Mr Curly's Adventures

Music and Memories, Pt 5

Hey sports fans, if you are just joining us, this post is the fifth part of a series that began here. This series is nearly complete, but I haven’t found the energy to finish it just yet.

We now return to the program in progress.
—–

“Horse with no name” by America
After some intense memories, this one might seem small and insignificant. It’s not, but the kind of memories and emotions that it conjures up are decidedly more upbeat. One morning a long time ago, in a jurisdiction far, far away saw me strike out across Idaho as I headed to Boise for a weekend drill with my Military Police unit at Gowen Field. I was on the move just behind the rising sun on that beautiful and brilliantly clear morning. The sky was bright blue, and there wasn’t a cloud to be seen—just an endless blue sky, the scents of desert, and the noise of highway 26 passing under my tires as I drove West through the desert.

On the first part of the journey
I was looking at all the life
There were plants and birds and rocks and things
There was sand and hills and rings

It was 199something and I was 18. I looked damn good in my BDUs and shined black combat boots, was armed with a government issued excuse from school, and was enjoying my freedom from the public school system. For some reason lost to so many years, I pulled over on the shoulder of the highway “out in the desert”, somewhere around The EBR I Historical site. Maybe I had to stretch, maybe I wanted to wave at my Dad, working away somewhere at the Site (then the Idaho National Engineering Lab), or perhaps indulge in some open air relief—I don’t recall.

The first thing I met was a fly with a buzz
And the sky with no clouds
The heat was hot, and the ground was dry

What I do recall—as clear as the sky that bright, shining morn— was getting back in the car, putting the old blue Buick in gear, and nosing back into the westbound lane as this song came on. I’d heard the song a handful of times before, but this time it just hit different. The brilliant and clear sky, the quiet morning (save the hum of the road under my tires), and the desert life all around combined with lyrics just gave the morning an ethereal quality that’s stayed with me for the better part of 30 years now.

You see I’ve been through the desert
On a horse with no name

I drove—alone and with family members–that stretch of road many times in the 80s and 90s as I grew up in Idaho Falls. Most of those trips were heading to see family in Central Idaho, though quite a few were to get to Drills on Gowen field as well. I didn’t drive it for decades after I left Idaho, until one summer weekend in midst of a vacation and road trip with my Partner Cara.

Thanks to hard work and a decent severance, I had the cash and time for a vacation to Idaho Falls with her after getting laid off. We were headed back for her home in Boise on that very same stretch of road. It was a warm summer morning when we left my Parents house in Idaho falls–though nowhere near as early as it was on the day I recalled above. Nearly 30 years on, “the desert” started a bit further west of Idaho Falls, and seeing the growth that part of Idaho Falls had witnessed over the intervening years was…odd. As we got further out of town, into the desert proper, a storm started to blow in and began dropping light rain on us.

We talked as we rolled down the highway and toward the storm; the sky grew darker and I rolled the windows down. Petichor, dominated by the smell of wet sage, blew into the open windows and made the interior of my truck smell heavenly. We stopped at a rest area—that same one right next door to EBR I—where we got out to stretch our legs. We played in the mist, explored the picnic area, marveling at the smell, the desert landscape, and the memories of adventures past that came.

It felt good to be out of the rain
In the desert, you can remember your name

And then we drove onward toward new days, new travels, and new adventures to be had.

‘Cause there ain’t no one for to give you no pain
La, la, la, la, la, la

August 2024
Portland, OR

Music and Memories, Pt 4

Hey sports fans, if you are just joining us, this post is the fourth part of a series that began here. This series is nearly complete, but I haven’t found the energy to finish it just yet.

We now return to the program in progress.
—–

“Our House”, by Madness
I can’t remember the first time I heard this English Ska tune….It was sometime in the early or mid 1990s I think. I was listening to a Walkman as I pedaled down a long forgotten street in Idaho Falls and it came across the air, sandwiched in a set of whatever else was on that day. As I pumped the pedals of my bike and listened to the lyrics, I thought that they were an unintentionally superb approximation of my life.

