It's the red line to city center in the capitol of the world, and a man and a woman to match from every state of the Union are crammed in. There's a man in a ripped up suit sitting on the floor by the train doors and the suit used to be worth a lot of money, you can tell. Sloooooowly, he reaches into his suit pocket and pulls out a harmonica, and starts to blow, really blow on that thing, long mournful sexy tunes in every key, until all the women are sitting around his feet, staring at him. The men are examining his haircut.

The harmonica player is from a small town jail and is trying to make it in the big house now, the federal house, but he can't afford harmonica lessons and he's wearing the only clothes he owns. But still, the women want him and the men, well the men don't want to be him they just want to punch his fucking teeth out till he makes kazoo sounds any time he wants to talk. There's a crescendo to all this, the train moving faster, the music blowing harder all the time, until the whole train is pregnant, until the tipping point is just one note away and almost assuredly, something, something BIG, is about to happen.

But all the businessmen and women get off at Dupont and Farragut North, and the tourists get off at the Metro Center and Union Station, and so the man ends up in Glenmont, blowing his heart out to an empty train.

Labels: Stories

It's South Carolina in 1997, near the coast, on the Hurricane Evacuation Route. They aren't evacuating anyone right now, but they're thinking about it pretty hard. The wind is moving the driving rain horizontally, so that trying to see anything is like looking through a pair of plantation shutters. A mile and a half off of any drivable road, a pair of invisible eyes is doing just that, peering out into the darkness from inside the darkness of the old Hamilton Plantation Home.

South Carolina is covered with "Plantation Homes," so quoted because they aren't exactly real. They're homes in the style of that time, but without their history. Not the Hamilton Plantation. There aren't any golf courses outside its windows, or artificial ponds. There is a swamp, filled with mud, overgrown by vines, the same kind that have wound their way up the home's front pillars, peeling the paint off chip by chip.

Inside one of the "Plantation Homes" you'll usually find expensive, brand-new furniture, painstakingly crafted to look like it's antique. In the Hamilton Home, there are a few cracked and splintered desks and chairs left, but most of it has been looted, its windows smashed in. The shutters covering the shards still clinging to the window frames suddenly snap open, smacking against the crumbling bricks to either side. The slats in the shutters break and fall to the ground. Whatever may have been peering through them disappears. It is not a ghost: not exactly. But this place is haunted.

Labels: Stories

"And I gotta get a move on before the sun, I hear my baby calling my name and I know that she's the only one, and if I die in Raleigh at least I will die free."
---Old Crow Medicine Show, "Wagon Wheel"


I pulled the curtains aside in Wilmington this morning and actually gasped: outside was the first clear blue sky we've seen on the road since leaving, almost a month ago. The air was crisp, and mountain-y, and it was hard not to smile even though there was a six hour journey into America's third worst traffic snarl ahead of us. It was one of those times, I've had a few on the trip, where I just felt full, of everything, life, the world, the country, the people. It's a feeling I get sometimes when I've written for several hours without taking a break. I'll stand up and walk outside, and it's like I can sense every leaf on the tree in our patio, every feather on the brown doves that sit on the fences. It's beautiful.



With that feeling in my chest, we rolled through the lush and flowery hills of Virginia, stopping in Raleigh to take a few laps around the state capitol building, surrounded by statues and parks and museums. We'd like to spend more time there, some time far into the future. Then it was back on and rolling, smiling at all the Obama signs and art we saw, and happy that our Obama sticker was being seen by people who'll be voting in a very meaningful election coming up. The plan was to drive straight to DC, but we ended up stopping at the Poe Museum in Richmon, VA, which I'm pretty sure I'm happy we did. The exhibits were strange (although Poe in Comics was awesome, and I bought the catalog), but the whole place seemed very Poe-y. Doors led nowhere, a staircase ended in dead air, and a sense of gothic history hung over the whole place. Even the gift shop.



Then we pressed north, getting into the DC area right around rush hour. Holy shit. First traffic we've seen since Chicago, and it caught me off guard, for sure. Thank God we were just driving around the edges, to Rockville, the northern suburb where we're staying. I shudder to think what it was like closer to downtown. Rockville is convenient; there are hotels here that aren't unreasonable, and the red line makes it a fast twenty or thirty minute trip to the Hill. The real reason we're staying here, though, is that it's where the family plot of the F. Scott Fitzgerald—my favorite American author—is located.

