I-9

At the center of a community of Vermonters, skiers, snowboarders, vagabonds, tenters, cyclists, partiers, academics, sauna enthusiasts, wakeboarders, sailer's, bums, UVMers, climbers and good people was Ryan Hawks. On March 1, 2011 Ryan died of injuries sustained while skiing on the World Free Skiing Tour. After months of figuring out how to write about Ryan, our friends and what our time together meant, I've decided the only thing to do is start and see where it takes me.


In part to keep a promise I made to myself that I would continue to carry Ryan's spirit I am currently in the process of making a 3,300 mile move from Boston to Portland, OR with my buddy Jason Kroot (another story for another day).


En route I decided to stop in Vail to and go back to Timber Ridge Village - Apartment I-9.

Timber Ridge Village is the employee housing for Vail resorts - it is in essence a college dorm minus the classes or supervision. Think Lord of the Flies with a virtually unlimited supply of mind altering substances. I moved into T-Ridge with Matt and Ryan right after we arrived in Vail and we quickly went about turning it into our own. It was two bed rooms so a bunk bed was constructed in one room while the single was reserved for anyone with lady visitors. The walls were covered with skiers and hot women (sometimes with hot skier women) and we furnished it with a couch stolen from another unit which had become to infested with mold to be considered livable.

The place was shitty to say the least. A hard lean on a wall would result in a hole and there was a special release each tenant had to sign before moving in which mentioned the lethal nature of the black mold that was present in many of the units and which made some buildings illegal to even enter.

Shortly after moving in Matt met Chris Rainesberger - a red headed trouble maker if ever there was one - who was between apartments and moved in with us on the couch. Next door lived two Australians: Kane who was a sous chef and lover of American women and Nadia who was a beautiful blond who'd fled pressures in Australia to try a different pace in Vail. With the, lived a chubby slow talking cook from Texas named Joe.

We were all one big happy drunken family. When Thanksgiving arrived that year, Nadia offered to cook the bird. 15 people wandered over to our house where we had strung together the tables from several units to make a massive feast table. Since we had the skills of two sous chefs and one inspired at play an unthinkably large amount of food was made. Good food. And for a bunch of kids who has been eating little variation from Raman since September it was the best meal we'd ever seen. Since the other 12 attendants to dinner had not cooked we brought booze. By the time dinner was served everyone was was hollering and falling down eager for food and out of their minds. When all was said and done we collapsed in elation. More than a few people woke up the next morning less then 10 feet from the table.

In December our friend Dan left treatment to come and visit. He had nothing going on in his life and Ryan slowly coaxed him over his 5 day visit not to live. So then we had another roommate. A new bunk bed was constructed to allow for additional storage space and a third couch was stole from a mold apartment.

In January the friends arrived in waves. Ben, Rob, Sarah, Caitlin, Hillary, John, Jade, Ryan McD, Matt... At one point there were 10 people living in the house. This combination was topped off by hard breakups, big fights, unhinged partying and the fact that we had to be at work by 5AM every day.

The last time I was in Timber Ridge was on April 19th, 2005. I left in a hurry with Ryan, Matt and Dan feeling like I had worn out my welcome in Vail and was ready to move onto something new. I had been back through Vail once since, but never back to my our old home.

When I arrived back I was stunned by how little had changed. The paint was the same, the stains were the same, the signs with hollow threats of towing were the same. I pulled my car into the spot that I used to fight for with Bessy (the old gray van) next to the stairs and lost my balance the moment I stepped out of the car.

The memories that came flooding back - even the smell of the mold was almost too much to handle.

Up the stairs I went, my legs finding the familiar stride, past the first entrance then up to Unit I-9.

There it stood. There I was. The paint by the door handle still had the marks from 100 break ins we had completed after forgetting keys.

I stood silent. I felt like I was on hollowed ground.

