Final Alpaugh

And it’s been a while… Since you said you were sorrrryyyyyyy. There’s some late 90’s soft rock radio hit that went like that, probably a Nickelback specialty. Then they mention how we should hold our heads up high. Because it’s been a whilllleeeeee. But since I’ve been gone, you couldn’t breathe for the first time, so on and on, YEA YEA. Kelly Clarkson. A couple of interesting, worthwhile, even fun events have happened since I last checked in.

We finished our observation deck. The final product is such that only unskilled, amateur construction workers could appreciate the true effort expended to create it. Not 100% aesthetically pleasing, the deck has spunk, a characteristic of an observation deck that no private construction company would desire, but the general populace would appreciate. From far away it looks majestic and bold, set against the flat wetlands backdrop. Up close, however, some glitches are noticeable, the fault of hiring an Americorps team. It’s all little nit-picky stuff such as a couple of poorly fit planks, a smudgy paint job, or an uneven line of bolts. Perfection comes with a cost, but imperfection is free. I still have my money on that deck lasting 50+ years, although since I’ve made that bet I’ll probably come back in 5 years and see it sunk 10 feet into the ground, an infallible stray dog brothel.

The Alpaugh Community Clean-Up / Throw Away took place. My role as Project Outreach Liaison requires 2 separate community volunteer days throughout my time in Americorps, and this was my first one. The operation’s goal was to allow Alpaugh residents to dispose of their trash for free, an act not allowed by the county (they have to pay a flat rate of $10 plus a per pound rate for disposal.) It began like any other day that takes months of planning and preparation to put together: With a bad night’s sleep. Similar to the night before a job interview or a big game, there’s no end to the tossing and turning. But when awoken, my mind went straight to work. My vision for this day went something like this: Impoverished Alpaugh residents would bring their plentiful bags of trash to the park where we were set up, and my team of 10 would swarm their trucks, like fire ants to their prey, hoisting bags of garbage into the 40-foot long trash bins until none were left, at which point we would whisk them on their way and start the next truckload. Knowing that not many families lived in Alpaugh, I struggled to envision any potential problems. Yet, amazingly enough, we encountered one huge, revolting, putrid problem: Alpaughians don’t use trash bags. Instead they throw it all in a trailer over the course of a year and then dispose of it. So rather then chucking bags into a bin, we were shoveling, pitch-forking and front-end loading layers of dirt, trash, filth and baby diapers. My life may actually have hit rock bottom somewhere around 9:45 AM Pacific Time, when I looked up from the 3 baby diapers stuck to my pitchfork and glanced around to see my teammates all wearing the “ugly face” and trying not to vomit. I have to credit them, however, for sticking with it through 2 PM without too many complaints. Some highlights of this day include: A dead snake with a half-digested rat poking out of its side, an ant hive halfway down one of the trash piles, wading through the top of the trash bins ankle-high in garbage trying to pack it down, and any attempted communication between us and the Spanish-speaking Alpaugh residents. The feeling of relief when it was all over could only be compared to that felt when she tells you she’s not pregnant. My shoes still smell a bit like rotting milk.

Whenever something ends, reflection is required to reconstruct what you did and, of course, to mentally make it better than it actually was. So Alpaugh was great! I gained a bunch of handy-man tool skills, probably to be forgotten in the near future or never actually used. The team got a lot closer, only to most likely part like a 6th graders hair once we get back to Sacramento for a week. That’s overly pessimistic, but the need to get away from each other is quite strong at this point. I met a lot of great people from Alpaugh, and learned more than anticipated about modern day small towns in America. It’s a depressing story of inadequate funding, a form of government abuse that results in desperate, distant communities straining to find consolation or hope. My eyes have been opened, but just as soon as Alpaugh has become my priority, it will shortly turn into a shadow of a memory in my mind, because it’s not my fight. I do, however, hope that each Alpaugh family finds some form of happiness in their lives, if for no other reason than to free me from the guilt in my gut. I don’t know their solution, but I hope someone does.

