Proposal for KyleSmithNY
Registered on : 2009-05-04
23 year old Male
I am in New York.
Where in North America I would like to travel this summer and why.
The route I imagine taking.
What I would like to write about and photograph.
I suppose that "everywhere" would not be a detailed enough answer to respond to this question, though it is my instinctual response.
I would like to start out from Santa Cruz, CA (where my car is currently stored at my brother's house) and head northwards to visit the National Parks of Northern California. I would stop to summit Mt. Shasta and Mt. Lassen at their respective National Parks. I would continue on upwards to Oregon where I would visit Crater Lake NP and start to connect with the Tribble Run.
The Tribble Run is an off-the-beaten-path series of one night comedy venues hosted at local bars and restaurants in the Pacific Northwest and Northern Rockies booked by David Tribble. I would along the way camp and meet up with traveling comics and locals to see what makes America's small towns laugh.
Bouncing between nature and civilization I would amble through Washington and Idaho visiting all the major national parks and monuments along the way, passing into Montana and Wyoming with stops at Glacier and Yellowstone National Parks. I would move down through Colorado with stops along the way to climb Long's Peak in the Rocky Mountain NP as I moved through the midwest before following the Missippi River south to it's mouth in New Orleans along the way camping and caving in the Ozarks. From New Orleans I would begin moving back through the southwest, sandboarding in New Mexico at White Sands. With a stop at the Grand Canyon I would do some rafting/kayaking before continuing onwards to Burning Man with stops in Death Valley, Sequoia, and Yosemite National Parks.
Traveling with me always would be my mountain bike, video camera, DSLR camera and laptop so that I could film, photograph, and write about the trails, scenery, and laughter of America's wilderness and small towns.
Why I want to travel and what I think I will accomplish.
I'm an American citizen according to my passport, but was raised to be a global citizen. For much of my life my family has lived abroad due to my father's job in the oil industry. I went to elementary school in Lagos, Nigeria and in my later teen years Bangkok, Thailand was the family home. Now, Im a year out of college and my parents have still yet to return to the US, and reside in Chengdu, China.
Through this lifestyle I have been fortunate to have traveled the world and been exposed to lifestyles and cultures vastly different from my own. However, in the midst of all this globetrotting I realize that I have seen embarassingly little of my own country. I live in New York City, and yet have never even been to Boston. I'm more familiar with Angkor Wat than with the Grand Canyon.
As a twenty-something urbanite I feel that often my generation thinks of the US in terms of a collection of cities like New York, Los Angeles, and Chicago, neglecting the great wilderness our country was not so long ago. I want to see the country by visiting as many National and State Parks as I possibly can in order to see America's remaining wilderness and share it with the world via film, photography, and writing to inspire a renewed interest in traveling one's own country and preserving our natural heritage.My background, interests, talents and aspirations.
I grew up splitting my childhood between Nigeria, Thailand, and the San Francisco Bay Area in California. In 2008 I graduated from the University of California San Diego with a BA in Political Science and a minor in Creative Writing. I studied for and took the Law School Admissions Test (LSAT) and scored well, but after some soul searching realized that lifestyle was simply not for me. I now reside in Brooklyn, NY where I work as a video editor and internet marketeer. So much for using my education.
For the past four years I have performed as a standup comedian and in 2007 while a senior in college was named by ABC's Jimmy Kimmel Live as the College Comedy Champion in their nationwide search for America's funniest college students. This hobby of mine, while it hasn't made me rich (I think the whole comedy operation is running in the red for me) has given me the chance to hone my voice and writing skills and to visit places to perform that I may otherwise never have seen such as the Naval air base at China Lake in the Mojave Desert.
Whenever I travel I attend local open mics either to perform or just to see what makes people their laugh. Sense of humor changes so drastically from culture to culture and from region to region and provides a wonderful insight into the way a community thinks. It is my life dream to one day be the host of my own travel show to combine my love of travel with my comedic talents.
Some of my writing and photography.
Sketch Comedy
"Keep on Trying - A Man's Right to Choose" http://www.funnyordie.com/videos/6528567346/keep-on-trying
Stand Up Clips
http://vids.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=vids.individual&videoid=10298976
http://vids.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=vids.individual&videoid=5841698
Travel Video Clips
http://www.tripfilms.com/Travel_Video-v68841-Agra-Green_Travel_Taj_Mahal-Video.html
"21 Guns"
a short story by Kyle Smith
A twenty-one gun salute isn't exactly what it's
advertised to be. It is actually just seven guns fired three times. The
detail of soldiers folded an American flag and handed it stoically to
my father. My grandfather deserves more than that. I think. The truth
is: I never really knew him. Rather I knew of him like one knows of an
institution with which they have little personal familiarity like
congress or the IRS. I only saw him a dozen or so times, one such
occasion being when he was already dead. I think that still counts
though.