We Lost Him

At the center of a community of Vermonters, skiers, snowboarders, vagabonds, tenters, cyclists, partiers, academics, sauna enthusiasts, wakeboarders, sailer's, bums, UVMers, climbers and good people was Ryan Hawks. On March 1, 2011 Ryan died of injuries sustained while skiing on the World Free Skiing Tour. After months of figuring out how to write about Ryan, our friends and what our time together meant, I've decided the only thing to do is start and see where it takes me.

At 5:52 AM my phone rang once. I knew instantly what had happened. My had shot across the bed and answered, on the other end was Louis - calm, resolved and heart broken.

We lost Ryan he whispered.

Three words and time stopped.

And Dissolved.

And became a kaleidescope of wanting the past back and knowing that it was gone forever.

The night before everyone in Ryan's world had gone to bed heaving a collective sigh of relief clutching onto the word "stable". I'd had 6000 phone calls up and down the phone tree of dear friends and almost forgotten acquaintances. 

"We just don't know what's coming next, but Hawks always pulls out of this stuff."

"No matter what shape he's in, he'll have us to get him back on his feet and back on skis."

"I'll fly out next week when they bring him out of the coma."

"How are Peter and Jackie doing?"

"Ryan's OK right? I heard he fell? Have you talked to him?"

With our friend stable I was sure that each day was going to get better. When I went to sleep Monday night, I was sure that by Wednesday afternoon I'd be able to talk to my old friend and hear everything that had happened. Maybe try to make him laugh. Suddenly I was faced with the inconceivable idea that I would speak to him again.

How things progressed from that first moment of shock is a testament to the love and sense of family that Ryan left behind.

Who is finding their way to the Thumb Diary, and why?

Out of curiosity, I looked at my traffic stats for this site. This blog has always been largely for my own amusement, and my MO is write what you want, no one's reading it anyway. At times this does lower my motivation to post for a few months, but I get over it and keep churning out the thoughts that bounce around my head, if only for my own benefit.

Turns out there are some people reading after all (granted not many).

So how are those hoards of thousands (well 2000) finding their way here? My travelogue? My cleverness permeating the internet?

The answer is a mixed bag. About 10% of my traffic comes from the fact that my site shares a name with "thethumbsdiary.com", which appears to be a Turkish softcore porn site. The result is that I have a cult following of accidental viewers in Eastern Europe.

A small (but substantive given the low volume of my site) number of people get here from searching the terms most likely to drive you to my site:

1) Aasim Smith is the name of  a defendant on the murder trail I was a juror on. News coverage was limited, so I guess I became the authority.

2) Thumb Diary - I'm thinking this is either people who forgot my URL looking for me... or else the Turkish Porn thing.

3) Tiptoes - apparently the world wants to know about the tiptoes sex scene.

4) Dren, Splice - apparently the only thing that people want to learn about from me as much as midget sex is alien incest.

600 more people wandered there way in searching other terms. Much of this was generated by people looking for images.

30 found my site because it was listed as a "good way to pass time" on a broadband testing site.

10 found it from a link on a Russian home decor site (really no idea on this one).

So it boils down to this - I guess I have become the internet's most disappointing peddler of smut. I am going to set my aim a littler higher. This silly little exorcise has taught me that if I keep churning out readable posts about things that interest me, it will find an audience of some kind... Even if that audience was really just looking for Turkish boobs.

Marwencol - A Strange film that Boarders on Perfect

In the interest of trying something different, I’ve decided to write about a movie I loved. No irony, no sense of superiority – I just really liked this movie. While this is a documentary and knowing the full story is not a spoiler per se, I would advise people who plan on seeing the movie to wait to read this as letting the story unfold cold may be more impactful.

In action movies (and comedies for that matter) violence is something that happens without consequence. Bad guys are thwarted with quick kicks and head shots – good guys bounce back mending bullet wounds with tied off t-shirts or perhaps defiantly spitting out a tooth.

In the world in which we live however – violence leaves lasting scars both physical and emotional. It is between the worlds of action movies and consequences that the subject of the film, Mark Hogancamp lives.