Malcolm Gladwell

This blog is about Malcolm Gladwell, author of the medal winners at the all-time best nonfiction books Olympics. I’ve read few books like them (Freakonomics). If I read 20 books, only 1has to be like his books to keep me reading. He has this incredible ability to comprehend what the specialized experts understand and then convert it into a lucid prose for the rest of us to read. Most interesting to me is that he isn’t a genius, but a great interpreter. When dissecting the highest levels of math and science, you can’t hope to understand everything, but need to pick out the important parts that allow readers to understand how your conclusion was reached, and then explain it simply. He has a knack for this. I wonder where that kind of talent is learnt.

I don’t think I’ve ever seriously idolized anyone the way I admire him. He’s one of the people that I hope to meet at some point in my life, along with Bill Simmons, if only to watch his mannerisms and to see how he interacts. Since he isn’t a celebrity, I have no idea how he acts in normal day to day life. This vision is stuck in my brain: A laid-back master of language, keen to further his knowledge of any topic that wanders his way. He may not understand it all first try, but gets the gist enough to respond intelligently, with questions that further his pointed comprehension. Another part of my vision of him is someone that listens to conversation with no intent to speak himself unless it’s to pry more information from his quarry. In his writing, you don’t get a great idea of who Malcolm Gladwell is. He writes about simple topics in the most fascinating way without letting his ego influence his work. It’s a characteristic I hope to eventually obtain in my line of work.

Construction

You know how you’re driving down the road, the glory of your destination the only thing on your mind, when you reach a tan, hard-hat wearing young man or woman in jeans and rugged work boots holding a stop sign, and your heart just sinks into your stomach: Construction. Sometimes it’s not all that bad; some guys are repairing a telephone pole or something. But sometimes it’s just a full on testosterone potluck, with groups of men clustered around large, ungainly machines, leaning on their trucks and flexing their guns. These are the ones that slow you down for double digit minutes. And there’s something totally frustrating about watching 6 guys stare down blandly at one guy working in the hole, or at the one guy working the heavy machinery. Do something you useless Homo erectus! Personally working construction, however, has changed my attitude towards this phenomenon.

But only slightly. I still think ego plays a large part in the rationalization of standing around looking important. There are some reasons for it though. I have found construction is best suited for people that take criticism lightly, or use it as motivation to work harder, because you are inevitably doing something wrong or something that someone else dislikes. A lot of time is spent watching how other people work on a job, and learning that way. But more importantly, construction is constantly overstaffed, and I think it’s for a reason. There are times when all workers have separate jobs and utilize all resources to complete their task in the minimum possible amount of time, but each task is part of the whole, so until the last person is done it’s difficult to move forward. And it’s very difficult to plan hours efficiently in construction, because predicting how long something will take is impossible. It doesn’t seem difficult to plot out who’s doing what, at what time, and where, but it just isn’t, unless you are using machines. Human error always factors in. So waiting for another worker to finish his or her job gives one the chance to stare cockily at them (since you’re all done with your task), maybe peer stoically off into the distance, perhaps even move away a little to take a wiz or let a fart go. If the boss comes up to you with a job, you automatically stare smugly at them like it’s no problem, nod at whatever he or she says, than bound off, desperately wondering what the fuck they meant and how best to improvise without making your cluelessness obvious. So next time you come to that bastard holding a stop sign, understand that your wait is just the nature of construction. Much of the time, there just isn’t anything for those ogres standing around to do.

Our Little Family

Sometimes it feels like the house in Alpaugh is home to a large, dysfunctional family. First we have Grandpa, Age 31. He sleeps in the living room because he is woken up easily (although he snores like the whirring of a tractor motor.) Although friendly, he often gets grumpy in the afternoons if he hasn’t had his 4 pm nap. His time to shine is during board games or charade type games, where he is goofy and good-natured. He likes his meals cooked his own way, and often makes his own evening meal.