We got in too late to go see it during the day, so we set out to search for St. Mary's Church around 9 at night. When we found it, the whole thing was shut down, so we parked, ran around the cemetery looking for the best place to hop in, and then climbed the fence, wandering around in the dark for ten minutes before we found Fitz and Zelda's marker, adjacent to his parents and Scotty's. It was a really cool experience: I've never snuck into a cemetery, and never been in one after dark, but both seem like things Fitz and Zelda would have approved of a young couple doing. The only truly scary moment is when a cop car drove by with his siren and search light on, and we had to duck behind Fitz's marker to hide. I left with a happy (and even fuller) heart, and a blade of grass that I pulled from under the slab covering his grave (the inscription is the last line of Gatsby, by the way).



A great day given that we had nothing interesting planned for it. Tomorrow and the day after are both going to be spent in DC, so I'm not going to blog about it until Thursday night. Sorry, Dan and Conor and my mom!

Also, lookit how far we've come! Over 6,000 miles today, and the trip now accounts for a full quarter of the miles on my car!



Also, read Shar Blarg!

Next up: We've all come to look for America!

Labels: Generalness, Road Trip

When Lisa Dodinger opened Myrtle Beach's first chiropractic office, twenty years ago, the town folk said she was crazy. "That's just kook medicine," they said. "Nobody here is stupid enough to go to a trumped up masseuse parlor." They told her that her rates were too high, and her promises of a pain-free existence trumped up and false. But then Bill Bahooney, a local, threw his shoulder out of whack when trying to get a big drive off the fourteenth tee at Shady Peace River Hollow, the hole that's four hundred fifty yards of water hazard with a thin landing strip of grass down the middle.

Bill, whose wife was one of the last remaining townies still on speaking terms with Lisa (who'd always been a bit nuts), got him to go see her, out of sympathy. Bill was afraid of what people would say if they heard, but he was a kind man who always did what his wife said (often to his detriment) and so he made, and kept, an appointment. Of course, Lisa did wonders for him, and Bill, a respected pillar of the community, began recommending her.

She treated Todd Selman's wrenched back—a victim of Quiet Stills' second hole; Marie Selman's bad neck—a victim of looking to see what had made her husband cry out; and all manner of tourist injuries—victims, mostly, of the mini golf courses, overeager seniors who had tried to climb a fake volcano, or young children who had tried to scale a Tyrannosaurus Rex at one of the dinosaur courses. Lisa has become a Myrtle Beach institution, wealthy beyond her dreams. She's even thinking of opening a chiropractic-themed miniature golf course, where you have to putt the ball off knots of muscle tension and avoid the fusing vertebrae to get it in the hole.

Labels: Stories

"Men might as well project a voyage to the Moon as attempt to employ steam navigation against the stormy North Atlantic Ocean."
---Dr. Dionysys Lardner

After all the crazy business of the last few days, we were looking forward to today. The plan was to take a nice leisurely drive up the coast, stopping to splash around in the Atlantic from time to time, and end up somewhere in North Carolina. Which is more or less what we did, actually. The drive was smooth and scenic, and stress-free (with the exception of the time an NC state trooper tailed me for three miles, presumably for having a CA license plate). The Carolina coast is not at all like what we think of as coastal, since it's basically forests, then a few yards of sand, and then the Atlantic Ocean. Today was warm but cloudy, and we managed to find a few abandoned beaches to walk around on.



Then we hit Myrtle Beach. Myrtle Beach, my God. If you didn't know (and we didn't and why would you?), Myrtle Beach is the miniature golf capitol of the world. It's supposedly the regular golf capitol too, but that's less impressive, for obvious reasons. There are over fifty mini golf courses, and so we decided to pull off…at JURASSIC GOLF! Yes! For a full rundown as well as highlights, read the Post Sports site over the next few weeks, but please enjoy this picture. That's right, we played golf under a T-Rex. Because that's what you do in Myrtle Beach.



After that, we just got into Wilmington as fast as we could, pausing briefly to check out Cape Fear and its lighthouse. Then, for dinner, we had Ruby Tuesday, and are currently sitting in our hotel room, bellies full of steak, watching the Hawks piss away a great first half in the third quarter, and hoping they can turn it around in the fourth. Tomorrow begins the long period of insane Northeast driving, so we're sponging up all the lazy happiness we can.



EDIT: Also, just found out we randomly missed Obama in Wilmington today, after seeing a commercial of him on TV. Weird!
Tomorrow: DC

Labels: Generalness, Road Trip

The camera is suspended in the sky, staring down at the ground. All you can see right now are treetops, but then it zooms in, speeds west, until you're flying IMAX-style down a highway, with roadkill and curled tire tread snakes lining the pavement. You zip along for a while, in the shadow of immense clouds high above you, and then you pull back, soaring along the tops of the forest as below you the trees grow a hundred and fifty years younger, till you can see armies marching through them, and strange fruit hanging from their branches.