Growing up on Cameron Avenue saw our house in almost the middle of the block. Any given day might have seen our house crowded with all of us, kids playing downstairs, and something was always happening as people went about the business of their young lives.

The lyrics, coupled with the happy tune of the song, make for a potent time capsule and a flood of memories of an idyllic time and place to be alive. Though growing up on Cameron wasn’t perfect and a house with 6 people can be a less than peaceful place, I miss those times and that house fiercely. I would not trade those years for ANYTHING.

I remember way back then when everything was true and when
We would have such a very good time, such a fine time
Such a happy time

One day not long ago saw me at my desk in my office. I needed to find a location for a job I was handling some details for, and had been using google maps. After finishing up, and on a lark, I googled my parents—our family’s—old address on Cameron in Idaho Falls. I’d almost forgotten about this timeline view, and my heart swelled into my throat as browsed through the available dates — July 2021, September 2015, August 2011, and June 2008.

Curious, I clicked on the oldest option and there, in a slightly grainy photo was our house! It was a brilliant summer morn, with the brilliant Idaho sky shining down, and a handful of wispy clouds in the western sky. The house looked almost exactly the way I remember it from all those years ago, minus some trees and shrubs.

Our house, in the middle of our street

The lilac tree by the old red wooden gate on the South side of the house was in full bloom, and the crab apple was bright and bushy. The MASSIVE aspen in the back yard was peeking over the roofline, as was the giant spruce in a neighboring yard. The big pine tree that once rose from the Northeast corner of the front yard was gone, as were the waist high evergreen shrubs that ran along the front of the yard and driveway. The pair of tall Arbor Vitae trees that shot out of the Southeast corner were gone as well, pulled out with the shrubs sometime in the early or mid-2000’s. The flower beds along the front of the house were full of brightly colored blooms and my mom’s assorted knick knacks were visible between them all.

Our house, that was where we used to sleep

The driveway was still slowly falling apart on the right side, and a blurred black sedan sat quietly under the basketball hoop. I’m pretty sure (given the date and vehicle description) that this was my Brother’s car. I wondered what my parents were doing–both of them were still working at that point. I thought of my Brother, and wondered if he was asleep in the basement, or in the kitchen lazily pulling the door of the ‘fridge open in midst of grabbing a snack. I thought about whether the gentle breeze made the backyard smell of flowers or the faint scent of pine as it wafted past, and tried to imagine how the still of the living room (just inside the big front window) sounded. I can still hear the silence of the near empty house, disturbed only by the ticking of Mom’s clock on the wall above the Piano.

Bereft of anything pressing, I typed in my Grandparents’ address on Jeri Avenue and selected the oldest option for their address—also from June of 2008. I clicked the link and another slightly grainy photo appeared on the screen in front of me, quality somewhat washed out by the brilliant morning sun in the cloudless blue summer sky. A Massive grin crossed my face as I took in the sight before me; the photo was exactly like I remembered their home as they aged. The tall evergreen hedge in the front of the house was gone, as were the piles of snow and carefully placed strings of glass C9 lights that adorned them every holiday season. The tall Honey locust that dropped the funny brown seed pods was long gone, removed by Grandpa one year and replaced by the Quaking Aspen that showed what 10 or more years of growth can do.

And I remember how we’d play, simply waste the day away

A blue sedan is clearly visible parked in the driveway–the infamous blue Neon that (somehow) survived being driven to and fro, on and off road, by myself and every one of my siblings from the time my Dad bought it in the late 90’s (1996?) until somewhere around 2008(?). Curious as to whether there were any other viewpoints, I ‘moved’ a little up the street (North of). Two details not visible at first came into view: The man door to the right of the garage roll up door was ajar and………..the red fence that had surrounded their yard for longer than I had been alive was plainly visible from the North side of their house.

