Watching the Packers – Jetsons Style!

When I tell people that I’ve spent lots of time abroad they always ask me if it’s hard living so far from my family and friends for so long. In the past, before the age of the Internet, this was a tough reality of living abroad. I would go months on end w/out word from anyone.

At one point I was on tour in the United Arab Emirates and I had no fixed address for four straight months. I was also flat broke and my company screwed up the contract with our host organization leaving me penniless for the first four weeks of the stay. I had enough money for a couple of stamps so I wrote home, but my parents had no way to communicate with me at all. This period crossed over both Christmas and my birthday so I never felt more alone.

The only touchstone I had came from Armed Forces Radio. I was on a supply run in a taxi and the cabbie, a Philippine expat, told me he knew of a great station that played Western rock. He turned to AFRTS and much to my surprise, I was treated to none other than Jerome Garcia singing Touch of Gray. This was doubly surprising because, at this point, the Grateful Dead weren’t even played on American radio, let alone Abu Dhabi radio.  When Garcia blasted into the final chorus, “WE WILL GET BY!” I screamed it at the top of my voice with the cabbie manically smiling ear to ear. Them Philipinos likes 'em some crazy white boys. 

In Abu Dhabi, this guy had more spirit than I did. 

Now things couldn’t be more different. I live with two spiffy computers that can dial up any tune I want just for asking. I spend most of my waking hours on line communicating with not only with my family, but also my friends in Oregon, my friends in Dharamsala,  former business associates, drunks whom I’ve met in my neighborhood and even the children of drunks whom I’ve met in my neighborhood. It feels like I live in a weird neighborhood outside of Portland that my friends don’t know exist or else they’d come and party with me.

Just when I thought connectivity couldn’t get more ridiculous, in came the NFL playoffs. I’m guessing there might be some way to buy an NFL package in France, but it can’t be cheap, and I actually have more interesting things to do these days than watch every NFL game – which is what I do in Portland. But the Packers were on a damn fine run and one thing I NEVER miss is a Packer’s game.

The scene at Seraveza, my home Packers bar in Portland
(photo: Corky Helmer)

Over the last few games of the regular season, my Dad and my sister Sue had been Skyping games direct or recording the late night games for later playback. But this game was a huge monster play-off game and I knew everyone in the family would be watching. I come from a family replete with Internet Geeks so the challenge to get us all on line watching the game was too much to pass up.

My brother Bagus in Denver just happens to be a pioneer of the Internet, designing some of the very first commercial sites in the history of digitalia. He was selected as the hub for this operation as he has a phat-ass connection, multiple computers and a huge flat screen. Brother Andy in Ann  Arbor Michigan bought the Skype video conference package a few months earlier so we could organize a medical conference in Bangladesh having doctors from 5 different countries communicating on the same feed. Our goals weren’t as lofty this time, but actually more difficult. Bagus hooked into Andy’s account in Denver and the madness was underway.

I had gotten home from dinner with a neighbor just before 11 p.m. and tried to get a couple of hours sleep before kickoff at 2 a.m. Aix Les Bains time. With one playoff game already underway, sleep was a fruitless effort so around 12:30 I uncorked a bottle of 2010 Crozes-Hermitage and opened up both of the laptops at my disposal. Computer No. 1 was hooked up to FaceBook and the GameCast on ESPN.com while Computer No. 2, a spiffy new Samsung with a 19-inch HD screen would do the heavy lifting on Skype.

I pinged Bagus in Denver and we calmly watched the 4^th quarter of the Denver v. Baltimore game preparing for the onslaught of screens anticipated for the Packers game. He pointed one of his laptops at the flat screen and the other at him sitting comfortably in his living room with 7-year-old Tucker sharing the couch.

As game time approached, Andy pinged in from Ann Arbor and he pointed his laptop at his TV so I had split screen of the Denver game and the Packer Pre-game. It was 2 a.m. my time and I can guarantee you I was the only guy in Aix Les Bains watching split-screen NFL playoffs.  Bagus decided to reboot his operation and send out a general conference request to everyone in our family. At this point I had four screens operating on the Samsung, but we were just beginning.