My father wasn't close to him either; I guess my
grandfather wasn't comfortable with my father's lifestyle. Sorry, I
should clarify, I realize now, after having written it, that
"lifestyle" makes it sound like my father was a homosexual. He never
had a more than platonic relationship with any male. He did, however,
work in the fashion industry, but only as an accountant, and that has
to be the least gay job in the entire business.
The one problem
with my dad's vocation in the eyes of my grandfather, though, was
simple: it was not military. Our proud lineage boasted soldiers in
every major American war from the Second World War all the way back to
the War of 1812. Accordingly, all of them were buried along with my
grandfather in Arlington Cemetery. Some might call it lucky that enough
of them survived to make me, that's just how it goes. If they hadn't,
then I wouldn't be writing this. I'm proud of our history of familial
valor (recklessness?), in a way, but not in a way that has me rushing
down to enlist myself.
When my grandfather died it came as
little shock to any of us. He had been battling lung cancer for some
years. His version of battling included a chemotherapy cocktail and a
liberal dose of scotch. This was the only liberal practice my
grandfather ever supported. The chemo seemed to affect his appearance
very little. He had been bald since the mid-1970's, so the prospect of
losing his hair was redundant at best. My grandmother, his wife, had
passed away shortly before in the early-1970s and was laid to rest in
her family's plot in Kansas.
"She took my hair right along with her," he would say.
He
took on cancer like any other chore, with the same stubborn rigor he
applied to all things in life. Eventually the man who beat the odds
storming the beach at Normandy had to lose out to the odds of an
84-year-old surviving cancer. It was the type of death that brings
relief.
I visited him once during his year-long
hospitalization. Though I had seldom been around my grandfather, the
sting of mortality still had its effect on me. Being a sophomore in
high school, constantly surrounded by vitality and nubile flesh helped
me to forget that aspect of reality. I started to cry right there in my
grandfather's hospital room.
"Hold it together son," he admonished me. "Crying is for faggots." He paused. "You got a girl?"
"No," I told him.
"Well
then I hope it ain't because you're a fairy. Be a man. Men stay strong.
You're a good boy." He nodded. Whether it was in approval of me or
approval of how his own speech came together I'm not sure.
Though
I failed to see how the absence of abundant heterosexuality insinuated
homosexuality in the least, in his way this was a loving heart-to-heart
talk. In his own social circle any belittling comment towards a
minority or homosexual was cause for uproarious laughter and
congratulation to the teller's wit. The absurdity of his words managed
to at least snap me out of my sorrow, forcing a smile out of me.
Later, when we were out of the hospital room my father put a hand on my shoulder. "It's
ok to feel," he told me nonchalantly. His eyes were moist as though his
ingrained habit was unsure of whether to heed his own advice.
My
grandfather had been abandoned by his father and orphaned by his
mother's tuberculosis, then lived through the Great Depression and
fought in World War Two. That's enough to make anyone a senile hard
ass.
When he was 17 his nose got broken by a drunk, abusive
foster-father who owned a soy-growing cooperative. By cooperative I
mean that he told the foster children what to do, and they cooperated.
Two weeks later my grandfather set fire to that farm and managed to
burn 40 acres (and ironically, a mule) and after that the state of
Indiana decided that he was close enough to the legal age and
emancipated him.
We are not of Sicilian stock, but my
grandfather certainly knows how to carry a grudge like Don Corelone.
Until the day he died he was always bitter that my father didn't follow
in his military footsteps. He was never bitter towards me, but I was
16; I guess he still had hope that I might enlist.
Fuck that.
As
a member of a rapidly decreasing minority group,
kids-whose-parents-are-still-married, I had a hard time even imagining
my grandfather's upbringing. I never even heard about the fire until
the flight to the funeral. My mom told me; that's how I learned most
things about my family's history, both her side and my father's, like
that my great grandmother was one of a set of identical triplets.
Though he never avoided the topic, there is very little my dad has ever
told me about his father.