The memories came flooding back again, mostly into my brain, but also in the form of a slow leak into my eyes. I had so many questions—who was there, what were they doing, what did that early June morning see everyone at Gramps n Gran’s doing? An open door at their house usually meant someone was up and about, working in the yard or taking in some fresh air on the patio behind the single car garage. Was Dad helping Gramps with some project, or were they just relaxing in a pair of lawn chairs on the patio out back? Was granny doing the wash or sitting in the den, relaxing in one of two recliners that sat side by side since time immemorial?

Our house, in the middle of our street

Portland, OR
August 2024

Music and Memories, Pt 3

Hey sports fans, if you are just joining us, this post is the third part of a series that began here. This series is nearly complete, but I haven’t found the energy to finish it just yet.

We now return to the program in progress.
—–
“Cats in the cradle” by Harry Chapin
Once upon a time, 30 or so years ago, a church leader of mine accused me of “Having wisdom beyond your (my) years”. While I was not sure what exactly that meant at the time, looking back now I can’t argue with that at all–for better and worse. Once upon a time, sometime in the mid 1990’s, this came on a classic rock station in Southeast Idaho that I liked.

It was a warm, sunny fall afternoon and I was arriving at the JC Penney store, for some practical work experience as part of the Sheriff’s Office Explorers. The afternoon’s “work” saw me and a friend dressed in plain clothes and skulking about the store with one of our advisors—the trio of us stalking shoplifters and other retail miscreants. I was a little early, so I sat in the car I’d borrowed from my parents for the trip across town to enjoy the warm sun.

What I’d really like, dad, is to borrow the car keys. See you later, can I have them please?

I flipped on the car’s AM/FM radio and enjoyed some of the warm sun. As I listened, I thought that the relationship described in the lyrics of the song might have described me and my Dad. We did not always have the greatest relationship as I was growing up and I wondered—with some trepidation—if the progression of that relationship in the song would describe us as the years passed. The lyrics washed over me and a wry smile spread across my face.

As the time to head into the store closed in, and I wondered what the future held for a moment. I was anxious to start adult life….but did not want to be as removed as those men seemed to be. Before I knew it, time had passed and I had grown older. I moved away from my home and started a life that took me far away. As my Grandpa got older, he frequently asked me “when do you think you’ll make it this way again?”. As life went on for all of us, and as I moved from Idaho to Utah to Oregon I didn’t always know. Every time he asked I swallowed the small lump that always formed in my throat and promised I would try to get home soon. A line from this song filtered out of the mist every time he or my Dad asked that question…

When you coming home, son? I don’t know when
But we’ll get together then, dad You know we’ll have a good time then

In 2022, after my Grandpa had passed away and my dad survived a life-threatening COVID-19 infection our relationship changed a great deal—for the better. One weekend, as he rested and navigated the lasting effects of long COVID, we had a chance to talk on the phone. I had a very demanding job at the time, and only had time for 2 decently long (week or so) vacations a year because of it. He asked me when I’d be home again. More lyrics came out of the mist:

I’d love to, dad, if I can find the time
You see, my new job’s a hassle, and the kids have the flu
But it’s sure nice talking to you, dad
It’s been sure nice talking to you

I put the phone down and wept. Just like I am doing as I write this.

Portland, OR
August, 2024

Music and Memories, Pt 2

Hey sports fans, if you are just joining us, this post is the second part of a series that began here. This series is nearly complete, but I haven’t found the energy to finish it just yet.

We now return to the program in progress.
—–

“Families can be together Forever” by Ruth M Gardener
Unburdened by the process of growing old and learning the complexities of the world, I belted this out as a hopeful child who wanted—literally—to be with my family foreve

I have a fam’ly here on earth.
They are so good to me.
I want to share my life with them through all eternity.

I have a complicated relationship with the denomination that this arose from, to say the least, but still treasure the memories this tune conjures up. As I sit at my desk, ready to start my workday on a sunny fall morning, I can still picture Sundays past spent sitting in idyllic, sun bathed meeting houses singing this with joyous, hopeful abandon.

I always want to be with my own family, And the Lord has shown me how I can. More memories of being in those times/places surrounded with friends and family, all of whom were singing with a similar lack of restraint, add additional weight/depth to the memories—and some mist to my eyes.