Top:  Me in Aix Les Bains, Charlottesville feed , Sue in Corvallis
Bottom: Tashi in Charlottesville, Denver feed, Bagus in Denver, Barb being pinged in Milwaukee, Ann Arbor feed, William in Vermont, Molly at Yale, six people in Door County Wisconsin trying to get back in.
(Photo: Tashi Haig)  

In just seconds Andy’s two kids, Molly, a sophomore at Yale, and William an 8^th grader at a Cross Country Ski school in Vermont joined in. Screens No. 5 and 6. The ball was kicked off and we were on our way. Just a few minutes into the first quarter, another screen popped up, this one from Brother Dan in Charlottesville, Virginia. Screen No. 7, but with his daughter Tashi and wife Zoe hovering in the background we were now up to nine in our party. This oddly resembles what happens when we are all home over Christmas to watch a Packer game. I’m usually sitting in the family room with one or two people and everyone else mingles in.

Before long, William, not a football fan and in the middle of two days of Cross Country ski racing, decided to call it quits. We’d lost one screen, but not two minutes later, Andy got a call from Sister Sue in Corvallis who wanted in on the action. While Bagus scurried to add her to the conference, more requests came in. On Kangaroo Lake in Door County, Wisconsin, my Mother, Father, Sister Nari, and her two kids, Megan and Kelly were ringing on the virtual doorbell to enter in.

Andy is chomping on cheese, I'm slugging Crozet and Molly's actually being productive.
(Photo: Tashi Haig)

So we’d lost one screen, but in a quick hurry we’d picked up two more screens as well as six more participants. The Packers were playing horribly at this point, but unbelievably that didn’t seem to matter. We just wanted more screens.

But with eight nodes of varying connectivity power, we began to reach our limit. Screen’s were freezing up and audio was randomly dropping out. Everyone in the States could watch on their TV, but when the signal from Bagus or Andy dropped out, I was out of the loop. We also had the problem of broadcast delay. Dan’s TV in rural Virginia receives a digital signal over the air and he was more than 20 seconds ahead of the action on the main screen in Denver. That meant that he was screaming and booing a full play ahead of the rest of us. This got quite annoying so we asked him to point his laptop at his TV so we could all get the earliest feed. This prompted Tashi, sitting right next to him, to get her laptop and join in the party so they could do double computer duty (screen No. 9 on my Skype window).

It sounded like a great solution, but as it turns out Dan’s WiFi works great on his couch, not so great perched on a table in front of his TV. So the main screen kept freezing on us. At this point we were at nine screens and 15 people (Bagus’s friend, Tommy came in to watch in Denver) with the Packers looking horrible. But we weren’t about to quit.

The view on the flat screen in Door County, Wisconsin.
(Photo: Nari Haig)

While this was going on,  our final sister Barb (who watches most every Packer game), was at a play in Milwaukee with her Droid buzzing out of her pocket every time anyone of us would enter the conference or reboot our Skype. It would have been easy to give it up at halftime and reboot the entire system except that Tucker in Denver decided he wanted to show us his Christmas presents and that took us into the third quarter.

From time to time, my screen froze and I would have to reboot which gave me time to check out what was happening on Facebook. There I had contact with anyone I've ever known who was watching the game. I was exchanging trash talk and pleasantries with people from Hawaii, Portland, New Orleans, Seattle,  Pullman, Washington (Go Cougs!), Chicago (Go Illini! [Bears still suck!]), Colorado Springs, New York, Madison and Cleveland. Oddly enough, none of my French friends were on line? 

Into the second half we went with screens freezing, people coming and going and the Pack giving up a ridiculous amount of rushing yardage to an unheralded rookie quarterback. As we moved into the fourth quarter Colin Kaepernick, who makes $600,000 a year, out played our MVP Aaron Rogers who touches north of $8 million dollars over the same span. I loves me some Aaron Rogers, but we flat out got smoked. By the end of the night we were down to four screens – just me and my three brothers - who glumly watched a charity touchdown scored by the Pack in the final minutes. Season over.  

