The Pioneer Newsletter #9

Tuesday, Nov 21st

Introduction Paragraph

What English explorer first sailed into the New York Harbor in 1609?

This question brought our trivia team to a blank. In fact, at Moe’s Place in Playa del Rey, most teams were struggling. All of a sudden it hit me. How the hell could I have forgotten this? In a true the limit does not exist moment, Henry Hudson miraculously escaped from the depths of my consciousness and out of my mouth. It was correct and scored our team crucial points - catapulting us decisively from fifteenth to thirteenth place. Unlike most Southern California natives at this townie bar, Henry Hudson was a name I was once quite familiar with. I realize it’s not the greatest holiday to begin talking about European explorers. To be truthful, I don’t really know much about the actual man or the most likely complicated legacy of his expeditions. My association is with the river named after him. And not its southern tip in Manhattan, where Lady Liberty watches over. Instead, a hundred and fifty miles north, where the Hudson River is far slimmer and splinters into canals and tributaries. Where it is absent of skyscrapers and copper statues gifted by the French. Where it is surrounded by the likes of Albany, Troy, and Watervliet. Back for a much too rare visit, I began jogging around it. I took the drawbridge from Green Island to Troy, where a few abandoned factories line the river. Their hand-painted “and Sons” insignias fade over distressed brick. I wonder when they will be restored like many other brickyard waterfront developments. When we will eat and drink atop Ikea barstools in restaurants that were once furniture factories. There are still a few that are completely vacant. I wonder which one will become an axe-throwing bar. I then ran back across the Hudson to Watervliet. A town my spellcheck does not recognize. Then past its indoor shooting range aptly titled “Indoor Shooting Range.” If you plan on opening an indoor shooting range in Watervliet, I’m here to let you know that the name “Indoor Shooting Range” is already taken. I continued past its adjacent strip mall with three storefronts - Dunkin’ Donuts, US Army Recruitment, and Mr. Subb. Mr. Subb? I forgot all about this middling local sandwich chain. It sure looks to be in rough shape. Sort of like a late-stage Circuit City. I later found out its founder/owner moved to Florida, told a local business journal he’s over it, and will let his fading sandwich empire die a slow and quiet death. In the final mile of my run along the Hudson, having passed the vacant factories, shooting ranges, and Mr. Subbs, my mind then drifted to a series of questions I commonly ask myself during homecoming visits: Who will I inevitably run into? What will they think of who I’ve become? Wait, they have a life completely foreign to mine. Why the hell would they spend any time thinking of me? More importantly, why would I even care? But upon finishing my run, smack in the middle of the drawbridge once more, I found myself asking a new homecoming question while looking out at the Hudson - a river that trivia has proven to be an afterthought for those who don’t surround it. I had drawn a blank on who first sailed into the New York Harbor. I forgot Mr. Subb ever existed. I see these brick buildings, not through the rich industrial history they once encompassed but simply as real estate opportunities. Similar to spell check, I’m unsure how to spell Watervliet - the town where I took my driving exam and was nearly ejected from a high school football game. It’s been six years since I lived here last and I’m sure there are new and exciting developments all over - far more than I can see in just one run. But how much do I even know about this place anymore?

It was in that moment of revelation, that I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and prayed: Dear God, please let there be no Mr. Subb related questions next week at trivia. Amen.

Luggage Packing Scenes

If you think this is so specific it’s nearly idiotic to write about, let me first defend my blogtentions. I watched the new Fincher movie The Killer a couple of weeks back. I watched it again last week while packing my bag to head back home. That’s when I truly appreciated Michael Fassbender packing his luggage like an absolute pro. I began to think how many times I could recall a bag being packed on film. “Pack your bags” is a line said more than its directive action is shown. Rarely does it have any significance to character or story. But for anyone living out of a suitcase this week, here are a few times we’ve seen it done by the pros.

The Parent Trap

You’re meeting your estranged husband, Dennis Quaid, in San Francisco eleven years after splitting up your twin daughters in what could possibly be argued as the most twisted custody agreement of all time. You’re smoking again and all wound up to no end. So, you just decide to throw some rather conservative looks. After all, you haven’t seen the man in years. Also, unaware to you, he drives an all-time forest green Range Rover. But then your butler/guru Martin steps into the closet. He’s got other ideas. DON’T YOU DARE TAKE OUT THAT BLUE DRESS MARTIN.

Not much more I can say about this scene. You all know it. It’s great. The movie’s great. Nancy Meyers is great. I probably know of more needle drops from its soundtrack than I do U.S. presidents.

Catch Me if You Can

You’re Leonardo DiCaprio. Your father is Christopher Walken. Wanted for check fraud, you’ve lied your way to an engagement with Amy Adams. You’re now comfortable in her Lutheran family’s New Orleans household. This is until the FBI comes knocking at the door. Now, you have to break the news to Adams that you’ve lied about your identity, grab your two suitcases chock-full of dirty cash above the bed, and squeeze a few changes of clothes into said suitcases.

This is why you’re not Leonardo DiCaprio. In this scene, that slick bastard pulls it off. Sort of.

Zero Dark Thirty

You’re in Seal Team Six. You’ve just taken out Osama Bin Laden. Here’s a duffel. Pack up his entire house in 4 minutes. The chopper’s going airborne with or without you. While not as elegant as the other entries on the list, I’d argue it best reflects the stress I feel while packing at 6 A.M. for a 7:30 A.M. flight.

Up in the Air

You spend 322 days in the air and 43 miserable days at home. Your job is to fire people for companies who can’t find the sacks to do it themselves. It’s 2008 and business is unfortunately quite good. So, essentially you live out of a suitcase and could pack it blindfolded with two hands and a leg tied behind your back. Just like Fassbender, this is a real methodical pack job. It also contains some of the slickest editing you’ll find. The pacing is impeccable.

Recs

The Killer (FILM) - There’s more than just elite bag packing. It’s on Netflix. Watch it already.

This is Water, David Foster Wallace 2005 Kenyon College Commencement Address (Speech) - Thank you to the friend and reader that sent this my way. What a speech from a great American writer I pretend to be well versed with. Seriously though, if you did not graduate from Kenyon College in 2005, take 10 minutes and read this for some rat-race perspective:

https://web.ics.purdue.edu/~drkelly/DFWKenyonAddress2005.pdf

Making it Through a Three Hour Flight Without Clipping Your Finger Nails (C’mon) - Specifically recommending this to the couple next to me in Row 30. Both of you. That was an American Airlines flight, not your strip mall nail salon. They say love is when you meet your soul’s counterpart. I guess those two souls were searching for the only others who find this acceptable.

Conclusion Paragraph

Once again my invitation to the GQ Man of the Year Party was lost in the mail. I heard they held it at the Chateau Marmont. Neat find, you tourists. I also heard it was on a Thursday. Ever heard of work on Friday? Degenerates. I heard Jon Hamm was there. The guy from 2018’s Tag? That movie was terrible. I heard Jacob Elordi hosted it. The guy from The Kissing Booth 2? Not a fan as well. So save it GQ. Next year, don’t send over an invite to my month-to-month rented apartment. My roommate will probably just think it’s junk mail anyway. Sure, I got fitted for a tux. And no, I didn’t rent it. I took out multiple payday loans to cover its reasonable $7,000 cost. But don’t worry, I still wore it out that night. Everyone at the Brother’s Cousins Tacos outside the Rite Aid on National said I looked impeccable. But just in case my work on this blog is recognized next year, please let me know to who I should send my updated information and address. I’d like to make sure that person does not have it correct as I have zero interest in attending.