Portland, OR
August, 2024

Music and Memories

There are a litany of stories and numerous studies that detail how and why music ignites memory and fires the physical pathways in the brain responsible for that memory. There are an equal number of stories, studies, and publications about the benefits of music in a therapeutic context; This is especially true when looking at the use of music therapy for people with differing cognitive issues.

I happened to catch a story from NPR on this very topic on the way to the office this morning; It got me thinking about songs that flood my brain with Memories or Emotions. It is EXCEPTIONALLY hard to narrow the list of potential entries down to a manageable number for a relatively quick blog post. However, after some intense consideration, here is my list of the songs light up my brain the brightest:

“Families can be together Forever” by Ruth M Gardener

“Cats in the cradle” by Harry Chapin

“Our House”, by Madness

“Long, cool Woman in a black dress”, by The Hollies

“Horse with no name”, by America

“Endless” , by The Birthday massacre

So what makes these songs light my brain up like the 4^th of July? Simple! It’s the memories that surround them–the places, the times, the faces surrounding me and the events that they were a part of. Though the part these songs played in my life was often just a sliver of time not more than 5 minutes long, their impact continues to this day.

Most of these—all but one—are from my childhood and involved or made me think of members of my family. Four came around as my life came upon times when it saw a sea of change, or as the lives of the people I loved changed.

I started writing this with the intent that I’d just bang out a short list of songs that light up my brain. I quickly realized this plan wasn’t going to work out that way, as my brain exploded with memories and emotions as I wrote more and more. Instead of one mammoth post, I’ll be breaking this down into a series of 5 posts. Enjoy!

Portland, OR
October, 2024

Roses in the sand

I went to a Portland burner thing one night, a while ago. I had my lammies in my ranger bag and someone noted the plastic and cloth rose on them, and asked what that was about. Not wanting to tell the story at the moment, I said “it’s a long story” and went about the business of that night.

That story starts on a bright Monday morning. This may have been any other slightly shitty Monday, except for the date. It was Monday July 14, 2014 and the last 48 hours had been the hardest 48 hours in my life–in a lot of lives that touched mine. We had some clean up still to do at Seabase and planned to return that morning.

I wasn’t sure about going back; I am sure I was still in shock. Kate asked if I’d like some company, and I enthusiastically said yes. I spent the morning trying to summon the physical and emotional energy to go back to where it all happened. As I prepared myself, I thought about leaving something at the makeshift memorial that had reportedly sprung up. I wasn’t completely sure whether to be angry at the fact a memorial had popped up or relieved that people were starting to process their grief. I don’t think I really even knew what, exactly, to make of what I had been through or was feeling just yet. I did know that I wanted to do something nice for those who knew the dead man, and especially for my friends and loved ones who had been as close to what happened as was I.

I grabbed some artificial roses from a vase in my breakfast nook. They were small, plastic, and non-descript but they were…..something. I tore one off as a memento for myself, tucked the rest of them in the pocket of my shorts, and finished grabbing the things I needed to take with me. The appointed hour came, Kate arrived, and I pulled on boots and grabbed water. I remember that my boots—weighing in at about 3 pounds—felt a mile long and like they weighed a ton; their weight felt oddly reassuring. I wasn’t so reassured by the visible markings where the soles were stained with the mix of ash and mud and bodily fluid from the scene.

JP, Kate, and I piled in his Jeep and made the drive to Seabase. It was a quiet drive with muted discussion and a lot of silent contemplation. It was a brilliantly sunny morning. An unforgiving sun shone brightly on us as we arrived; a light breeze blew from the South. Sparky still smoldered, and then started actively burning again as we worked.

I was torn: On one hand the fire struck me as a funeral pyre: a witness for the fallen. On the other, It felt like someone ripping a barely scabbed wound WIDE open to watch flames dance across the ruins of….what felt like everything. I thought it was disrespectful to everyone: the rangers who were involved in the initial response, those who saw Chris go in, the community at large, Chris himself, and his friends and wife. I wanted nothing to do with any more fire and wished someone would pour A LOT more water on it and put it OUT. The decision was made to let it burn, and the flames burned on.