In 2002, Mark was beaten brutally outside of a bar in his small upstate New York town. Mark, a navy veteran and long time alcoholic had told a group at the bar that he was a cross dresser. The group proceeded to beat him so badly that he was hospitalized for months receiving reconstructive surgery and beginning physical therapy. Then his Medicare ran out and he was on his own.

The lingering effects of the attack were devastating. Mark was left with no memory of his time in the Navy, the years he was married or even what it was like to be with a women. In a fortunate twist of fate, it also absolved him of his desire to drink.

Finding himself without a past, physically wrecked and fearful of groups of people Mark began to create a world for himself – An entire 1940s Belgian village inhabited by dolls where World War II never ended. In Marks village (Called Marwencol which gives the film it’s name) each of the dolls is based on someone from Mark’s life. He has the starring role as a rogueish officer who owns a Bar and Catfight club. Like himself Mark’s effigy of himself bares scars on his face.

The film dive’s head first into Marwencol, exploring some of the many, many story lines Mark acts out with the dolls, buildings and vehicles lovingly assembled and customized to bring incredible veracity to the town. Mark has a fascination with death, violence, friendship and most of all women. Mark regularly looks to the real people who have inspired his dolls on how they should react in a story line. With these themes taken from Mark’s life and so much input from friends and co-workers Mark sometimes struggles to keep a firm grip on what is real, and what he has created in his mind. Often we see Mark dressed in full WWII regalia as if he is waiting for the day when he can shrink down and join his imaginary world as more than the puppet master.

 

Moving the film from interesting to amazing is the pictures Mark has taken of Marwencol. The pictures, taken with the gritty realism which evokes the photojournalism from war zones of the last 60 years is immersive and captivating. It also serves as a window into the seriousness with which Mark sees his village.

This movie is incredible, and stands out as the most thought provoking thing I have seen in a long time. It explores heavy topics in a way that engages the audience, by providing a look into our world from the perspective of an outside. Mark may see his creation as a means to recovery, but the audience gets to see it as a reflection of the world.

Resident Evil 4: This one Doesn't Even Have Zombies

From time to time I am compelled to put down my pretensions of having "taste" or "standards" and heed the siren call of the shiny 'splosions and sexy vixens of blockbuster action movies.

The truth is that no matter what I tell myself, I can only watch so many movies about Autistic shut ins, and transsexual teen sheep herders coming of age in the USSR before I lose it and just want to see some shit blow up next to some PG-13 semi-nudity. Last Friday was just such a night.

In fairness, I have seen all of the Resident Evil movies. Yes, this does qualify me as a bad person.

On with it.

The movie opens with a very hot lady getting rained on in the center of Tokyo. The camera works slowly up from this sexy, sexy ladies sexy red heals, up her sexy legs... this sexy slow panning with alternating shots from above seems to last about 10 minutes. The sexy Japanese lady turns out to be a zombie (sad) who bites a homely little Japanese man - for me this raised the important question of whether zombies could really walk in heals. It also sets the precedent in the film of women looking stunning and composed regardless of the situation of being alive. More on that later.

We get some narration which reveals that the last 3 movies can be summed up in 25 seconds. I guess that's what you get for watching movies based on video games.

Next Milla breaks into a secret underground base. She is promptly shot and killed... but wait! She has magically cloned herself! There is no explanation for how this has happened.

The army of Milla's (which is much more disconcerting than hot) tears threw the base killing and maiming in a set of action sequences thoroughly cribbbed from the Matrices movies down to the stupid fucking "bullet time" effect that looked dated in 2004.

We're about 10 minutes in, and having realized what we were in for, Meg and I started hitting the whiskey pretty hard.

So all the Milla's are really pissed and they're out to kill the bad dude. I don't know what makes him the bad dude, other than that he wears sunglasses and he shot a little Asian man in the face for no reason. Will call him Jed.

So Jed is fighting all the Milla's and some of them have psychic powers and are blowing things up with their minds. Oh, and for some reason everyone talks like Batman. Specifically Christopher Nolan's Batman. Everybody. All the time. Even the Japanese extras when were they're talking in Japanese. It's like everyone in the movie went out to a party the night before and made out with a sick girl and then each other... then they spent the rest of the night yelling at each other and chain smoking cigarettes ... then the next morning the director was like "Fuck it, the dialogs all fucking stupid anyway, so just try to sound ominous instead of sick."

