Post workout, rushing to get out of there so that I could get back to work to resume....what, working? Apparently not as I am blogging this critical event in my life here. Plus, why hurry back? The Nevada Legislature and our fantastic new governor may soon sink my entire ship here at this venerable institute of learning. And then what will I do? Move to Texas, Cambodia, or San Diego?
But wait, perhaps there is a glimmer of hope in this filthy village. We have showing number one for round two of the short sale debacle that has wrapped our lives around the trainwreck that was and remains the housing boom gone horribly bust for the last four years. Maybe we will get a buyer, get into a less expensive rental, keep the tenant in our condo paying on time, and begin to live life again. None of this will happen if this job goes away...but then again this desk is a freeway to a heart attack or stroke within the next dozen or so years, so why would I want to remain anyway?
And my iPhone was a grip slip away from cartwheeling into the toilet at the 24 Hour Fitness in south Reno, under a gray, spring sky with new snow on the mountains in mid-May 2011.
Monday 16 May 2011
Thursday 10 March 2011
Foreclosure Meadows
I live in a tract of homes in southeast Reno, Nevada that was, perhaps five or ten years ago, the place to live. Homes in the area ranged from $250k up to well over $600k. In the real estate meltdown that has taken place, these same homes are fetching anywhere from the low $100's to maybe $300k if the place is 5,000 square feet and in perfect condition with every conceivable upgrade. Virtually every home with a real estate sign in the front yard is a short sale.
The newest addition to the list of houses up for short sale is my own personal home. My wife and I bought the non-descript 1,840 square foot, four-bedroom "home" that was and is bereft of any sort of personality. If there was any merit to the place, it was the end of the court location that allows our kids to play outside without the constant threat of being mowed down by a Fed Ex truck or a hooligan in a lowered Kia Rio.
Fast-forward four years since we moved in and we find ourselves at a crossroads of economic peril combined with the grim reality that Reno, Nevada is possibly one of the worst places to be at this point in history, and has likely been that way for quite some time; we just haven't noticed it because things were humming along at an insanely unsustainable rate. The only things underpinning the Nevada economy over the last twenty years involved tourism and construction. Both have dried up and we are left with the abandoned shells of already-decimated schools, neighborhoods, and businesses. That we graduate less than 50% of our high schoolers says to me that this state has set itself up to become a third world country within the borders of the good old USA.
Back to my neighborhood. The house right next to mine has been abandoned for six months. The back yard is strewn with the detritus of the seemingly semi-normal folk that lived there for a while, at least until the primary owner of the joint allowed her late-teens niece and her Marlboro smoking friends to move in when she jumped ship to Las Vegas. One would think that some other destination would have beckoned in this grim economy. Regardless, all of them eventually left. There are still pots, pans, clothing, and various piles of housewares stacked up in every room in the house.
The newest addition to the list of houses up for short sale is my own personal home. My wife and I bought the non-descript 1,840 square foot, four-bedroom "home" that was and is bereft of any sort of personality. If there was any merit to the place, it was the end of the court location that allows our kids to play outside without the constant threat of being mowed down by a Fed Ex truck or a hooligan in a lowered Kia Rio.
Fast-forward four years since we moved in and we find ourselves at a crossroads of economic peril combined with the grim reality that Reno, Nevada is possibly one of the worst places to be at this point in history, and has likely been that way for quite some time; we just haven't noticed it because things were humming along at an insanely unsustainable rate. The only things underpinning the Nevada economy over the last twenty years involved tourism and construction. Both have dried up and we are left with the abandoned shells of already-decimated schools, neighborhoods, and businesses. That we graduate less than 50% of our high schoolers says to me that this state has set itself up to become a third world country within the borders of the good old USA.
Welcome Home
Back to my neighborhood. The house right next to mine has been abandoned for six months. The back yard is strewn with the detritus of the seemingly semi-normal folk that lived there for a while, at least until the primary owner of the joint allowed her late-teens niece and her Marlboro smoking friends to move in when she jumped ship to Las Vegas. One would think that some other destination would have beckoned in this grim economy. Regardless, all of them eventually left. There are still pots, pans, clothing, and various piles of housewares stacked up in every room in the house.
Foreclosure Meadows, the future of Reno, Nevada.