I used to be embarrassed by my dad.
He would come on every field trip, insisting that he "be there to see
me grow up." Apparently the Natural History Museum rapidly encourages a
lot of growing up. He was always the only dad. Kids' moms come on field
trips, not their dads. Everyone else thought it was cool. I guess it
fits that my dad and I had to take one more field trip.
When
my grandfather died I inherited his car: a '96 tan Buick LeSabre. Is
there any car out there that screams "I'm an old man" more than that?
The thing is I live in San Diego so we had to drive that beast of a
Buick cross country from Virginia, an extended road trip disguised as a
vacation.
As a child my grandfather would have been entirely
unfamiliar with the concept of a vacation. It's hard to say whether he
ever really acquainted himself with the idea of relaxation and time
off. Truth be told, I think cancer was the perfect way for him to go,
to go down swinging, trying to fight one last battle.
"The
only time your grandpa took the family on a trip was when we were
stationed in South Carolina," my dad told me several years ago during a
family Christmas in Hawaii. It's amazing how much you can learn when
parents have been drinking. And they swear more too.
"We went
to fucking Rock City, the place is like redneck Disneyland, with caves,
and plastic gnomes, and all sorts of chintzy crap."
Since
then, Rock City has become the family joke of sorts between my parents
and me. Whenever my mom tells us of the travel plans she's made for us
to go somewhere great like Eastern Europe or the Caribbean, my dad or I
will always say in a disheartened tone, "The Cayman Islands!? Ah man!
This sucks! We never get to go to Rock City!" This always gets a laugh
in our household; sarcasm is practically our lifeblood.
My
grandfather hated sarcasm, which made it even funnier to use around
him. Before cancer won my grandfather's war of attrition, he had been
one hell of a fiery patient to have around.
"What the hell is this garbage they serve here in the mess hall?" he griped about the food.
"What
do you mean Dad?" My father feigned profound interest. "I could've
sworn today was filet mignon and champagne day at the hospital
cafeteria."
An annoyed glare was all he could muster. "Why don't
you just say what you mean instead of that stupid reverse
psychology-speak you do."
For a man whose 35-year military
career (and can I just point out that they actually encourage you to
retire after 25 years) consisted of orders, commands, relayed messages,
and strategic linear logic, sarcasm was a foreign language.
At
the funeral, a man from the Army came to read something about my
grandfather and how his "record of service was impeccable and
distinguished." His Buick, my new Buick, was kept just as impeccable
and distinguished. It had a clean smell, but mixed with my
grandfather's potent Aqua Velva aftershave. The bumper of the car was
adorned with a "Support our troops" magnet and a "Keep America
American" bumper sticker, whatever the fuck that means.
The
drive to San Diego from Virginia is some 2600 miles, with much of it
stretching through the Bible Belt. I figured that it wouldn't hurt to
leave his personal political modifications on, at least until I was
safely back home by the blue ocean in a blue state.
My dad and
I went through my grandfather's house to clear it before its eventual
sale. It was a Spartan domain with an orderly clutter: two bedrooms, a
living room, a kitchen, and an attic. The living room looked hardly
lived-in, with the traditional bachelor's black leather recliner
adorned with a crocheted blanket of tacky colors. My grandfather's
medals and uniforms we kept, along with all the pictures and photo
albums stashed away in the nooks of the dusty attic; the rest we sent
off for donation. "Maybe the furniture will go off to a new owner,
someone who actually enjoyed taking time to sit down and relax on it,"
I thought. The few keepsakes we retained from his small house fit
easily into the enormous trunk of the Buick next to the roadside
emergency kit and flare gun.
While collecting the meager
remnants of my grandfather's possessions I stumbled upon a shoebox of
photographs, some in grainy sepia tones, showing a very young version
of my father at Rock City, comically juxtaposed against a smiling,
rigid plastic gnome and my unsmiling, rigid grandfather.
The
handling on the Buick took some getting used to. I had received my
learner's permit some 4 months earlier when the state of California
deemed me befitting of a spot behind the wheel. But, I lived within
walking distance of school and my best friend, a year my senior,
already had his license. I had been remiss in actually taking the time
to log the hours necessary for my own license.
"What better
opportunity to brush up on a little Driver's Ed," my dad said as we
were loading the last of my grandfather's effects into the back of the
car. I rolled my eyes and made no move when my dad offered up the keys;
I climbed into the passenger seat.