I guess you can't have an action movie where everyone whispers and sips soothing tea.

Pretty sure that's what happened.

Ummmmmm...

Oh yeah -

So Jed's trying to get away on a plane, and he blows up the base with all the Milla's in it. He's feeling pretty smug when all of a sudden BOOM another Milla. Jed senses her presence or some shit and sticks a needle in her. He then patiently explains that the needle took away her powers while she glares angrily with heaving bosoms. Frankly this is kind of a relief because the mind powers were already getting old in the first 5 minutes of the movie. Then for some reason the plane crashes (maybe into Mt. Fuji?) and it's all fire and brimstone, but somehow Milla walks away looking really hot.

Milla goes to Alaska for reasons apparently explained in a previous movie. She finds a hot girl who was like 15 in the other movie but is now a more hotness appropriate age, despite the idea that only months have passed between movies. Whatever.... It's Resident fucking evil so continuity ain't its strong suit.

She saves the hot girl and puts her in her plane. Fortunately between when she is found (wearing rags) and when she gets into the plane both her and Milla find time to shower and put on make up. Seriously. I know it's based on a video game, but all actresses look remarkably well made up and conditioned at all times. Even if they're dead. Or on fire. I guess both main actresses have only medium sized breasts, so great strides for feminism there.

They fly to Hollywood looking gorgeous. They meet some happy people who have taken over the LA Prison to live in. Honestly, it's pretty fucking boring from there on out. For some reason EVERY single character talks like Batman. This only get's worse as the movie goes on. It's like the director is just off screen between yelling "Good Milla, but this time with more Batman".

At one point they land the plane on the roof of the prison. Then an evil gay man and his intern steam it (really).

I found this drawing which sums up that part of the movie.

Ummmm.... what else.

It turns out lots of people are trapped on a boat and alive (hurray!)

There's some blatant 5th movie setup (this one made $260 million after all)

Oh yeah, the gay guy get's eaten by Jed for some reason.

And really, there are not really zombies in this. At some point, they were all like "we shit, if fucking Jane Eyre has zombies now, I guess were taking them out of resident evil."

Always With Us

Last night I had a dream about the fall that took Ryan's life. It was playing over and over again in my mind, when suddenly it stopped. I was at the kitchen table from the Pheasant Way house sitting across the from Ryan. Needless to say we were both drinking Long Trail. I talked a little about what had been going on it my life since I'd last seen him but mostly I listened.

He told me he was doing good now where he was and I could tell that it was great by how much he smiled and laughed. He told me how much he missed his family and his friends and how he was sorry to have left us. He reminded me to not worry so much about life's stresses and in true Ryan style, assured me that things would turn out fine. I told him how sad I was about not making it to Reno and he laughed like it had not occurred to him that it was a big deal.

He left with a hug and a "Peace", and I found myself awake and shaking back in my hotel.

I started writing this in hope of being able to write about Ryan's loss, but I still can't find the words I need. For now all that I can say is that not a day goes by that I don't think about him, and look to his spirit for guidance.

The Quiet American: My First Drive in a new Ford

In 2008, the American auto industry appeared on the verge of utter collapse. General Motors, once an icon of industry, and the largest automaker in the world had become a punch line to every joke about corporate hubris. (My favorite being “If we ever want to end the war on drugs we should just put GM in charge of selling them). Astonishingly, Chrysler as in even worse shape! Chrysler was the battered bride of a failed marriage with Daimler (Mercedez-Benz) which had left it with a gutted corporate office and a line up of cars which seem to have been designed with an active disdain for their buyers. (Honestly – have you ever been in a Neon? It gives you the impression that who ever planned it had an active hatred of any poor fucker unlucky enough to step inside.)