The camera moves in again, dodging between trees as the forest grows younger and younger, by another fifty years. You come to a river, and a procession of men and women, all dressed in loose, cheap white sheets. Their heads are bare, and they are marching into the river, where a man dressed in black is taking them by the forehead and dunking them, then lifting them up and throwing them onto their backs, where they float. You do not know what is going on, but one by one, as they spring up from the water, the men and the women stare straight up, right at the camera, and right at you.

The sun breaks through the clouds behind you, and everything lights up. The trees get greener, the grass does too, and the sheets on the men and the women reflect a brilliant pure white up at you. But the water just gets clearer.

Labels: Stories

"Georgia, Georgia the whole day through."
---"Georgia on My Mind"

Sorry, I know that's a boring quote, but today is the first day of driving since we left California that we woke up and went to bed in the same state, here on the exact opposite end of the country from Long Beach. Today was yet another one of those perfect days we've been in the habit of having lately. Our first stop, early on a Sunday morning post-thunderstorm, was the MLK Jr. National Historical Site in Atlanta. I've been minorly obsessed with MLK since I was assigned to write an essay about him in second grade, so I was pretty excited. Shar and I visited the Civil Rights Museum in Memphis on our last road trip—it's built around the hotel and balcony where King was killed, and it's just as weird as you'd expect. This was different, though.



As a National Historic Site, the entire thing was free to the public, and twice while we were walking around, I turned to Shar and said, "Our government has a responsibility to build places like this." The whole Site is about four square blocks, with some community buildings (a natatorium and library) and some more King-centric buildings. The first housed a few different well-designed exhibits. In one room, I started crying while reading letters sent from American schoolkids to King's daughter after his assassination. "Your father was like a father to me," wrote one first grader. "I am sorry that we lost him." Behind us was the carriage that carried his casket to burial; it was made of wood, and looked like it was falling apart. This look was intentionally chosen to represent King's work with the impoverished.

I can't really describe how powerful all the different exhibits and buildings were. It peeled back the layer of idealized glaze that's been poured over his legacy, and reminded me what made King extraordinary. With only the power of words and will, he helped completely change this country. During his life, he was one of the most feared men in America, and he died because some people found his message of peace and determination to be disgusting. He knew he would die. He said as much. But it didn't matter to him. Outside was the church he pastored in (just across from it, its newer branch was letting out from Sunday services), and, floating in a pool next to it, was he and his wife's tomb. Inside the King Center we saw handwritten letters, clothes King marched in, the jacket he was wearing when he was stabbed, and a cool Gandhi exhibit as well. I could go on, but it's one of those experiences that probably doesn't translate to bloguage very well. I believe it should be a required American pilgrimage.



The drive to Savannah, Georgia was peaceful and relaxing, with more of the southern forests that we've become accustomed to. We pulled into Savannah early, around three, found a hotel quickly (the historic Promenade on the riverfront), and immediately headed out to explore the city. It's truly unique, and maybe my favorite city we've visited, seriously. It's the South, without the ugly parts, and with way more rainbow flags, Catholic churches, and Jewish Temples. And it's in Georgia. Scattered throughout the city are dozens of little square parks, with statues at their center, bordered by hundreds of amazing buildings with classic architecture (and by classic I mean pre-revolutionary classic).



Also scattered around are the various buildings that comprise the Savannah College of Art and Design, or SCAD. The SCAD kids are huge there, with various plays performing all over town, style shows, street art festivals, and one or two art galleries every block for two square miles. If they have an MFA program, I'm definitely applying. I have no words for this place. It's relaxing, inspiring, and beautiful, with enormous trees and year-round perfect weather. After walking around for three hours, we headed down to the river and walked up and down the cobblestone path, until settling on a river-view restaurant where I had an amazing smokehouse burger, polished off with a Southern Strawberry Shortcake.

Then we went to the candy factory, where taffy literally fell from the sky, and there were barrels, yes BARRELS, of every kind of candy ever. Also, we heard people humming Decemberists songs a few times today. Dan says he thinks it's a sign. I think it's further proof that Savannah, Georgia, might very well be paradise. We've got a ton more photos than we're posting, and believe me, you'll want to see them when we get back.



Oh, and thanks to Ryan for suggesting we go, because otherwise why in the hell would we have thought to go to Savannah, Georgia?

Also, today we went over 5,000 miles. That's a lot of miles. Here's what it looks like more or less (side trips and junk aren't really included). Georgia is our seventeenth state.



Next up: The Carolina coast, ending in Michael Jordan's hometown. If you know what it is without looking it up, I'll buy you a Coke.

Labels: Generalness, Road Trip

She's staying in a Hilton with her husband, and when she stays in a Hilton with her husband, she expect certain things from him, things which, while he's drooling on the pillow next to her, he is incapable of delivering. In the rooms around them, horny young rich kids are losing their virginity post-Prom, the symphony of nervous giggles and squealing mattresses grating harder and harder on her nerves. Her husband snores on and on, and she goes to sleep wearing the lingerie she'd bought for the occasion, unsure if she's more enraged or depressed.