As we finished loading, I excused myself and walked alone out to where Sparky had stood and where Chris had gone into the flames. I took a few minutes of quiet contemplation at the scene of it all. My breath was hot as the still burning fire, my chest tight, and tears flowed. Alone still, I wondered what a great many people were probably thinking then, and have since: Why? Why here, why then, why at this magical weekend’s close? What the fuck? Why couldn’t anyone be bothered to say anything about him before hand? There was a giant lit box with Doctors and Nurses and minions and a shit load of people knew where medical and sanctuary was and there was a FUCKING PHONE NUMBER IN THE GODDAMNED SURVIVAL GUIDE YOU GODDAMNED DRUG ADDLED FUCKING HIPPIE PIECES OF SHIT!?

The blinding sun and desert breeze gave no easy answers to my questions. I pushed my roses into the sand and walked back to where JP and Kate were waiting. We pulled out of Seabase as the silence in the Jeep roared so loud it was deafening. I looked back to catch a last glance, and was greeted with scenes of a smoldering fire, a dusty road, and plastic roses in the sand trimmed in red cloth that was billowing in the smoky breeze.

June 2016
Portland, OR

Sharing is caring

Invariably I get some flavor of the same question: “Can you tell me some good spots to explore”? Mostly, these questions are innocent, routine asks from a curious passerby. Sometimes they’re blatantly lazy (at best) or pretty sketchy (at worst) asks like “Can you give me some addresses of places you have explored”?

They usually show up after I comment on some social media post (generally via Reddit or Facebook) about abandoned locations, photos of mine taken in similar locations, or when I say I have been to/am aware of abandoned places in whatever location I am living in at the time.

While generally born out of innocuous curiosity, and voiced by people who want to share in something that brings me joy, these questions frequently irritate me. Maybe I’m snobby, crusty, jaded, “mean”, or some parts of all those things? Who knows.

But Mr. Curly, why are you reluctant to share sites you’ve explored?

There are Four main reasons:
1) I don’t want the location(s) to get trashed.
2) I put in the time and work. You should too.
3) Potential Criminal liability
4) Being informed makes you powerful

I don’t understand. Can you explain what you mean?

1 – I don’t want the location(s) to get trashed
In my experience, the philosophy of “Take only pictures and Leave only footprints” is followed fairly well by urban explorers. Members of other groups who can be found wandering the ruins of society do not always follow this philosophy. This is notably true for those who desire to install and/or showcase their spray can “art”, wish to add to the ruin of the location by damaging or destroying parts of it for whatever reason(s), and those living on the fringes of society looking for living space or quiet, covert places to indulge in the addiction(s) or languish in the afflictions of their choice.

I could provide a lengthy list of examples, but I am fairly confident that you who are reading this understand why others visiting locations with intent to do non-exploring things can (at best) ruin the opportunity for other explorers or (at worst) create HUGE public safety issues that present direct threats to the lives of others.

2 – I put in the time and work. You should too.
For each location I visit, I’ve already spent several hours on the administrative prep work needed before I even show up. Depending on the location (and all of the associated variables that go along with each place), I’ve slogged through research such as planning/zoning record searches, map reviews, location scouting trip(s), travel planning, emergency plans, ascertaining any special equipment I need to acquire (IE a gas mask or meter), and figuring out what equipment I (and/or any partners) might need to bring along.

If I (or anyone else) just hand the results of all of this work over to you, it cheapens the significant time and effort I’ve put in, relieves you of the effort required to go out and find locations on your own, and eliminates the opportunity for you to learn how to do a variety of those things along the way.

3 – Potential Criminal liability*
Most of what we do is, by definition, illegal. At best, getting caught wandering around in one of these locations is likely to violate criminal mischief or trespassing laws in your area. At the worst, these activities could get you in more severe (likely Felony level) trouble with charges like Burglary, Possession of burglary tools, or others depending on the situation, your location, and/or circumstances.