Next is age 22 to 23, or middle-aged adults. These folks clean up after themselves, put the utility of the team before their own happiness, and work hard during the day. They work out problems amongst the children, monitoring their behavior and reprimanding that which is intolerable. Although fun to be around, they can often be spotted sneaking off to bed before the others, preferring a good night’s rest to a sleep deprived morning.

Then there is the 21 year-old, the eldest step-daughter of the home. Slightly deranged and prone to blow up on any one person at any given time, this quarrelsome lass enjoys the drama of a good diatribe. Not keen on reciprocation of one of these tirades, she often becomes extremely emotional once actually confronted. Extremely fastidious, she wants everything her way, and anything not done in this manner receives a loathing look. Although accepted as a family member, she constantly feels like she doesn’t belong in the house and longs for something bigger and better, whatever that may be.

Finally, there are the little tykes, the 18 year-olds who act as children of the family. Too young to appreciate what a nice home they have and loving family they are blessed to be a part of, they rebel against any authority, going out of their way to be deviant. They do not believe it necessary to clean up after themselves, and do not spearhead anything but mischief. Rarely anything but complaints are heard from their mouths. This standard holds true for all except one, the youngest child, who is too naïve to misbehave, and realizes that her attention is granted through exceptional behavior, top quality moral values, and dejected puppy dog faces.

Regimented Life

Lately I’ve been slicing and dicing my day up like a sushi chef. “Time Management” has replaced Dan as my middle name. There’s something about Americorps’ structure that promotes this. Wake up at 7. Work until 4:30. Physical Training 3 times a week from 5 to 6. Cook dinner 2 times a week. You get the idea. In the end, we get about 4 hours per night for ourselves. To see what I’ve got to do on any particular night, I pop open my handy dandy mini-notebook, flip to that day’s half page, and see what I’d jotted down that morning. It always reads “To Do: Evening, 2/xx/09” (I consistently forget what year it is.) (As an aside, flipping through said notebook would lead many readers to question whether I was a schizophrenic (A Beautiful Mind) or a serial killer. Not for what it says, but because of my hand-writing that resembles a lie detector reading. Accompany this chicken scratch with jet black ink and an unwillingness to stay within the lines and I look like a future Rain Man. I wonder if hand-writing classes exist… I’ll have to look it up.) But then, Bam! I’m planning my hours, estimating the time it takes to complete tasks. Just stepping up my game. Distractions? No worries, my rigidly planned schedule doesn’t allow time for distractions. Unannounced team meetings? No problem, just push back one To-Do for the next night. Dinner? No way, there’s no time. Friendship? Not worth it. Hygiene? Pshhhhhh. Nobody here cares if I smell like 6-month-old-refrigerated-chinese-food, right? I’m in Americorps, and I’m gettin’ things done!

Disclaimer: Some parts of previous text are merely fabricated for dramatic effect. Do not worry; the entire team has never complained about “that kid who smells like a rotting carcass” or asked questions like “should we force him to shower?” There is nothing to worry about.





This is the most productive I have ever been with my free time, and it’s gratifying at the end of the day.

Daily Work and Big Bill

I’ve yet to tell you about our work here in Alpaugh this past week. As of this moment in time, Green 6 has been constructing an observation deck in the marshy wetlands of Atwell Island (it’s not an island, but a park named an island. Go figure.) Our supervisors picked the plot of land, but had yet to do any work on it until we arrived. So we’re going build the whole thing from scratch. We began by attempting to dig thirty-two 30x30 inch square holes in the ground. This was one of those situations where we got right to it without a second thought, hoping to get it done quickly and move on. Dumb. The next emotion we felt was regret at not considering the consequences of our actions. We still haven’t finished digging half of them.