Tuesday 18 January 2011
Looking for a place to fall apart
My wife is at the threshold of the door, ready to leave me at any moment because of my flaws, faults and mistakes. I spoke with or exchanged brief text messages with another girl on half a dozen occasions over a three year period. I was not completely truthful with my wife on April 12, 2010 when a text reading something like "I am now a certified trainer" or something to that effect blipped onto my cell phone. There was nothing to tell other than I had nagging doubts about my wife's fidelity over the course of our marriage due to circumstance and direct evidence. I had kept that infrequent line of communication open with this other person because I wanted to know if she knew anything, or had heard anything about my fears. That this "other person" was the former wife of my wife's ex-husband lends nothing but a Jerry Springer quality to the story.
My wife wants to know if anything happened between us. It did not and will never. There is no connection except a shared previous betrayal borne from the two ex-spouses. Nothing more. Were we friends? No, not even that. Confidantes? No, nothing except potential voices or words of warning sent through the air that might help the other avoid further despair. Devastation is a better word. My first wife cheated on me with at least two men that I know about. That there were others would not surprise me. I sought revenge then because I had no further love for my first wife. Amber is very different; my love for her is visceral and deep and bonded to my heart. I cannot imagine life without her, but explicit e-mail exchanges with her ex and friendships with young, attractive, single men at her job continue to whisper doubts to me, though their intensity lessens over time.
If this is indeed the beginning of another end for me, I cannot remain where I am. Short sales, jumping off the "safe" ship of this job, and everything up for bid on Craigslist before my escape back to the west. Somewhere on the coast to lose myself in the mist of the Pacific. Reno would never fill my windshield ever again. This dry, grim place will only drift through my mind in the past tense in all of my future thoughts. Reality may make an attempt to moderate such a fierce turn of the wheel as I am a dad to a wonderful and challenging boy of nearly 11 years. He may want to stay here for friends and familiarity...or Texas may be a better option for him at that point, which is a place I say now that I cannot live. My best hope for that scenario is that he would go along with me to my lonely place and slide into a new groove with new friends and a completely changed backdrop for life.
Is the end of this winding road a brick wall? I care virtually nothing for the things we have gathered. I need only enough income for food, clothing and a place to fall apart.
My wife wants to know if anything happened between us. It did not and will never. There is no connection except a shared previous betrayal borne from the two ex-spouses. Nothing more. Were we friends? No, not even that. Confidantes? No, nothing except potential voices or words of warning sent through the air that might help the other avoid further despair. Devastation is a better word. My first wife cheated on me with at least two men that I know about. That there were others would not surprise me. I sought revenge then because I had no further love for my first wife. Amber is very different; my love for her is visceral and deep and bonded to my heart. I cannot imagine life without her, but explicit e-mail exchanges with her ex and friendships with young, attractive, single men at her job continue to whisper doubts to me, though their intensity lessens over time.
If this is indeed the beginning of another end for me, I cannot remain where I am. Short sales, jumping off the "safe" ship of this job, and everything up for bid on Craigslist before my escape back to the west. Somewhere on the coast to lose myself in the mist of the Pacific. Reno would never fill my windshield ever again. This dry, grim place will only drift through my mind in the past tense in all of my future thoughts. Reality may make an attempt to moderate such a fierce turn of the wheel as I am a dad to a wonderful and challenging boy of nearly 11 years. He may want to stay here for friends and familiarity...or Texas may be a better option for him at that point, which is a place I say now that I cannot live. My best hope for that scenario is that he would go along with me to my lonely place and slide into a new groove with new friends and a completely changed backdrop for life.
Is the end of this winding road a brick wall? I care virtually nothing for the things we have gathered. I need only enough income for food, clothing and a place to fall apart.
Monday 20 December 2010
Penultimate
It is not the day before the last day of 2010, which cannot come soon enough to end this dreadful year; it is, however, the day before the shortest day of the year, the winter solstice. December 21, sometime before 5:00 p.m., the sun will pause and then begin a northerly trek back toward spring and summer. Though I know it is not the sun that moves away and toward us, the spinning and rotating earth does the actual work here, all appearances in the sky give the impression of the sun gliding across the heavens.
It is just before 9:00 PST here in Reno, NV and the sun is perched far to the south, peeking through a gray layer with slanting rays illuminating the coating of snow we received overnight. These are the bleakest of days for me, depression and gloom press down on me like a lead weight of doom. This year has been one of the most difficult in recent history. Only 2004 may have been equally dismal with divorce and death taking the breath out of the year. 2010 has been as grim, though darker and more fraught with black undertones. This has been the year that I have firmly decided that I do not want to remain in Reno. Circumstances say otherwise but I must find a way to be resolute in learning some way out. Otherwise, I will die here without having escaped to a life I want to live.