The "other side", the
Eastern side of the country looks so different from California. Even
though it was summer, it was green, quite a novelty for someone who
lived in sunny, dry San Diego where rain only falls between the months
of November and February. Also, none of the towns had Spanish names,
they were all Watson, Marshall, Lynchburg, etc. – novelty number two.
With
the horizon already darkening, we left my grandfather's house. On the
first day of our trip, we didn't even make it past the state line. Only
managing 200 miles of a 2600 mile journey made the journey seem
impossibly long. The gap between my grandfather's life in Virginia and
my own in San Diego seemed hardly able to be bridged by a '96 Buick.
It was 6:00am when we awoke. The hotel breakfast seemed abundant and heavy for my Californian's palate.
"So do they pretty much just take everything in the south and just deep fry it unless otherwise specified?"
My
dad laughed at this comment. "Hey, as a kid I used to eat like this
every morning. Bacon, eggs, biscuits, gravy – every single morning."
"Your arteries survived that abuse?"
"Yeah, sure," he said with a straight face, "I mean I got my first coronary bypass before 3rd grade, but no big deal."
I
had fallen back to sleep in the car, busily digesting my breakfast of
epic proportions. It was 10 o'clock by the time I opened my eyes and
saw the changing landscape speed past outside my window. Rolling hills
gave way to growths of rich evergreens, so tall they seemed titans
compared to my home standards of spindly trees in new housing
developments. 11 o'clock came before any words were even spoken.
"You mind taking the wheel son? Maybe get in some practice?" He nodded positively, willing me to drive.
"Yeah, ok, but can we switch after lunch?"
He shrugged his indifference. I took the wheel after lunch, meticulous as to my father's insistence.
"Mirrors."
"Got it Dad." I adjusted my seat.
"E-brake."
I stopped and stared straight ahead exhaling slightly. "Thanks a billion."
"I'm
sorry, I'm sorry," that was obnoxious. "Just drive, you're fine." He
started to lean against the window. "Don't forget to signal when you're
pulling into traffic."
"Dad! Seriously, back off," I snapped,
happy to not have said "Back the fuck off" as I had thought in my head,
and not realizing how strident it came off until the moment after said
it.
"I think someone needs a nap," he said dryly. He leaned against the door, using his fleece sweatshirt as a pillow.
I
signaled as we pulled onto the desolate highway. I flipped through the
radio dial, looking straight ahead through my sunglasses both
frustrated and upset with myself. Behind the darkened lenses I took
sideways glances at my father's attempt at hiding his apprehension.
Gradually, his nerves calmed, without even needing the help of his own
father's cure-all remedy for curing the nerves: scotch.
I
began to enjoy the sensation. My dad had always been the driver as
though my mom were incapable of the task. Every family trip he played
chauffeur, to Yosemite in the summer for camping, to Las Vegas and
Circus Circus (during that time when Vegas was trying to be a family
place before it switched back to gambling and booze); with such
solidarity it never occurred to me that he might have ever gotten
tired.
"Dad?" I ventured as a peace offering.
"Yeah?"
"Who drove on your family vacations growing up?"
"You mean the one to Rock City?"
We laughed at this.
"Yeah," I smiled, "that one."
"Your
grandfather of course," he reminisced, "and we had to drive straight
there, no stops, in the '62 Mercury. Of course all this wouldn't be
possible now with the invention of the Big Gulp," he added, punctuating
this with a sip from his enormous Diet Coke, a token of our last stop.
"That man could make vacation a mission. In and out. No gift shop! No
lagging!"
By nightfall we arrived in Chattanooga, Tennessee, a
city as famous for its artistic and cultural heritage as it is its
giant bionic seahorses. Finding a motel with vacancies proved no
challenge. We pulled into the nondescript Darling's Motel and were
granted our room, an adequate affair. Pastoral scenes hung painted
above the mini-bar, offering a bucolic feel to the décor. The
television looked like it was stolen from 1985 and it had 3 local
channels. After a riveting news story on the planned widening of the
freeway and an exposé on "how some Chattanooga residents are preparing
for catfish season", we switched off the television. With nothing to
stay up for, we decided to go to sleep, hoping to make it up for an
early start.