The big winner of the night was Molly at Yale who completely ignored the Packer game and instead drew this.

At this point, it was 5:30 a.m. in Aix Les Bains and I had devoured a massive chunk of local Blue Cheese (purchased here) along with my bottle of 2010 Crozes-Hermitage. The Crozes-Hermitage is a dust-storm dry white, rumored to have a caffeinesque kick to it. Perfect for staying up late I thought.

Mmmmmmmmm.

I crawled into bed and confessed to my lovely companion Helene that I downed an entire bottle of Crozes  during the course of my 5+ hour digital odyssey and she has yet to forgive me. She’s not angry with the amount I drank or the quality of the bottle (it ain’t cheap!). She’s just appalled I would be drinking white wine after dinner. I mean who the hell does that?

Capitaine Crip Va à Dhaka

Pour mes amis français - un court-métrage (19 minutes) à propos de mon voyage à Dhaka. Images, des sons et même une émeute!

English Version

Enculez la Bureaucratie!

With the Dalai Lama festivities in the rear view mirror it was time to get back to work on the List from Hell. I’d acquired everything needed for my Long Stay French visa so all I needed to do was present the paperwork in person to the French Embassy. There is a French office in Portland, but as far as I can tell, it’s staffed by three people who are hired for the express purpose of telling people they can’t offer any services.

I’d met the representative a few times when I worked for the Alliance Franciase de Portland and found her to be quite charming, if not a tad pompous with her official designation. I assumed they couldn’t have too much of a workload so I called them up asking them if they could help me process my visa application. After leaving three unreturned messages, I decided it would be in my best interest to knock on their door and see if anyone actually worked in the office.

When I showed up at the office a young woman came to meet me and apologized profusely for not returning my messages. This pissed me off even more since she’d heard all three messages and couldn’t once be bothered to, I don’t know, CALL ME BACK!

She then explained that the official representative of the consulate was out of town, but she could help me. Her idea of helping me was to give me completely incorrect information that would eventually make all my effort moot. She told me the office in Portland was just an adjunct office and I would have to appear in person at an official consulate with my mountain of paper work to apply for the Long Stay visa.

Not the answer I was looking for, but at least I knew what I had to do. Seeing as I was on my way to Charlottesville, only a two-hour drive from Washington D.C., I asked her if the Embassy could process my claim. “Yes,” she confidently replied. “Any of the major offices of the French government in the U.S. can handle your claim.”

I rolled out of the office and temporarily put the visa application on hold so I could concentrate on both the Portland Marathon and the gig in Charlottesville.

Before the lingering glow of the Tibetan music soiree dimmed and the hangover of the Kung Fu Fighting began, Michael, Mia and I were on our way to Washington D.C. for my 11:45 appointment with the French Embassy. Despite a 45-minute delay to deal with an incompetent copy store clerk (no, not a zitty-faced 16-year-old, but a 70-year-old moron who didn’t know how to push the ‘copy’ button on his machines) we made good time and were inside the beltway with a half hour to spare. Thanks to the advent of GPS we found the embassy on the northwest corner of Georgetown, which would have been a bitch of a task had we relied on the old paper directions method.

Looks easy - it wasn't. 

I hopped out of the car into my chair and presented my reservation to the guard at the gate who pointed me to the consular section. I entered the waiting room to find a line of mostly Africans fingering through reams of documents preparing for their audience with the French representative. Any one of these representatives could alter the path of their lives with a simple nod of their head and quick stamp of their passport.  My situation wasn’t nearly as desperate, but that same quick ‘yes’ could save me thousands of dollars and send me to France guilt-free for most of 2013.

To my surprise, my name was promptly called at 11:45 (last reservation of the week!) and I found myself face-to-face with a friendly young woman who was relieved to see me, as I had no children or business plan to present to her. Although I’m fluent in French, I learned years ago to speak English when dealing with French officials whose job it is to know English. Whereas you are much better off speaking French when trying to order a meal in Paris, speaking English at the consulate puts you in a power position. When they turn to their colleagues and speak in French, they don't realize you understand what they're saying. 