I VERY much enjoy avoiding unwanted attention as I explore—especially that which turns into government entanglements, criminal liability, or other unwanted attention. This is doubly true if the ‘attention’ is of the variety that could cost me time, money, or my freedom (if not all 3). I’m not about to do free work and make some Detective or Assistant DA’s investigation simple by blindly giving them most (or all) of what they need to build a case.

While I am fairly sure that no one cares enough to investigate or prosecute people wandering forgotten or abandoned spaces, I’ll happily err on the side of caution and keep those ultra specific details to myself. If you blatantly ask for specifics like street addresses, I’ll likely not reply or give you some snarky feedback.

4 – Being informed makes you powerful
The world is a fascinating place—sometimes in the best of ways, sometimes in the worst— whether it’s the natural world wherever you live, the built up environment, or the antics of groups and individual people in them both. Knowledge is also power; Being informed about the world around you makes you a better participant in life, harder to manipulate, and wildly more interesting compared to those who are merely content to be spoon-fed information and rely on the word/effort of others, regardless of the topic. Most importantly, it robs you of the opportunity to get to the very heart of what this hobby is about: Exploring! While this does not always refer to the literal exploring of an abandoned site/building in the physical sense, exploring the information regarding a site can be just as fun, in addition to being better informed.

So how do you find the locations you visit?
There has never been one single, foolproof way that I’ve come upon. Some of the ways I have located places include general curiosity, dumb luck, watching the news, paying attention to/looking around my environment, signs stuck in lawns, viewing publicly posted notices, researching (and then reading) land use notices or decision briefs on government websites, and reading newspapers (no, really, people do still do that).

If you live in the Portland, Oregon area read the Willamette Week column entitled “Chasing Ghosts” for a great start. It includes some great first- and secondhand information about the reasons the property is abandoned as well as the history and prior ownership of a given location.

Do/will you share information on locations?
Maybe. Put forth some minimal effort, get to know me a little, and things can happen. Better yet, offer to collaborate in some way—I’d love to share this hobby with others and collaborate or explore together. If you’re hoping I will just hand out info blindly—especially specific times/dates/addresses, I’ll ignore you and you’ll be sad.

*I’m not a lawyer, nor do I play one on TV. This is not legal advice and I am not liable for your actions and any potential consequences, legal or otherwise. You should know and understand the relevant laws, any potential penalties, and the risk(s) of legal issues related to Urban Exploration in your area before exploring. Don’t be stupid and you’ll probably be OK.

Mornings

Mornings
December 2024 – Portland, OR

I have a love/hate relationship with mornings. I’m not much of a morning person, and I have not really been one for much of my adult life. There are a few reasons for that, beginning as a junior high kid, continuing through my time as a young adult in the US Army, and moving into slightly less young parts of adulting that saw me work a LOT of graveyard shifts. For much of that time, mornings meant the start to the horrid idiocy of a teenaged school day, getting jolted out of bed in the Army (some days literally), or time to go to sleep after a long night of working while the rest of you all slept.

This love/hate relationship was not always the way it was though—especially as a younger child and in my early teens. I LOVED mornings. Mornings were a fresh start and the beginning of a new day, but also a blank slate to plan adventures to be had. While the chaos of people rushing around to get ready was there, they were also filled with the people I loved—even if only briefly.

I have fond and enduring memories of my Dad up VERY early—around 5am—accompanied by the smells of his soap or shampoo, the sounds of the shower running, the wet comfort of the steam that billowed out of the bathroom, and how his razor made a clinking noise as he rinsed the hair off the blades in the sink.

I remember being bundled into my parents Silver Nissan minivan (with the funny little fridge between the front seats!) and listening to the morning news on NPR as my mom made the trip to drop us at daycare and then headed off to work.

I have more fond memories of the sights, sounds, and smells of early mornings in my Grandparents home on Jeri Avenue. My grandpa Paul would be seated in one of the ornately carved wood/wicker chairs at the smallish table, sipping some ice-cold orange juice. I’ll never forget the smell as he ate simple slices of buttered toast and listened to the Farm Report with Bob Burtenshaw as he read the Post Register in the pre-dawn quiet.
I could have stayed and stared at this scene for an hour.