It is just before 9:00 PST here in Reno, NV and the sun is perched far to the south, peeking through a gray layer with slanting rays illuminating the coating of snow we received overnight. These are the bleakest of days for me, depression and gloom press down on me like a lead weight of doom. This year has been one of the most difficult in recent history. Only 2004 may have been equally dismal with divorce and death taking the breath out of the year. 2010 has been as grim, though darker and more fraught with black undertones. This has been the year that I have firmly decided that I do not want to remain in Reno. Circumstances say otherwise but I must find a way to be resolute in learning some way out. Otherwise, I will die here without having escaped to a life I want to live.
Monday 29 November 2010
Grinding Metamorphosis
Alprazolam 0.5 mg. It is Monday morning after the Thanksgiving 2010 four day holiday weekend. Creeping black dread descended on me like a Dementor this morning. Halfway to work on the 395 I ate one of the aforementioned tablets, after which a minor amelioration of my inexplicable melancholy began to take temporary hold on my downward spiral. What is it about this season that exacerbates my predilection toward bottomless depression? It is only during these short days and long, cold nights that this bleak thing mauls me like a fierce, slow-motion bear.
We are waiting. Waiting for word from a far off bank that may or may not say yes to our mad idea of radical change. I have loathed my worklife for at least ten years, though the reality is that I have felt this disenchantment for far longer than that. Working for the government in any capacity, a school district is no better than a sewer district for the back-of-the-house employees, has worn my very being down to exposed nerves. Dread gives way to panic that yields to horror as I near the end of my 22 minute commute. I have dragged myself to this place, or another that is identical save for the address, for over fifteen years. God has granted me a periscope into a life that could be, but I must rise to the surface on His path or be drowned by the evil one again and again. There are always newly rearranged distractions that lead me off God's path. Buy another car, have another glass of wine, read one more page of the latest news on CNN.com.
U-Swirl. Raleigh, NC. 2675 miles between Reno and Raleigh. $400,000, 90% of it borrowed from an SBA lender. Three kids to an entirely new culture. Or will it be Portland, OR? One coast or the other. Only God knows.
We are waiting. Waiting for word from a far off bank that may or may not say yes to our mad idea of radical change. I have loathed my worklife for at least ten years, though the reality is that I have felt this disenchantment for far longer than that. Working for the government in any capacity, a school district is no better than a sewer district for the back-of-the-house employees, has worn my very being down to exposed nerves. Dread gives way to panic that yields to horror as I near the end of my 22 minute commute. I have dragged myself to this place, or another that is identical save for the address, for over fifteen years. God has granted me a periscope into a life that could be, but I must rise to the surface on His path or be drowned by the evil one again and again. There are always newly rearranged distractions that lead me off God's path. Buy another car, have another glass of wine, read one more page of the latest news on CNN.com.
U-Swirl. Raleigh, NC. 2675 miles between Reno and Raleigh. $400,000, 90% of it borrowed from an SBA lender. Three kids to an entirely new culture. Or will it be Portland, OR? One coast or the other. Only God knows.
Tuesday 1 June 2010
The End of Winter 2010-Miami Freakshow
Memorial Day 2010. More accurately, it is the day after Memorial Day and this quarter-filled office reeks of a long weekend of no air circulation at all. I may be breathing 100% methane for all I know. Radon is allegedly invisible and deadly, or so we've been warned. The kids have begun their annual month-long migrations to their other parents' homes in the far off lands of Seattle and San Antonio. After next Wednesday, no one under 32 will be in the house except Brownie, the fierce and foul cocker spaniel of doom.
We have chosen Miami as our kid-free destination this year. Had I been able to get a passport quicker, we may have opted for a European, or at least Caribbean locale. South Florida is about as far away as we can get from Reno, NV while still staying in the United States, so that's where we'll land next Wednesday night. Should we not make it back alive, Yelp cannot be blamed. "They were warned," will surely be a part of our eulogies. We have read that freaks will surround our rental car at every stoplight and may even attempt to mount us as we walk the streets of South Beach. I certainly hope not, but the reviews are not encouraging. "Tourists will encounter public nudity and sudden violence, even in the grocery stores," reads one reviewers' thoughts on an unnamed travel advice site. The Ritz-Carlton on Key Biscayne has already been identified as our safehouse should we be mauled or bitten by a nude local.