The woman looked over my paperwork, smiled and told me everything (All 22 pages of documents!!) was in order. All she needed was my passport and my proof of residency – which in my case was my Oregon Driver’s License. I looked at the clock which had not yet reached noon and thought to myself, in just a few minutes I’m going to be lunching at some hipster politico café in Georgetown with visa in hand waiting for Helene to wake up in Aix Les Bains to tell her the good news. Damn, these Frenchies are E-Fish-Ant!

The woman took one look at my driver’s license and shook her head. “I’m sorry Mr. Haig,” she said, “But you live in Oregon correct?

“Yes, that’s right. Oregon.”

“But that is in the Western District…”

“Yes, and…”

“And here we can only process applicants for the Eastern United States. You’ll have to go to your consulate -  in San Francisco.”

“But I don’t live in San Francisco – I live in Portland – that’s 600 miles away! It would be like telling you to drive to Chicago from here.”

“I’m sorry Mr. Haig, but we cannot verify your address from this location. They can only do that in San Francisco.

“Can we call San Francisco? Can we call the office in Portland – I’ve got their number on my phone. I was just there last week.”

“No sir, I’m sorry. We cannot process this here. You must go to San Francisco – but the good news is that your paperwork is in order and we have no reason to refuse you.”

“But I can’t go to San Francisco – I won’t even be home for two more weeks…”

With me still pleading, the window closed and the woman was off to calmly dejuner, probably at my hipster politico café in Georgetown, without the slightest pangs of guilt over what she’d just delivered me. It’s what French officials do. They give you shit – and loads of it – because they can.

This of course, was information the functionaire (derogatory French word for a government worker) in Portland could have relayed to me. Not only did she do nothing, she was actually incompetent at doing nothing.

Michael, Mia and I did eventually eat at a Georgetown hipster café (no West Wing politics being spoken – just RGIII talk) and we spent an excellent afternoon at the National Gallery adjacent to the Capitol building.

When we got back to Charlottesville, I went on line and scheduled ANOTHER visa appointment, this time in San Francisco just three days after I would get back home – which wouldn’t be for another ten days.  Flights were quite expensive so I planned on road-tripping down upon my return and hanging out with friends in the Bay Area for a few days before packing my bags for France.

When I finally got back to Portland, I found that SouthWest was having a huge sale and the prices dropped down to $125 round trip – much cheaper than gas plus wear and tear on my van.  I was just about to lay down my credit card number on a flight when I decided I’d better call the consulate in San Francisco and see if they had actually received my reservation. Although I’d signed up for the spot, I’d never received the confirmation letter needed to enter the building.

I called and waited and called and waited and left a message and called and waited and left a message on their English line then called and waited and waited and called then left a message on their French line then waited then called. Then I went to bed.

The next day I called and waited and called and waited and left a message and called and waited and left a message on their English line then called and waited and waited and called then left a message on their French line then waited then called and FINALLY – got a real person! Who put me on hold. Forever.  

But while the one line was on hold, I used another phone and this time found that same live person and finally got to ask them, “I just want to know if I’ve got an appointment or not? PLEASE!!”  

“Did you make it on line?”

“YES, YES! I made it on line!”

“Oh no – that system [the only one available] doesn’t work. Something with the computers. I can get you an appointment for Wednesday the twenty-first?”

Wednesday the twenty first was the day before Thanksgiving – which wouldn’t be that bad except that I would be leaving three days after Thanksgiving and the visa takes three weeks to process.

This time, I closed the window on them. I really wanted to slam down a receiver, but instead I was forced to angrily tap ‘end call’ on my Droid – which was about as satisfying as hooking a shrimp in a bass contest.

And now I sit in France on a short-stay visa knowing that I have to leave Europe at the end of February.

Fuk.

Captain Crip Goes to Dhaka

We're going to have to jump ahead a bit in the scenario, but I've been working on this short little film and I can't wait to show it. We'll get back to the regular blog as soon as I finish the French version of the film!

