A new image made last night that took over 18 hours to render for some reason.

I've noticed that my last several images have been of a similar theme. What I don't know is whether they're supposed to represent a journey towards something or away from it.

Alternatively it could just be that I'm finally developing a more realistic sense of scale and distance in my renderings.

What if I'm not even the one driving?

What if I find out that the driver is a maniacal serial-killer, leaving a trail of death and destruction behind us? Should I jump out of the car while I still can? Would that be rude? Would it be safer than staying in the car with the lunatic?

And what if the person driving is only using me to be able to use the diamond lane?

Huh? How about that?

December, 1995. I was relocating from Seattle to New Orleans for a six-month contract. I packed up my Audi as much as I could and started heading East on December 8th. I was looking forward to the drive at least as much as I was to the destination. I've always liked driving cross-country.

Anyway, after spending the first night in Spokane, I took off early Saturday morning towards the Rockies.

Everything happened so gradually that I just didn't notice until it was almost too late.

At one point - perhaps 10:00 PM or a little later - I realized a few things:

1. I hadn't seen another car in several hours.
2. I was making fresh tracks in about 10 inches of snow.
3. It was snowing very hard.
4. I was in a mountain pass in the winter.
5. I was an idiot.

I briefly considered pulling off the side of the road and waiting for the weather to clear, or for a snowplow to go by, but I really couldn't tell where the edge of the road was. My only indicators were guardrails on one side and steep hills rising up on the other. I had visions of falling asleep in my car and then being buried alive or knocked into a ravine by a passing plow. Perhaps they'd find me in a thousand years and the descendants of Americans would demand that their alien overlords return "Idiot Man" to his sacred burial place inside the Audi.

The slightly better option was to just keep going. After all, this wasn't 1846 and I wasn't the Donner party. The chances were good that I'd see an exit or at least a rest stop before I had to eat my own arm to stay alive.

Several times (too many) my car would hit a particularly slick patch of highway and I'd suddenly be going sideways. Or backwards. These were surreal times - everything seemed to happen in complete silence and in slow-motion. Each time this happened I'd manage to straighten out and continue onward like nothing had ever happened.

All of this repeated several times. I never saw another car. I eventually passed the Continental Divide and entered Montana, but by this time I was pushing my way through at least 2 feet of fresh snow. I did eventually pass a couple of signs promising "Exit 50 - 2 miles ahead" or some such but everything at ground level was completely featureless. I knew I'd be as likely to drive off a cliff as I would be to navigate an unfamiliar exit ramp that I couldn't see.

So I kept going, navigating as much by feel as by sight. The snow flying off my hood allowed only the rarest glimpses of the little reflective markers that lined the right side of the road and were my only friends that night.

I eventually saw that I was going down in elevation more often than not, and that the snow had lessened considerably. At about 4:00 AM I finally saw civilization again. I think it was near Missoula but I'm not certain. I came down a hill and saw a couple of snow plows and a police car facing West and parked at the side of the road. A brightly-lit sign informed any Westbound travelers that I-90 was closed due to inclement weather.

No shit, Sherlock.

A short drive later I finally found myself on a plowed road and I took the first exit I saw and checked into a motel for what was left of the night.

It was certainly an interesting journey, but not one I'd ever want to repeat.

Which brings me to 2004.

Right now I find myself in an eerily similar situation.

There's no mountain pass, no snow. I'm not even sure where I'm supposed to be going, but I still find myself in nearly the same situation.

I've read many times that dreams are metaphors for life. That the brain, trying to make sense of the nearly random firings of neurons that occur during sleep, will often conjure up imagery and sensations that, while not exactly relevant to the waking world, are often a very close approximation. At least if you tilt your head and squint a certain way.

I think that sometimes life can provide its own metaphors.

Like the one I'm experiencing right now.

I once again find myself on a road that, while it was perfectly safe when I started, has become fraught with danger. Unknown obstacles wait around every turn.

I don't even know what I'm doing on this road. I just followed the stream of traffic, thinking perhaps that all these other people knew something I didn't - that there was something worthwhile up ahead.

Every now and then I'll pass a car lying in a ditch, perhaps aflame, a sign of a traveler who should have stayed home. Where it was at least safe.

I know I should get off this damn road. It's leading nowhere, and the snow has started. I should be in my basement shooting pool and watching reality shows instead of out here with all the other lemmings.

Sometimes, however, the right thing is not the easy thing. I'm not alone on this trip. Along the way I've picked up a few hitchhikers. Usually survivors from the crash sites I've passed, but also an occasional fresh-faced youth who seems completely unaware of the dangers ahead.

On that night in 1995 I was responsible only for my own actions. I could have pulled over and hoped for a rescue, but I chose to drive myself out of the mess I'd gotten myself into.

In 2004 I cannot make that choice as easily. I have a responsibility for my passengers. People who for one reason or another want to continue their journeys and expect me to be with them along the way.

I'd love to find a different road. A nice, flat, boring one. One where every hitchhiker isn't a potential serial-killer.

I bet that road would lead somewhere nice. Even if I got there alone, at least I'd get somewhere, and I probably wouldn't kill anyone or be killed along the way.

I can't make up my mind.

With every mile traveled it gets harder and harder to stop, and more impossible to turn around. Some landmarks can only be passed in one direction.

If I just jump out of the car I would certainly be hurt, but would I be hurt more if I kept driving? Would my passengers stop to help, or would someone take the wheel so they could continue unhampered by my misgivings?

What would I WANT them to do?

A couple of rather similar images.

mis-in-ter-pre-ta-tion
n.
1. The act of interpreting erroneously; a mistaken interpretation.

tim-ing
n.
1. A suitable or opportune moment or season.

ob-so-lete
adj.
1. No longer in use.
2. Outmoded in design, style, or construction.

un-be-liev-a-ble
adj.
1. Not to be believed; incredible.

fed up
adj.
1. Unable or unwilling to put up with something any longer.