I found myself unable to sleep; the sound of 21
gunshots still rang in my head. Wandering into the lobby I paced past
the pictures of 'celebrities' who had stayed in the hotel, though not
being a NASCAR or country music fan, I hadn't the faintest clue who
they were, or what accolades they had garnered. I began to thumb
through the rack of brochures announcing restaurants, tourist
attractions, and civil war monuments. Murder mystery dinners with all
you can eat barbecue seemed to be quite the popular night out, with two
different establishments boasting this same attraction.
An
orange, glossy pamphlet towards the bottom right of the rack jumped out
at me. The smiling face of a cartoon gnome with a beard and red hat and
the stylized bubble lettering made me shake with laughter; the headline
read "Rock City: a place of discovery!" The directions seemed simple
from our hotel. I folded the advertisement twice and put it in my back
pocket.
The alarm on my phone woke me at 6:00 am while my dad was still asleep. I got dressed and shook him awake.
"Dad, hey dad. I couldn't sleep, so if you want to just sleep in the car I'll get started on our day."
He looked around squinting, confused.
"I already got our stuff in the car, don't worry about it."
He
closed his eyes and flopped back down then slowly pulled his feet up to
kick off the covers. Inside the car he balled his fleece jacket up into
another makeshift car pillow and was back asleep within a few miles. I
stayed along the I-24 out of Chattanooga, following the signs off our
westward course and towards Lookout Mountain and its crown jewel, Rock
City.
I found it difficult to hold in my laughter as I glanced
from my sleeping father and his drool stained jacket-pillow to the
large wooden "Rock City" sign welcoming all guests.
I took a deep breath and yelled in my best southern accent, "Welcome to Rock City! Yeeeeeeeehawwww!"
"Holy
Christ fuck!" my dad exclaimed, abruptly coming out of his slumber. A
mother with a stroller nearby shot him a chastising look and I laughed.
"Look familiar?"
The
situation dawned on him slowly until suddenly my dad broke out into
laughter. I had been holding back the whole drive up the mountain. I
let loose too and we both laughed so hard that the mother with the
stroller shook her head and walked quickly away.
Our admission
paid, my dad and I began an excited rush through the designated Rock
City pathway, stopping to take pictures with gnomes and flashing
exaggerated thumbs-up smiles for the camera. We even experimented with
recreating the very same father son moment from some 40 years earlier,
me posing with an excited grin and my dad looking stern. He just
couldn't quite pull it off.
Once you get past the stupid tourist
shops and crappy gnomes, Lookout Mountain at Rock City actually does
boast an impressive panoramic view, which, on a clear day, provides
views over Tennesee, Kentucky, Virginia and into the Carolinas. Grassy
fields give way to thick forests and hills cut occasionally by a small,
winding road. Far off clouds hung like smoke drifting over the
smoldering dark canopy. We sat quietly, smiling out over the view,
seated next to one another.
"So what were you thinking for lunch? Fried food or fried food?" my father propositioned.
"I was hoping that I could get some deep-fried bacon grease with a side of heart attack. Think they got it here?
"Son,"
he again tried his mock stern expression, "you are at Rock City, the
land of plenty. They have everything here. By which of course I mean
everything fry-able."
"With options like that how could I choose?"
Sarcasm is like crack to us.
My
father returned with assorted meats on sticks and unidentifiable fried
vegetables and/or cheeses. "I had a lot more fun this time." He looked
out over the pastoral lands that once played stage to some of the
bloodiest battles of American military history.
"For as much as this place sucks, it's not so bad really. Deep down, Grandpa must have had some fun here. The view is nice."
"He
wasn't much for fun." My dad smiled, then paused, reminiscently hanging
on each word with a tilt of his head, "Or compassion, or nurturing, or
expression, or positive reinforcement. You know," his voice turned
gravelly, mocking my grandfather, "or any of that other pussy shit!"
His voice returned to normal, "Your grandpa's view on family was that
if nobody starved, mission accomplished."
We laughed at his
rendition of his own father. I had never heard him voluntarily offer
anything close to a criticism of Grandpa; the few stories he told and
that I had pieced together certainly painted a clear enough picture,
but it was still strange hearing it in his own words.
"Well. In that case. Let's live it up this time and do something crazy," I suggested.
"What did you have in mind?"
"Why
don't we get something just God awfully tacky for the Buick" I nodded
solemnly, adding, "just like grandpa wouldn't have wanted."
After
half an hour of lagging in the gift shop and trying on every variety of
cheap paper Civil War hats in stock, we exited the dusty parking lot,
our bumper proudly proclaiming "I Rocked out at Rock City!" with a
smiling cartoon gnome. The sticker was situated slightly askew between
"Keep America American" and "Support Our Troops" as though for all his
convictions my grandfather's Buick was confused.
