The Road More traveled . . .

In his first book "The Road Less traveled", Scott Peck

insists that problems must be overcome through suffering, discipline and hard work . . .

Often departing from the cerebral and rationalistic bent of Freudian discourse for a mystical, Jungian tone more compatible with New Age spirituality, Peck writes of psychotherapy as an exercise in "love" and "spiritual growth," asserts that "our unconscious is God" and affirms his belief in miracles, reincarnation and telepathy.

I couldn't describe a road trip with certain individuals any other way. Now in my early days of scholarship, I began study in psychology only to find that the spiritual essence of Man was often at odds with the secularly defined explanations of the likes of Freud, Jung, etc., and quickly realized that what we experience as part of our psyche has something to do with the subconscious and our environment, but more often than not has more to do with a conscious choice than with the unseen. I'm sure the psychiatrists and psychologists of this world will vehemently disagree with this gross oversimplification but--by the same token--undersimplification can be considered just as anti-intellectual.

This has absolutely nothing to do with the price of gas at our pumps but I am leading into what will effect the price. And hopefully many who read this ranting will realize the shortest distance between two points doesn't necessarily turn out that way. Some sacrifice and perseverance must come into play; I speak from years of experience--practical, not theoretical--and I do not wish this blathering of travel wisdom to sound in any way ungrateful or needless, but just consider it a mild forewarning what usually makes my travel molehills into major peaks rivaling Everest and Kilimanjaro. You see the simplest things like retrieving a couple of pamphlets can inordinately turn into major trek of enormous proportions minus the frostbite and missing limbs.

As most of you GG'ers know, my good friend Henry Hunger, an individual I've known since our days in grammar school, our travels back and forth to Austin in the college days and our numerous jaunts around the countryside twice a year to locations which--as of late--are nowhere near the Gulf of Mexico, has been a reliable (if one doesn't take time schedules into account) ally in interstate travel to join with our cadre of friends from around the world. And that I am grateful for.

On the other hand, I was gleefully planning on spending my time in these last few weeks on preparing a delightful experience for all my friends converging on the Big Easy for this summer's Gulf Games. Now, I revert back to the first paragraph above because I must be crazy. The "suffering, discipline and hard work" should be applied to providing my GG'er friends with a wonderful experience. Instead, I spent the day traveling to Mississippi getting literature for New Orleans. No. You are not crazy. I am. I agreed to get in the car with Henry for a quick trip. Actually, the agreement was to take a "quick" trip to Six Flags to secure our season passes so I(we) could take some of y'all to the amusement park. And that was my mistake. My subconscious, Jungian concept of the term "quick" differs ever so slightly from Henry's to this extent: If Henry were to tell you "It's a little cool on the top of Mount Everest" be prepared to cut off all of your fingers and toes before the frostbite takes hold even though Henry in his ever present Bermuda shorts is leading the way up the summit. Catch my snow drift?

Ungrateful, no. Realistic, yes. Now Mr. Hunger will tried to persuade you differently by obscuring reality with his own sense of perceptual acuity. Just remember this is the guy who plans on leaving for Gulf Games Whatever at 10 o'clock Wednesday morning and starts washing clothes for the trip at 10:30 Wednesday morning. Need I say more. Okay. I will. This is the same guy in college who signs up for Greek class that is only available at 8 a.m. everyday and actually made that one class. (Keywords to focus on are "that" and "one") You see, the night before he had an attack of insomnia--which is about as rare as Dracula sunbathing on the Riviera--which allowed him to be there that first day not necessarily awake, mind you, but nonetheless there in spirit anyway. Which, by the way, he made the rest of the semester "in spirit" though not necessarily there there. Dracula didn't tan so well, you see . . .

But that was hundreds of years ago. And I never learn. You know how you do things sometimes you know probably won't turn out like you planned. Something like monks flagellating themselves to attain that purity of the heart and soul. These guys are lucky to have lived in the Middle Ages when this practice was accepted. I'm not so lucky to live in this parallel like existence because such activities are not insurable these days, right Greg? "Alright, let's take a ride, Henry" is tantamount to a "cat 'o' nine tails' and I tell you why in just a moment.