French Version

Captain Crip Goes to Dhaka

His Holiness and Carl Douglas

Normally after a night where musicians gather from all over the States for a one-off gig, the post-party is fairly ridiculous. But seeing as His Holiness was speaking early the next morning, we packed up our wares and headed back into the Piedmont for a bit of rest before a long, long day.

For most of us the show was over, but Techung and Rinzing still had to perform for a big crowd at the Charlottesville Pavilion.  Dan and Zoe had become the epicenter of the ticket market and were up early making sure everyone had a seat and no ticket went wasted. They were downtown early to catch His Holiness’s first act at the Paramount Theatre in front of a group of University of Virginia Medical School faculty and several experts in holistic medicine. Earlier in the year, Dan organized a conference on Tibetan Medicine in Charlottesville and works with the Arura Tibetan Medicine group.

Photo from Bill Emory of the Charlottesville Hook

The session was televised live on Virginia Public Television so Michael, Mia, Techung, Rinzing and I watched from the comfort of Earlysville while the panel nervously tried to act cool in front of His Holiness.  The speakers on the dais choked over long prepared statements after which the Dalai Lama politely praised them for their efforts.  

Back in Earlysville, we packed up two cars and prepared to meander through the narrow winding country roads to the outskirts of Charlottesville. Although a relatively small town of 45,000, Charlottesville is comprised of overgrown carriage streets that wind around forests, hills and one of the oldest universities in the Western world. It seems like none of them ever go straight, but if you can decipher the four or five main arteries, your chances are fairly good that you’ll end up where you’re going. The locals think nothing of it, but I spent six weeks hopelessly lost in 2010 before finally being able to find Earlysville at the end of each day.

The Tibtans piled their instruments into one car and took off with the sage guidance of a GPS. Michael, Mia and I loaded into Michael’s car with me reassuring them that I knew where we were going. I did know where we were going, but that didn’t mean that I actually knew how to get there. I directed them on a circuitous route past Thomas Jefferson’s famous rotunda at the end of the University of Virginia Lawn, and then promptly made a wrong turn that diverted us into some ancient neighborhoods surrounding the downtown mall.

Some well-planned tourist signs got us back on track and it wasn’t long before we had an extremely lucky parking spot not 200 yards from the Charlottesville Pavilion. Zoe met us in line and after a confusing exchange of texts and phone calls; everyone made it through security and positioned ourselves on blankets in the grass at the back of the Pavilion. It was a gorgeous 70-degree day and before any of the performers took the stage, most of the audience was in shirt sleeves basking in the fall Virginia sun.

Charlottesville Pavilion

My niece, Tashi, and her friends got to ditch school to be with us and we also weren't far from the other members of Jam Thicket and their families. Victor strolled over before the performances and told me he’s worked with the sound crew the city was using. “They don’t know what the hell they’re doing,” he said. “We won’t be able to hear shit.”

Tristan was decked out in his finest subcontinent formal wear, but he wasn't even close to being best dressed. After a speech by Satyendra Huja, the mayor of Charlottesville, (coincidentally born in Nainital, India, less than 200 miles from Dharamsala), representatives from the Red Crooked Sky Dance Troupe took the stage in full ceremonial dress for a fiery dance that transfixed the crowd.

Photo from Bill Emory of the Charlottesville Hook

It was a tough act to follow, but the crowd came to see Tibetan culture and we were just stoked to be with the band. Techung and Rinzing were announced and although we wanted to hoot it up, we just politely applauded like the rest of the reserved crowd. Thank god there were large video screens so we could see them because we definitely could not hear them. We later discovered the sound on the telecast was incredible, but live it was nearly inaudible. I know Rinzing was there because I could see him on stage. But the crowd was ripped off because those two can really play. Not only couldn’t we hear them, they only let them play three numbers. After they went off stage to polite applause, we sat and listened to twenty minutes of canned music waiting for His Holiness to arrive. The organizers had two of the greatest Tibetan musicians alive just dying to play and they opted for a couple of CDs.