I found very
little to be altogether great about the Great Plains. For those whose
definition of greatness does not center around an endless nothingness
punctuated by sleepy towns filled by signs proclaiming the world's
biggest ball of yarn, frying pan, or other commonplace object that was
unnecessarily made to a colossal size.
Wolf Island, Kansas is
not an island, and for that matter, not a home to any wolves. It was
the town in which my grandmother grew to maturity and eventually was
buried. Her death was separated by over a thousand miles and thirty
years from her husband, a gap bridged by his yearly pilgrimage. Her
burial plot was the final resting place of several generations of
relatives I had also never met.
Time heals wounds I guess. My
father seemed almost cheerful to even be back in the cemetery he had
not been to in thirty years. I couldn't imagine what it would be like
to lose a parent or how I could ever be comfortable at their grave.
We
leaned against the ornate, metal fence of the graveyard, surveying the
well-kept lawn and homogenized black flower pots. I was holding a small
metal pole while my dad clutched the tightly folded flag from my
grandfather's funeral.
"What was your mom like?" It slipped out of my mouth before I could realize it. This seemed to catch my father off guard.
"She
was the most patient woman to ever live, and she smelled like baking,
soft and powdery like flower. Your grandpa didn't much care for sweets
and I wasn't allowed to spoil my appetite, but she was till always
baking and giving it off to fundraisers, that's just how she was, like
if she ever sat still it would kill her."
I imagined her. My
curiosity caught a hold of me as I asked the morbid question one must
always lightly, yet inevitably, tread upon. "How did she die?"
"In her sleep."
"So I guess she was right."
My father smiled with wistful eyes. "Yeah." He motioned with his head towards my grandmother's family's section, "Come on."
I
followed him, toting our flagpole purchased from a roadside flag dealer
(only in the heartland could you find such a place). With a corkscrew
motion I managed to imbed the pointed shaft into the soft earth at the
back of my father's mother's tombstone. I stood back, grasping the pole
and pulling slightly to test its strength. I nodded, then turned to
face my dad, taking hold of one side of the folded flag. We unfurled
it, without the grace and precision of soldiers. Accidentally, I even
momentarily dropped a corner of the flag. "I won't tell if you won't,"
my father promised and we stretched the flag out before fixing it to
the pole and allowing it to alight upon the breeze. We stood back,
watching it flap. The banner waved in the wind.
After a moment of silence my father and I turned to each other.
"Are we supposed to say something?" I asked.
"I think so. Any ideas?"
"Um. Grandpa was kind of an asshole, but hey, we love him anyway. Amen?"
He chuckled softly.
"Dad?"
"Yes?"
"I
feel bad that Grandpa died and I wish that I would have cried at the
funeral, but I feel like I didn't really know him and that if I had, I
might not have really liked him." I blushed; my face felt hot from my
sudden candor, "But I guess you don't really have to like your family,
you just have to love them.
I looked down and away from my
father as I said this, but suddenly felt his arms around me, hugging
me. His grip was tight, not like the causal
thanks-for-the-Fathers-Day-Home-Depot-gift-card hug. This was one was
longer, different, completely devoid of sarcasm. We stood this way for
a long moment before he broke the silence.
"I think that was the best eulogy I've ever heard," my father said.
The
moment seemed somehow incomplete. An idea flashed into my mind. "Wait
here," I told my dad and rushed back to the car. I struggled to contain
the smile spreading across my face at the prospect of my own idea. The
vast trunk opened with a twist of the key and I began to rummage
through the boxes in the back before locating the original contents of
my grandfather's trunk.
I opened the red plastic box
containing the emergency flare and loaded the cartridge into the
pivoting barrel, snapping it into place as per the directions on the
inside of the box. I tucked the signaling device into my back pocket
and trotted back towards my dad. I stopped and saluted the flag as he
looked on quizzically. Breaking into a slightly off key whistle, I
played "Taps" to the best of my ability. At the end of the song I
snapped my saluting hand back to my side and reached it back towards my
pocket, producing the flare gun. I gripped the handle and aimed it up
at a steep angle over the flag and into the sky. My finger tightened on
the trigger, propelling a sizzling green flare. It shimmered into the
sky trailing smoke.