Then there was Ford. While the rest of the American Auto Industry was staying with the long held status quo and keeping their long time leaders, Ford was trying something new. The face of that new approach was Alan Mullaly. Famed for his accomplishments at Boeing Alan was initially viewed as a dark horse when he stepped into the Ford C suite. While Boeing was also a long standing American institution in need of strong leadership to bring new product and end a slump there are some big differences. Boeing relies on 5 products or less, with R&D times that can stretch for decades, a small pool of buyers and one real competitor Ford swims in different seas. Ford has dozens of competitors, five brands and a R&D pipeline based on the assumption that Americans would keep buying frame on ladder SUVs and pickups forever as long as they were comfortable and had a blue oval on the front. Alan thought different, and shortly after taking the helm reinvigorated R&D for Ford’s small car lineup taking the giant risk that Americans would move back to small American cars if they had some good ones to choose for. So far his risk appears to be paying off. Ford skirted bankruptcy.

And their new cars are fantastic.

On a trip this week to Minneapolis I was lucky enough to be the first driver of a 2011 Ford Fusion SE. On first inspection the Fusion is a striking car. It is appealingly shaped with chrome accents which hint at prestige, not rap video aspirations. Mine had eye catching optional projector fog lamps and was painted in a metallic gray/green (we’ll call it green marble) which nicely differentiated it from the anonymous silver hoards without hinting at my only child syndrome induced need for attention.

Stepping inside, it was well finished and spacious. The controls were intuitive and the interior plastics had a pleasant softness to them. During one outing I chauffeured three full sized Minnesotans on a 15 minute drive to lunch without any complaints from the back seat, even from a grain fed six footer. The Sirius radio worked well and the speakers capably supported late night jam sessions with the 90s pop radio station blaring.

Typically I drive a 2000 Integra manual coupe which has I love for its peppiness, driving dynamics and overall fun. While I would not describe the Fusion as fun per se, it is certainly fun capable. With a strong V6 and responsive transmission the Ford can feel down right sprightly on runs down on ramps. Perhaps more importantly excellent brakes paired with active (but not hyper active) traction control made the car feel in control even during snow driving and hard breaking. On several occasions while hitting unexpected ice, the traction control quickly eased the car back into full control without giving the disconcerting feeling that the car is in charge I have experienced in other cars. Good rubber sitting on eye catching 18 inch rims and well weighted steering give the car a planted feel on back featuring hard corners.

The Fusion fits in the Ford line up as a midsize sedan meant to compete with the Camry, Accord, the dreadful Malibu and the embarrassing Sebring. It rests snugly between the Taurus and Fiesta in size and price. I don’t think I will be giving up my sports car aspirations any time soon, but if the day ever comes that I have car seats in the back, the Fusion would absolutely make the list. 

Master of the Universe

Until the age of 11, my favorite thing in the world was to left alone at the beach or along a stream to build. What I built always depended on where I was. If I was by rocky stream, I would build dams and if I was on the beach I would  build sprawling sand castles with foot thick walls.

I would spend an hour pacing my construction site, thinking about how it could best be utilized. Next, it was time to gather provisions. I would walk the surrounding area filling my towel or sweatshirt with supplies. Interesting rocks, shells, water worn sticks... my mind racing to figure out exactly how they would fit into the big picture.

I would put endless time and attention into these small feats of engineering, and I could not be pulled away by any means or for any reason until the creek was stopped, the fleet was fully outfitted or the castle stood impervious above the tide. My parents would try to coax me away with food or trips to other places -- but nothing in the world could be as important as realizing my vision for that particular spot.

As the sun was going down, and it was time to go home I would survey my creation. 500 lbs of rock bringing nature to a stop. Mountains of sand surveying miles of beach. The moment of seeing my dream realized was sometimes almost too much to handle. With my hands raw from sand and rock, my muscles sore and my face sun burned I wound stand for a moment knowing I was the master of the universe.

Then the surge of pain would come. 

The water might get around the damn. 

The older kids might wreck my castle. 

I feared the monuments I had built to me and my ability would never stand the test of time.

With that knowledge I would destroy what I had built until there was nothing.