Finally after His Holiness had a special audience with local Tibetan school kids, he made his way onto the stage for the usual awkward Western reception. I’ve seen the Dalai Lama three times in the U.S. and the crowds just don’t know what to do. The atmosphere before he appears is the same as that of a rock concert. Everybody’s in a great mood, laughing, visiting old friends, playing games; kids are having a field day in the grass. Then when he shows up they don’t know whether to scream like it’s Keith Richards or stand in awe like it’s the second coming (14th in his case). So you end up with a few gasps, some applause and a bunch of people bowing with their hands pressed together. Most of these people are from Christian backgrounds, not Buddhists, so they kind of fall into a church-like reverence. I’ve never been to a mega-church, but I kind of got that feeling at the Pavilion.

Unfortunately Warren was spot on with his thrashing of the sound company. Everyone seated on the grass was leaning forward, some (including me) with their hands cupped around their ears trying to put together his stories. Normally he’s more of a stand-up act than a rabble-rouser and you really hate to miss his jokes because he loves making his point with humor. At one point the crowd broke up in laughter and I missed the joke completely. As it turns out, he was working kind of blue. Take a listen to the audio on the Charlottesville Hook’s website. I think he was trying to say “Forget it!”, but as sure as can be, he said, “Fuck it!”

His Holiness spoke for a little less than an hour and by the last fifteen minutes we could hear without straining too much. After the talk the crowd spilled into the downtown mall in a more familiar-post concert atmosphere took over. The big chalk graffiti wall just west of the Pavilion was full of messages of peace, respect and non-violence. The Native Americans stayed in the ceremonial dress and continued to talk to anyone interested about their culture and their struggle.

Hangin' at the chalk wall w/my bro Tristan.
(photo by Zoe Krylova)> 

After twenty minutes, Techung and Rinzing appeared in our midst and we greeted them with hero’s welcomes. They said the sound on stage was as difficult as it was in the audience, but after their first two numbers they had it straightened out. I asked Techung if he was disappointed they couldn’t play more and he said, “No, this wasn’t our show, it was His Holiness’s” I don’t know about you, but if I ever get to play in front of 5000 people and they kick me off the stage for house music, I don’t think I’m going to take it as well!

We split into different groups and tried to remember who was riding with whom back to Earlysville. I ended up hitching a ride back with Techung and Rinzing, but it wasn’t exactly a direct route. They had picked up a hitch hikre on her way into town and the woman was looking for a ride out to Ligmincha Buddhist Retreat Center overlooking the Rockfish River Valley, 30 minutes south of Charlottesville. Dan lives 30 minutes north of town, so this trip was going to add nearly an hour to our drive. At first I thought it would be a drain, but I quickly changed my attitude and went along for the ride. None of us had to be anywhere at any time so it ended up being a glorious little sojourn into the Virginia Hills. Once we got to the Center we took a quick tour and were amazed at the natural tranquility of the compound. We were surrounded by leaves in fall color and, from our perch, we could see ridge after ridge of mountains. On the way back the three of us talked about everything from the Tebetan Youth Congress to LeBron James. By the time we finally got to Earlysville I was ten times more charged up than when I’d left.

photo c/o www.lingmincha.org

And that seemed to be the attitude around the house. As Zoe prepared a huge feast we all cracked into our beers and started the party that was delayed 24 hours by the morning responsibilities. As the beer flowed and the food went down, we slowly started strumming guitars until four or five axes were in hand. We were singing anything anybody knew or could find on the Internet.

As the evening went on and liquor did it’s best to detune our vocals, Michael decided it was time for a rousing version of Kung Fu Fighting. He said it at first as a joke, but within a few minutes we had a house full of 70’s idiots blasting it out: Whooo ohhh ohhh ohhhh… Whooo ohhh ohhh ohhhh…  Everybody was Kung Fu Fighting!!”

And of course Rinzing had the lead down perfectly on his first pass. I was dying to get Techung to blast into the vocal, but he wisely sat back and let me make a fool of myself.

And yes, it was recorded and yes, I will kill if it is ever posted on YouTube!