We watched the flare burnout at the apex
of its arc and stared at it until the smoke dissipated and was gone. "I
was going to suggest we just pretend that was 21 flares if anyone
asks."
"They probably won't."
"Yeah." I searched the sky for any remaining trace of green smoke. "I really like you Dad."
"I like you too, son."
Comments:
I really enjoyed the beautiful and touching story of you and your fathers road trip. You and your father bridged not only the country but the distance between your grandfather's stoic personality and your coming to terms with it. You have true talent and an amazing background, education and family. Your sense of humor and irony is very alive and well in your writing. I'd certainly like to follow your journey where ever it takes you. Although climbing, pub crawling and camping your way through the Northwest and the Rockies – can it get any better in the summer? I think not. What an amazing loop through God's Country you have in mind. Be well and keep Living Large - Pat P.S. Do you have any examples of your videos online? You’re a brave man to go on stage and do stand up comedy. But if Jimmy Kimble gave you the nod you must be a crack up. I sure hope it would permeate your blogs.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Pat the DV says: May 13 2009 09:32:19 AM
Kyle, I'm so glad I asked you to add examples of your videos. I had a suspicion that you could do some funny travel blogs. But now I know you can. You're real talent and I'm dam curious to know what poignant and amusing writing and videos you'd produce if you were let loose upon the land. And to think you entertained the idea of becoming an attorney. What the Hell were you thinking? I loved your coverage of the prison dancing in the Philipines at http://www.tripfilms.com/Travel_Video-v68653-Cebu-Dance_Dance_Rehabilitation_Cebu_Philippines-Video.html Your douche bag shirtless/guitarist hybrid impersonation at http://vids.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=vids.individual&videoid=10298976 brought joy into my life. Your vasectomy commercial was very compelling and made me realize that I need to try harder. Learn more at http://www.funnyordie.com/videos/6528567346/keep-on-trying Kyle, some how I have a feeling that if we put you out on the road with a camera and you shared it online that you'd have an excited audience waiting for you at the Burning Man Graduation party! So far, you're all straight A in my book.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Lori Blackburn says: May 13 2009 01:32:05 PM
Kyle is hilarious and one of the smartest guys I know....no kidding! His work speaks for itself. I had the pleasure of sharing an office space with him and it was non-stop witty commentary with razor sharp banter. Oh, if only I could've kept up! If Kyle was selected, I'm sure he'd create phenomenal material probably accented with his style of creative, funny, and sarcastic humor. Aside from his funny bone, Kyle provides fantastic insight into almost any situation and is very knowledgeable in current events & pop culture. This guy delivers. Vote for Kyle!!
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Maren Smith says: May 14 2009 04:20:49 AM
Well, I may be biased since I'm his mom, but I can tell you that Kyle would be an outstanding choice for this type of travelogue project. He has this smile that lights up the room. He's a bright kid, so his humor is smart funny. I also think he has a keen eye and is an astute observer of life, a skill would translate well on the road, on film and right on into video clips. He is also one of the best networkers I know--I'm sure he could ferret out a unique story and with his charismatic charm, could wangle his way into some pretty entertaining travel opportunities. He has no fear of speaking (or entertaining) in front of a crowd and he's one of the most determined individuals I've ever met. I may be partial, but I think that Kyle could deliver the goods.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Pat the DV says: May 14 2009 01:15:44 PM
Knowing that your mother is behind you makes me even more confident in you and your proposal. No one wants to let their mom down :-) I could have used a guy like you around back when I was doing time in cubicle land. Lori probably looked forward to work with you around.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Corey T says: May 19 2009 12:05:22 PM
I'm impressed with the range of storytelling in the examples from this proposal. Stand up comedy, travel videos and writing that all hold their own. The combination would make for an interesting trip to follow this summer.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Marie says: June 01 2009 06:09:11 AM
Congrats!! I hope you have a safe trip!
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------rtg says: May 23 2009 12:51:56 PM
You are incredibly talented and insightful, a great communicator for sure. i look forward to following your trip and enjoying your comedic perspective. i can easilly imagine you realizing your >Lifes Dream< or any dream that may come your way. Very nice to meet you and your talent!
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------rtg says: May 23 2009 12:51:56 PM
You are incredibly talented and insightful, a great communicator for sure. i look forward to following your trip and enjoying your comedic perspective. i can easilly imagine you realizing your >Lifes Dream< or any dream that may come your way. Very nice to meet you and your talent!
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------