reduced to a simple

formula:  I open doors with my bizarre key, make observations about what goes

on behind them, draw inferences from related experiences, and then pass stories

and commentary along to the rest of the world in exchange for enough of a

living to keep going.  It's just a form of street theatre:  The Computing

Across America Traveling Circuits...



     And, interestingly enough, it more or less works.  Publicity happens with

little or no effort, and even though people generally recognize the Winnebiko

instead of the guy sitting on top of it, the net effects are the same:  brand

recognition, invitations, publishing opportunities, free hardware or services,

and even, amazingly enough, that absurd yet flattering "groupie effect."



     Now.  Let's turn all it into something that doesn't depend upon momentary

whims and chance encounters.



     Throughout history, writers, satirists, commentators, cartoonists and

other interpreters of the culture have been supported by the population --

whether through salary, spare change tossed into passed hats, or the generosity

of patrons.  We pay these people to expand our vision, to digest reality and

present it to us as "entertainment." What sounds at first like something

essentially playful, however, turns out to have critical importance in the

evolution of our culture: it is the job of these people to raise human

awareness, sniff out absurdity, spotlight political nastiness, recognize

trends, and define our collective self-image -- all the while inviting us to

step outside the routine of daily life and be entertained by what they have to

say. Every component of popular culture, from the Sunday funnies to 60 Minutes,

is part of the ongoing education of our complex society.  It is the measure of

Berke Breathed's success, to pick one of many instructive examples, that he can

convey an elusive and essential message in the middle of thigh-slapping

laughter.



     Educators, take note.



     So what's all this have to do with me, my compu-bike, and big plans for

1987?  This:  I have become a living caricature of information technology, a

wandering commentator on the zany American scene, a generalist/journalist with

a 220-pound press pass, and a rolling media event.  That's almost enough to

insure success... but not quite.  What's missing is marketing, that mystical

process that turns ideas into products and products into necessities.

Publicity alone doesn't pay the bills.



     "Marketing" in the context of what started out as a personal getaway

adventure sounds like sacrelige.  It calls to mind vendor decals and slick

packaging, product slogans and pithy superficial distillations of my life that

can fit onto a bulk-rate glossy flyer. But here, dear readers, is the reality:



     Weekly online columns make valuable contacts but earn just enough to buy

one reasonably fine restaurant meal a month, assuming moderation on the bar

tab.  Occasional freelance pieces sometimes pay the rent back at the Ohio

office.  A book about my travels is due in two months from a publisher that has

never tried selling anything outside the exciting but small world of library

and information science.  A little bit of random consulting work pays well but

draws precious energy from the adventure itself.  And I depend more than I'd

like to admit on the generosity of new friends, feeding us after a long day and

sheltering us from the night.



     This -- a shaky hand-to-mouth existence -- is what supports that exuberant

grinning figure you've seen on national TV, in Time Magazine, in USA Today, and

hundreds of other places.  I never really understood the difference between

public relations and marketing until now:  CAA is a PR bonanza and a marketing

fiasco.  I have media coverage the average small company would kill for, but no

standard products other than these weekly columns and a forthcoming book about

my first 10,000 miles.



     So that's the plan for 1987:  adding business survival to my

long-established objective of FUN.  It's not just an adventure, it's a job!

But there's one subtle problem... my essential message is FREEDOM -- that you

can accomplish anything if you want it enough, that risk is healthy, that your

resources of intelligence are probably a lot deeper than you think.  We have

new technological tools to free us, new worlds to explore, and even a new

population of people who cavort freely in Dataspace unconstrained by location,

color, appearance, or education.  FREEDOM.  It's an exciting message, and

people easily relate to it in these days of urine testing, polygraphs, poorly

maintined credit databases, economic pressure, horrifying new social diseases,

and a resurgence of misguided puritanism.  A whiff of freedom perks up the

imprisoned like that first hint of morning coffee.



     But try living as a public paragon of personal freedom within the

bottom-line-oriented constraints of a marketing plan.  There's the challenge:

treating this as a business without having it look like one.

                                * * *



     Let's close this week's installment on a playful note, something that

every reader can relate to.  Something that touches us all deeply, evokes

intense memories, and rouses strong feelings...



     I floated easily in a nitrous fog, the Walkman pumping Bob James into my

head, my wool-shrouded toes tapping in their well-worn Birkenstocks.  Through

half-closed lids I saw the needle approach my mouth and prepared to wince,

flashing painfully on the closing scene of the movie "Brazil."   But the nurse

tapped my arm, some kind of swabbed on local anaesthetic numbed me, and I

failed to notice the violation of my gums.  So far so good.



     Mega-numb -- no way for me to transcend dental medication.  I was calmed

by the delightful gas but intellectually nervous, my normal dentist-chair panic

elevated to a sort of bemused abstraction but still very much in evidence.  I

had never been to a painless dentist and didn't truly believe them to exist...

and he was probing a very large hole in a broken wisdom tooth, the subject of

many a horror story.



     Jazz swirled through my head; I heard the drill scream.  It entered,

rising and falling in pitch as it carved living tooth, raising a cloud of hot

enamel-dust that shocked my nose as would my own burning flesh.  Yet the

sensation was of someone drilling into a block of wood lodged in my mouth:

multiple smooth hands, the glint of stainless steel instruments, the suction

tube, the detail of the overhead light, the smells of rubber gloves and faint

perfume and powdered tooth... but no pain.  Stunned, I waited for it -- 5% of

my brain quailing at each approach of the drill while the rest soared through

the pure bliss of the Touchdown album and wanted the experience to never end.



     And then the smells of solvents and sealants; the welcome poking and

prodding that bespeaks an end to destruction and the beginning of

reconstruction... and soon the vaguely depressing news that I had already been

on pure oxygen for five minutes and did I feel normal again?  NO PAIN.  This

had to be the most unusual Christmas present I had ever received:  a gift

certificate from Ken (of Trollo and Bionic Taco fame) good for "X-Ray &

anesthesia with a filling or extraction" at the offices of Michael Holland,

D.D.S. -- and then to find the experience genuinely pleasant as well!



     Ain't technology wonderful?



     See you next week, from somewhere south of here.  This time I really mean

it.



          -- Steve