February 2, 2009: Between Cabrillo and Balboa, San Franciso, CA

He jogged from house to house attaching menus for a local pizza restaurant on to each door handle with a snap of a rubber band. It took him less than three seconds to advertise pizzas (with such cryptic names as "Green & White Tandoori " and "White Sauce Special"), more or less continuing his jog, never missing a beat.

I walked my usual gait alongside him for nearly ten blocks, trying to discern his age (graying and saggy, though with a glow) and his nationality (certainly Eastern European, uncertainly Polish). He wore a matching track jacket and pants, red with yellow and white stripes down the sides, which could be the colors for some formerly Communist country, but I couldn't say whose. On his shoulder he carried a small nylon bag with the same colors, most likely filled with innumerable menus like the stack he held in his hand.

At first, it seemed as if he was running in slow motion, so purposeful were his movements. But then I realized after a few blocks that his pace quickened. A thin film of sweat formed on his brow and his thinning hair flopped and fell to one side of his head or the other.

I picked up my pace too. We were racing down the block, although I don't know if he knew it. He certainly heard the click of my boot heels, but he choose instead to look straight ahead of him, at the next door to overcome.

At last we reached a point where he turned a corner and I continued on. He finally acknowledged me, smiling broadly, his wrinkles forming in the corners of his eyes.

"There's always one more door!" he said, running away from me. "There are doors everywhere in this city!"

"It's a good job to get a run in, isn't it?" I said.

"I'm always running!" he yelled. "Always!"

January 25th, 2009: Some house in the East End, Portland, ME

Four or five punk chicks with ripped-up leather skirts and jackets, with chrome-studded lips and distinctly-dyed hair, sit in a clutch sniffing mittens--honest-to-God mittens--on some house-show living room couch, noses to the wool and rabbit-eyed when we catch them in the act.

June 29th, 2007: Strange Maine, Portland, ME

The awkward loudness of his voice—the lank, sweaty hair in his eyes—his laughter like a bucket kicked down the stairs—his seemingly unstoppable ability to lead all threads of conversation back to Star Trek or things of its ilk—his flinching eyes—his obvious discomfort among strangers—his obvious discomfort among friends—his stutter and his shakes: all of it melts away when he steps up with his guitar and his pre-recorded backing band, when the electronic kick-drum starts pounding in double time, when he glares down at the strings of his axe and starts to fucking shred man, huge theatrical riffs that make Iron Maiden and Savatage look like a bunch of melodramatic sissies plinking second-hand Fenders in some dad’s garage, and when he finally looks up to make unwavering eye-contact with all eight or so of us and sings straight and unadorned stories that remind us again why dragons have been and always will be awesome, it becomes clear that this kid’s in his element, that this is the only place he can be himself—with these songs, with these licks—this is the only way he can look anyone in the eye, that this is his only chance to be free.

This is his only chance to be free. He knows this. He rides that horse until its legs are bloody stumps.