A week has gone by since I've moved out of Alpaugh, a place that will always hold a special place in my memory. What an annoyingly great experience. How many restrictions existed there? Spotty cell service, no internet or tv, living with 9 people in 2 bedrooms, working long hours in hot sun, 1 means of mobility, no money. In hindsight, I'm so glad I survived it, but I did not enjoy my time there, no matter how much I say it. Too much easily accessible information exists to be sequestered in remote places at this age. Right now, my thirst for learning outweighs that for soul-searching. I'm happy to have endured it, happier to be away from it.

We spent the past week back at McClellan, where 6 hours a day of brain-washing occurred back in October. This time the 7 teams deployed to the Gulf area came home, meaning the entire Americorps NCCC Pacific Region was back in Sac for the first time since training ended. I expected a week long party of sorts, but was surprised to find a lack of enthusiasm amongst the crowds. As predicted by those wiser than the typical corps member, teams became extremely tight over the 4 months away and found it difficult in their psyche to return to the old McClellan Air Force base. I was one of them. It's easier to be around the people you know well than the ones you assumed you knew well. Many had high expectations for returning, and were severely disappointed to experience the changes everyone, and by default themselves, had undergone. Yet after the first couple days things settled down and a slight nostalgia swept over the campus as tensions eased and friendships were renewed.

As I settled back into a groove here, I began to realize that July is fast approaching. Some of my closest friends from orientation are going to New Orleans, meaning I won't see them again until the last week of July, our last at McClellan. With this realization comes a freedom that always seems to accompany knowing how little time a group of people has in your life. Humans tend to be conservative knowing that they'll see someone regularly in the future, and downright reckless when ensured that they won't. As the week began to move along, I noticed (at least thought I noticed) a transition to that freedom.

I went out on the town one night to dinner with the old Pod and a night of cheap drinking at Olde Tavern, our downtown hotspot. While there I ordered 5 redheaded sluts for $17 (redheaded sluts = jager, cranberry juice, something else). Noteworthy here is the cost of those drinks. Not only were they cheap, but they indicate that each Slut was $3.40 a piece. I thought about this as I brought them back to the table, tried to justify the price, and couldn't. Did that bartender just arbitrarily pick a number between 15 and 20? Either way, about 3 dollars a shot is insanely cheap. Did he screw up? What the hell is going on here? The place is the most beautiful hole in the wall, the type of joint that when anything extraordinary happens, everyone can fall back on the old proverb: "Only at Olde Tavern." Now that's my kind of bar.

Team Dan Dropkin-Frank trolleys off to Gig Harbor, Washington tomorrow to being project #3. I expect a challenge, but can't decide if I'll rise to it yet or shrink from it. One thing I know is I can't wait to write about something new on this damn blog, Alpaugh really dried me up. Hopefully I can find a pick-up soccer night also, I'm pining for some action. Until next time...

This is the True Story - Alpaugh

Here's an one from about 2 weeks ago that I never posted:

Alpaugh has slowly stifled us all. Even the most spirited teammates have developed a melancholic despondency to our situation. It has drained our creative juices, resigning us to reading, video games, or movies for evening leisure. But video games have lost their edge, our movie selection is thin, and reading feels too inconsiderate in such a social setting, resulting in sets of glaring eyes peering over books. An especially perceptive passer-by may notice the storm cloud slowly and steadily manifesting itself over our home, darkening by the second. The contentment first felt within Green 6’s Alpaugh home has been battered to the ground. The invader: Gossip.

I grew up incredulously watching the Real World, wondering how the producers found such vain and irascible human beings to be on the show. This is the true story, of 7 strangers, picked to live in a house… it didn’t make sense to me. If this was real life as they inferred, why was there constant fighting? I always imagined myself on the show being content to sit back and watch my roommates go at it like a bunch of hormonal 8th graders. They would love my composure as I intervened, sorted out the problem, and imparted my wisdom. To me, the show was the least real thing on television, and I wanted ever so badly to prove that I was right.

I was wrong. Even without cameras rolling, Alpaugh became that opportunity. A lack of stimulants like TV and internet causes one to think of nothing but your roommates. The Real World uses alcohol to start the fire. In Alpaugh, it’s scheduling and unordinary occurrences. There just is nothing else to focus on but your teammates, forcing the negativity naturally associated with a 9-hour workday upon us during our free time. The tension mounts as an issue arises until the bubble bursts, at which point voice de3cibels rise and anger flows openly. And what is left to talk after each argument? The argument, of course. Aggravating each spat is how finely ingrained everyone’s personalities, specifically certain tendencies, are in each of our minds. It’s difficult to fairly assess a situation when most of it is based on assumptions of personality-types, and those seem to rise to the top during heated arguments. For example, I assume that the house guacamole lover has left it our yet again after lunch. I approach them to metaphorically squish the guacamole in their face. Right after I’ve finished my diatribe, the angry face across from me says bitterly, “I didn’t eat any guacamole today.” Even though that person often leaves out her food, this time it wasn’t her, giving her leverage in any future altercation. Why do we even buy guacamole? That stuff’s mad gross. Anyways, there’s a propensity to eat ones words in this household, even though the point trying to be proven is, in a general sense, correct.

The house morale ebbs and flows, but my inability to cope with the low points is starting to bother me. I can feel it coming, yet I haven’t found a personal solution for curing it when it’s bad, I feel that every action undertaken by any teammate is irritating. And there’s nowhere to turn to for relief. It lingers under my skin, waiting for the right time to expose itself. Hopefully when it does, the cameras will be rolling… This is the true story, of 9 strangers…

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.