And here's the thing, we have walked down Market Street in San Francisco many times, dodging various sidewalk dwellers who often lay muttering to themselves in pools of urine. Gross, yes, but I am hearing that Miami may be upwards of a thousand times more intense than the Market Street scene. But we're going to roll the dice and see if South Florida tries to kill us.
We have chosen Miami as our kid-free destination this year. Had I been able to get a passport quicker, we may have opted for a European, or at least Caribbean locale. South Florida is about as far away as we can get from Reno, NV while still staying in the United States, so that's where we'll land next Wednesday night. Should we not make it back alive, Yelp cannot be blamed. "They were warned," will surely be a part of our eulogies. We have read that freaks will surround our rental car at every stoplight and may even attempt to mount us as we walk the streets of South Beach. I certainly hope not, but the reviews are not encouraging. "Tourists will encounter public nudity and sudden violence, even in the grocery stores," reads one reviewers' thoughts on an unnamed travel advice site. The Ritz-Carlton on Key Biscayne has already been identified as our safehouse should we be mauled or bitten by a nude local.
And here's the thing, we have walked down Market Street in San Francisco many times, dodging various sidewalk dwellers who often lay muttering to themselves in pools of urine. Gross, yes, but I am hearing that Miami may be upwards of a thousand times more intense than the Market Street scene. But we're going to roll the dice and see if South Florida tries to kill us.
Thursday 11 March 2010
310 Plus 6
Six years in to my grand plan to reinvent, primarily, my whole financial scene. It has been successful to date and I see glimmers of possibilities that the Monterey peninsula may just be possible in another four-ish years...maybe six...but nonetheless not that far off. I have read 48 Days to the Work You Love by Dan Miller and I am working to remain in the mindset that there really IS something more out there. It takes consistent, if not constant, attention to formulate new possibilities. Someone recenly told me that the difference between a rut and a grave is the depth. I am committed to NOT getting to the six-foot mark.
The tenets of 310 involved total financial and personal freedom within 10 years from March 10, 2004. I have since paid off all debt except two houses and will be able to vigorously invest as soon as one remaining second mortgage is paid off in the spring of 2011. Reality says that my kids won't be totally out of the house until 2018 or 2020. That allows seven to nine years of the aforementioned effort at building real wealth and a springboard to phase 2, which should include a condo with a view of AT&T Park and true, Christ-centered peace.
Because the alternatives must be discussed, the well-worn path of despair should be pondered. Imagine another fifteen years behind this gray desk in quiet desperation? Work without passion stretching out into old age without hope of escape. Maybe another mortgage, backsliding into car loans, credit cards and dysphoria? Low end red wine and endless hours of television. All of this while the waves roll past the Golden Gate and the sun sets far out on the Pacific. The smell of grilled salmon and spinach risotto drifting in from the balcony. Countless bottles of velvety Silver Oak lining a wine cellar with reserves at the ready. The crack of the bat just across the way and the lights of the City twinkling on and on. Moonlight on the bay and the Berkeley hills beyond. So many reasons to press on toward the sublime.
The tenets of 310 involved total financial and personal freedom within 10 years from March 10, 2004. I have since paid off all debt except two houses and will be able to vigorously invest as soon as one remaining second mortgage is paid off in the spring of 2011. Reality says that my kids won't be totally out of the house until 2018 or 2020. That allows seven to nine years of the aforementioned effort at building real wealth and a springboard to phase 2, which should include a condo with a view of AT&T Park and true, Christ-centered peace.
Because the alternatives must be discussed, the well-worn path of despair should be pondered. Imagine another fifteen years behind this gray desk in quiet desperation? Work without passion stretching out into old age without hope of escape. Maybe another mortgage, backsliding into car loans, credit cards and dysphoria? Low end red wine and endless hours of television. All of this while the waves roll past the Golden Gate and the sun sets far out on the Pacific. The smell of grilled salmon and spinach risotto drifting in from the balcony. Countless bottles of velvety Silver Oak lining a wine cellar with reserves at the ready. The crack of the bat just across the way and the lights of the City twinkling on and on. Moonlight on the bay and the Berkeley hills beyond. So many reasons to press on toward the sublime.
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