The shortest distance between two points in this scenario is to ride a couple of miles to the French Quarter to pick up some useful literature for you friends. But distance and time for Henry is similar to what Peck was alluding to above in this sense: By affirming my fervent prayer that this would be a normal activity overrode my deepest, subconscious thought that it would be a miracle if this trip would be over before my reincarnation in the next life and all of this would have been avoided if I would have taken the time to read Henry's actual thoughts with telepathy. It's so simple in hindsight, isn't it?

I must admit, I'm partially at fault for opening the door to this "Around The World In Eighty Days" ordeal by making a simple suggestion that we bypass Six Flags to the next exit on I-10 to get some literature on the Bayou Sauvage National Wildlife Refuge Swamp tour, an exit I have passed many times previously. Somehow I knew trouble loomed the minute I said those dreadful words "Go to the next exit." (Flagellate, flagellate) As luck would have it, the tour site looked abandoned for months. Maybe the gators got 'em, I don't know. I really knew things were foul when Henry said he knew a place we could go to get literature. Not really. I was thinking rationally that we would head back to town and visit the visitor center in the Quarter and call it a day. I wasn't "telepathing" like I should have been. (Flagellate, flagellate)

A cold chill trickled down my spine as Henry turned toward Slidell, a community just outside of New Orleans across Lake Pontchartrain about forty minutes from the center of town. Henry was heading out of state. Rationally, my brain shifted into overdrive. Maybe there was a place in Slidell, a tourist info office we dash into and out of to make this whole trip concise and to the point. Twenty minutes later we found the Slidell Louisiana Tourist Information Center and the chill returned. I was with the "Man That Ticked Off Time" not a normal person. Somewhere in the past--I wasn't there; I don't know--Henry really ticked the gods of Time, those archetypical controllers Jung surely referenced somewhere in his works, and they retaliated with some eternal curse the likes of which only people who really know Henry can appreciate. You see, Henry never departs for anything during its normal business hours. In fact, I remember one time--and I can't recall the precise incident--Henry showed up at 24 hour establishment one minute after they closed. It's a legacy he can't be faulted for, only blamed for. I've always said Henry will be an hour late for his own funeral. I have evidence!

My point? We arrived 10 minutes after they closed. I looked ahead. I don't have telepathy but I do have foresight. I didn't need to read his mind, but I could see things were not going to get any better any sooner. The next logical step was the Louisiana Welcome Center at the State line. The things I bear for my friends! Of course, the most illogical thing about this entire story is turning two miles into 100, but look who's driving. The next illogical thing is having to cross the Mississippi State Line and turn around at the Waveland, MS exit to get literature about New Orleans. If you paid me millions I couldn't be so creative to actually think this stuff up. No one would believe it anyway! But I was there . . . not really willingly, mind you, just there. (Flagellate, flagellate)

Feeder bands from Hurricane Dennis must have migrated a little north from his expected course toward the Gulf Coast. Torrents of rain fell from the sky on the Stephen Ambrose Memorial highway which spans from Louisiana into Mississippi. The hood ornament seemed to disappear in the storm. Henry successfully navigated the Mississippi/Waveland exit and turned back toward the La. stateline and Welcome Center. Everything went well until Henry murmured "I can't stop in this weather. We'll get it later." I grabbed Henry's cell phone and dialed Tommy Cortazzo, a fellow Westbank Gamer and lawyer and first timer GG'er this month.

"Will you kindly research the differences between murder and manslaughter and the resulting sentences so I can consider my best options when I return alone?" I asked calmly but resolutely.

"I'm stopping," Henry retorted snatching the phone from my death-grip.

Extreme circumstances always bring out the clearest thinking in me.

The moral of this story is this: It's much safer to hand James Miller a GPS than it is to hand Henry the keys to a car. Sure, you'll probably get hopelessly lost but it won't take you hours to do the simplest things like get literature for Gulf Games. And the brighter side is you Gulf Gamers New Orleans will benefit from my excessive flagellation of doing things above and beyond the call of rationality, reason and really spooky Jungian images dancing before my eyes. I hope y'all have a safe trip on the road to the Big Easy because I've been down that road more traveled for no good reason than to allow y'all to have the best Gulf Games so far!