Tonight I did not have a particularly great night.

One item of interest that I feel like sharing is that I had a Fantome Pissenlit. My review at ratebeer.com:

I was expecting something different, and perhaps even better, from this beer. What I got was, to me anyway, a bland, somewhat dirty tasting belgian. I certainly don't understand the hype.

I don't feel like writing anything else.

So there.

sub-par
adj.
1. Not measuring up to traditional standards of performance, value, or production.

beau-ti-ful
adj.
1. Having qualities that delight the senses, especially the sense of sight.
2. Excellent; wonderful.

use-less
adj.
1. Being or having no beneficial use; futile or ineffective.
2. Incapable of functioning or assisting; ineffectual.

I started Friday unsure if I was ready for a night drinking at Rich O's or not.

After work I went to shoot some at The Bank Shot and I really stunk up the place. I suppose I'll write about that session in my pool 'blog, but after I finally quit I figured that the night was already going so badly that going out drinking wouldn't be much of a risk.

Rich O's was very crowded, with about 50% strangers and the rest regulars that I kind of know. I sat at the island with TrainGirl and RealTrainGirl who invited me to a party next weekend. I plan to go after I go to this Brew at the Zoo thing that I've been looking forward to.

While I talked with the train girls and later LaptopGirl and some other regulars, I enjoyed my first beer of the night - a Robert the Bruce. I'd had one of these Monday, and while this time it didn't seem quite as refreshing, it still ended up being a good choice. At one point I noticed DeadLady sitting at the little table, and I was glad to see her still hanging in there.

Once a bunch of strangers left the living room area we moved over there so LaptopGirl would feel more comfortable.

On ElPresidente's recommendation I had an Avery "The Reverend" which I thought was a stupid name but the beer was really good. Perhaps not as complex as the Great Lake's Anniversary Ale but with a flavor that's as good as any belgian I've had.

Several people seemed to drift in and out of the area. CoffeeDude boldly went where I feared to tread - he attempted to cheer LaptopGirl up. ExBartender also did whatever it is that he does. I pretty much stayed out of the way since the last time I tried to make things better I ended up getting yelled at.

I decided to stop after just the two beers and switched to a Diet Coke. After another hour or so, spent mostly talking with MisunderstoodGirl and LaptopGirl about how mean MisunderstoodGirl is and whether Lewis and Clark had to fight alligators and ferns before they could even start on their expedition, I left pretty abruptly when nobody wanted to listen to my fascinating story about my Extreme Home Makeover dream.

This morning I don't have a hangover. I'm becoming cautiously optimistic that perhaps my recent problems with alcohol were just a temporary thing.

I had this well-written and eloquent entry about Friday night all ready to be posted when I accidentally hit the escape key and wiped it all out.

I'll rewrite the stupid thing tomorrow.

Yesterday after work I decided to kill some time before grocery shopping and have a couple of beers at Rich O's.

Since Monday's experiment of ONE beer went well I thought I'd try TWO beers and see what happened.

My first beer was a BBC Organic Amber. CanadianGirl has told me several times that this is her favorite BBC beer. She can keep it - I thought it was horrible. Chewy Budweiser.

My second beer was a Smithwick's that tasted okay, but not as good as it has in the past. I blame the poor showing on my senses being rattled by the BBC beer.

Anyway, these two beers didn't kill me, and I didn't have a hangover this morning, so I may be ready to risk Rich O's sometime this weekend after all.

My original plan to wait until September when NABC Cone Smoker came back has been scratched because it now looks like Cone Smoker won't be back until late November.

dis-turb-ing
adj.
1. Emotionally or mentally troubling; upsetting.

per-vert-ed
adj.
1. Deviating from what is considered right and correct.
2. Of, relating to, or practicing sexual perversion.

damned
adj.
1. Condemned, especially to eternal punishment in Biblical Hell.

I am, as it turns out, a horrible person.

I didn't plan to end up this way - it just happened.

Hopefully, now that I've identified the problem, I can make efforts to eliminate or at least reduce its impact on myself and others.

The other day I briefly wrote that a friend of VigilanteGirl had been in an accident.

This was a very serious accident as it turns out.

I stopped to see VigilanteGirl after work yesterday, and as I hadn't seen her since Sunday morning, I asked her how her friend was doing.

Her friend is alive, but pretty well fucked up. Probably for life.

VigilanteGirl demonstrated all of the cuts, breaks, internal injuries, etc. that her friend had suffered after being hit by a drunk driver.

VigilanteGirl used her finger to trace, along her own body, long elaborate paths of carnage that had nearly killed her friend in front of her eyes.

(This is the part where I'm a horrible person.)

As VigilanteGirl traced her imaginary cuts and breaks along her arms, down her face, and pretty much everywhere on her body, I actually became strangely aroused.

I actually had to avert my eyes, lest some twinkle in them betray my sickness.

I certainly wasn't glad that the poor girl (who I've never met) had sustained these horrible injuries. I also wasn't at all intrigued by the actual injuries themselves. They sounded truly horrific.

It was the tracing that got me.

Ahh, the tracing.

I've seen lap-dances in movies that were less erotic than VigilanteGirl's little destruction demonstration.

If this doesn't condemn me to eternal damnation I don't know what would.

Today I watched a show about a place. A place that a person used to work.

The show reminded me of the person, and I found myself watching the show (taped years ago) for a glimpse of the person.

The person did not appear on the show, though I'm pretty sure the person worked at the place during the filming.

I'm a little pissed that I couldn't watch the show without thinking about the person.