We dig each day for a while, but alongside that we have also have been inserting 300 pound, 8 to 13 foot metal pillars into the holes and pouring cement to hold them. Sounds easy enough, but it’s actually quite a process. Each person has a specific task that needs to be done at the necessary time. But there is a lot of standing around due the difference in time required to achieve each task. It’s also fun like woah. There’s an omnipresent sense of danger that excites everyone. These pillars are heavy mothas. And they are transported via a 5 pound chain attached to a tractor through muddy ground and around big holes. It’s fun stuff, extremely gratifying when you get one upright into a whole and cemented. As an aside, they call cement “SEAment” out here. Redonkulous. It sounds like they are saying something less relevant. Every time. And since we are laying pipe and digging box, you can imagine where my head is at. And SEAment. Absurd.

Our bosses name is Bill. He is a character from a western movie, or the head highway patrol officer in Super Troopers. He’s an elderly man, and wears this brown uniform consisting of chocolate cake colored pants and chocolate mousse colored shirt. He’s like a walking Hershey’s kiss. His mannerism is difficult to describe. On one occasion, he had left to get more SEAment, which takes a while, so we decided to take lunch a little early so we could get back to work while he was there. On the way back we encountered him driving the other way. We both slowed down, and our team leader proceeded to give a 2 minute explanation of why we were leaving early, stuttering over our reasoning and extending every tangent as long as socially tolerable. It was painful to listen to. Bill replies only with “See you then” and rolls away, leaving us awestruck and enlightened. A man of few words, for sure. He has that aura of power and knowledge that when he requires something of you, you want nothing more than to please him. Usually he gives you some terse, befuddling instructions, and watches to see how you do, correcting you as you inevitably do it wrong. (Teaching construction is kind of like trying to explain the rules of card games. No matter how many times you go over it, the new player usually has no idea what’s going on until you play a couple of rounds. Then he or she gets it.) There’s no better feeling than the one after he comments on your work with something as simple as “Now THAT’s how you pour concrete.” Rereading this description hasn’t given him justice, because he’s also friendly and mild-mannered. He’s a guy that knows his shit, makes fun of himself, and laughs at the simple things. Great boss.

Next: Dan’s new self-prescribed, uncomfortably regimented life

Trying to instill a kitchen system for 9 people in one house is difficult. We have dinner worked out. 2 people cook every night, dish of their choice. Partners are drawn on Saturday from pieces of paper in a plastic jar. Dishes are chosen before food shopping on Monday. Precise ingredients are required to ensure that we stick to budget and don’t waste food. We are allowed $4.50 per day for breakfast, lunch and dinner. It sounds like a pittance at first but it’s enough. Our Team Leader does the dishes each night in return for not cooking (we have a dishwasher.) Anyways, dinner is a thriving enterprise. If only the same were true for daily dishes.

It doesn’t seem difficult in my mind. We agreed to put our own dishes away in the dishwasher after use. If the dishwasher is full of clean dishes, remove them and insert your dirty dishes. If you are running late, leave the dirty dishes in the sink and empty the clean dishes when you get back, followed by the loading of your dirty dishes. Why do stacks of dirty dishes pile up in the sink every single day? It’s as if 6 invisible members of our team had to miss the kitchen advisory meeting due to “personal reasons”. Ohhhh, so the pile of dishes only exists because they missed the memo. No prob, Bob. But there are no fucking invisible people on the team. They haven’t even invented invisibility cloaks yet, obvi. So someone (or something) is neglecting his or her duty in the kitchen. Let the detective work begin…

And why do 18-year-olds not understand the concept of putting away the things they took out? ‘Yes, 18-year-old #1, when you take the mozzarella cheese out of the refrigerator, you need to put it back after it’s done.’ ‘No, I know that other people might use it, but there’s a chance they don’t, in which case they have to put it away themselves, which isn’t fair.’ ‘Yes, I understand you just forgot, but you forgot the milk earlier today, the mayonnaise at lunch and the leftover quiche before that… You are a moron.’ (I don’t say the moron part). Was every child 5 years younger than me raised in a McDonalds Play Pen? I’m being unbelievably hypocritical here, but gosh darn it children, grow up!