More fond memories of mornings—those treasured equally with others mentioned here—are several with my mom. There is one that stands out particularly boldly:

One is of a morning that saw us standing in the front yard of the Orlinda House, watering the yard, especially her white Shasta Daisy plants on the front of the house. It was a brilliantly sunny summer morning, cool but starting to warm quickly as summer days so often did. We sheltered from the growing heat of the summer sun in the shade created by the side of the garage. After a thorough drenching , the still shaded yard was damp, cool, and lush. I can still remember the water dripping off of the buds and branches of the crab apple tree and full blooms of the Daisy plants, and how cool that made the yard feel in concert with the shade and soft grass under my feet.

Guilt

Guilt
Portland, OR – May 2024

As I have grown older, there have been a few things in my life that have left me feeling guilty. Some of those have faded, some aren’t rational, and some are yet to be dealt with. One thing that has cropped up more and more of late is the guilt I feel for moving out of my hometown and away—both literally and figuratively–from a lot of the people and institutions that helped create me.

These feelings have been casual wonderings of “what if” for the most part—but have come up more frequently and more acutely of late– especially as my grandparents have both passed on and parents have continued to grow older. I am mostly happy with the life I have built for myself outside Idaho Falls and away from much of what I knew as I grew up, however some questions and doubts linger.

What kind of person would I be today if I had stayed in Idaho Falls instead of moving to Utah after the Military—conservative leaning or rather left of center like I am now?

Would I have stayed in policing? What would I have done for work if not?

Would I be as open to or accepting of varying alternative lifestyles, the people practicing them, or ethical non-monogamy as I am today? What would my education or involvement pertaining to them look like?

What kind(s) of hobbies would I have developed? Would I have continued to enjoy them as long or to the degree that I have with my present set of hobbies?

Would I have learned what Burning Man is or have even been to a burn event (let alone racked up over a decade of experience helping to produce or protect them)?

How would my grandmother’s end of life have been different if I was closer to care for her as her Cancer worsened?

How would my Grandpa’s end of life have been different if I was there to help care for him?

I guess it’s kind of like a few lines from Massive Ego’s song “Let go”:
“Let go, let go of what you should have done
Should have said, should have worn, should have read
Let go, Let go…”

I am fame. Do a worship!

One night in Mid-August, bored and not wanting to sleep, I posted 3 photos on a Reddit sub.
I shot the photos in question on a trip I took to an abandoned record store in late 2022. Several days later, I got contacted by Jack Beresford, a reporter from Newsweek asking if I’d be willing to do an interview about my travels and photography surrounding urban exploring.

I accepted the invite after a bit of Google sleuthing to ensure the party claiming to be Beresford was indeed a reporter. (He is indeed a legit reporter from Newsweek). We chatted for about 45 minutes over my lunch hour one afternoon the following week. I sent hi-res copies of the 3 photos I’d posted to Reddit and signed the requisite releases. Beresford promised to let me know where the article would be posted before it went live, and I went back to work.

I heard nothing from him for about a week and kind of forgot about it, given work and other ongoing life events. I mentioned this to some friends and family, and in passing while killing time in the break room at work, and thought no more. About a week later, I ran into the break room to grab some ice water. A Co-worker I had not met before struck up the following conversation:

CoW: “Hey we read about you online”.
Me: “My lawyer said I shouldn’t say anything else about Tijuana until at least 2027”.
CoW: “Huh?”
Me: “What did you read?”
CoW “Seems you get around some weird places and got famous for it”.

As I stood there momentarily bewildered, me Co-Worker thrust their cell phone into view, where I was greeted by my photos on newsweek.com.

Seems Mr reporter forgot to ping me and let me know that the article was going live….

This was 2 weeks after I was notified that I’d also received IMDb credit for an appearance in a short documentary about the temporary street art that spawned all over the core of Downtown Portland in the midst of the George Floyd protests over the summer of 2020.

I’m special now!