Labels: Stories

"Got fuel to burn, got roads to drive."
---Neil Young

YEEEEEAAAAAAAH! Now THAT was a day. We woke up late and rested in Memphis and took off east, driving across the whole breadth of Mississippi and Alabama. In the latter, I nearly ran out of gas and had to stop off in small town Alabama. And I mean small, as in "no signs advertising gas on the highway because they really don't want you there" small. As in two Alabamans sizing up my Honda, sandals, beard, and Kabuki shirt as I walked in the door, while another sat outside staring at my wife. As in every other car in this town was a Ford, because Chevrolet sounds a little French. We survived, by how little I'll never know.

But Alabama and Georgia were stunning, so green and forested that we spent much of the seven hour drive to Atlanta gaping (and glad to avoid the thunderstorms that went nuts in Memphis after we were in for the night, that are again raging outside our window).



We also passed the Talladega Speedway, where there randomly happened to be a NASCAR race today (this happens twice a year, so it was kind of weird). There were literally a half million people in the stadium and in RVs around it. It was very scary.



Atlanta seems actually really cool, what we've seen of it. We staying in Midtown which is nice, and was a convenient four MARTA stops from the PHILIPS Arena, which we headed to at 6 to see the Celtics smash up the Hawks in an NBA Playoff game. That was not, in fact, what we ended up seeing, as the Hawks rolled to maybe the most surprising upset of the playoffs. Really unbelievable; the entire city was chanting as we came out of the Arena, and our subway was filled with grinning, sweaty fans on the way home. Quite an experience. Tomorrow we're going to try to see a little more of the city before making the (shorter) drive to Savannah.



If you want to read (much) more about how great the game was, I'm writing it up for the LB Post Sports, where you can also read about curling, close softball fields in Salinas, and watching women's basketball in Billings, Montana.

Also, read Shar's Blarg!

Next up: We'll see if Ryan is full of shit about Savannah!

Labels: Generalness, Road Trip

She works at the Ben & Jerry's on Delmar in the Loop, University City, St. Louis Missouri. She's from Southern Illinois and gave college a go in St. Louis partly because she thought she might take to it, but mostly to get the hell out of her home town. There are seventeen piercings in her head, sixteen of them filled with a stud, one left open because of an infection still healing. Her hair is ninety shades of red and forty kinds of tangled, tucked under her black Ben & Jerry's cap.

She dropped out of college because she didn't end up taking to it, the way she never really took to anything. Starvation and homelessness weren't enough to drive her back home, so she settled in, took the job selling ice cream because they let her listen to music, and faded, slowly but surely, into the background of the college shopping district.

She is, and has been since she was 14, waiting for something. Not even she knows what it is. But there is one thought that makes her smile. One day, she'll be at work, scooping, The Roots on in the background, and someone will come in, and smile, and start rapping along with her. She has no idea what this person will look like, if they'll be a student or a tourist, or even if they'll be a man or a woman. But she thinks it would be nice to know someone understood.

Labels: Stories

"I'm going to…Memphis, Tennessee."
---Paul Simon, "Graceland"
"I'm…in Memphis."
---"Walking in Memphis"
"What's funnier than journalistic ellipsical omission jokes?"
---Me, earlier today

What a day! We had a nice leisurely morning packing up in St. Louis and saying goodbye to my aunt, and then trotted down to the car to head out, only to discover a very, very dead battery. After some steering wheel-punching, we got a very friendly and helpful AAA guy out (is there any other kind) to jump start us. He was actually a battery diagnostic specialist, and would have been prepared to sell and install a new battery on the spot, except that (thank God) his meter showed that the battery should be fine after the jump. I think I'd rather drive uninsured than without AAA, furreal.

So, relieved and only an hour off schedule, we headed south of St. Louis to…Metropolis, Illinois, the hometown of Superman! Never mind that Superman's actual hometown is Smallville, this place was amazing. We got to it by driving through a ton of rural roads in Southern Illinois which, if you've never been there, is very much the south. They were actually pretty flooded from the recent insane storms, so we had to drive carefully. We missed our chance to get a photo of the bus with water halfway up it, but this should serve to illustrate what was up:



Metropolis itself is nearly indescribable. Huge men in trucks and very red necks had Supes stickers on the F150s, and the comics love was spread wide and far, from the Kryptonite Piercing and Tattoo Parlor to the Daily Planet newspaper office. The main attraction is the really cool statue in the middle of the town, which we mugged with for a bit before checking out the Superman Museum, which featured everything from the movies' flying harnesses to an actual copy of Action Comics #1, which I'd never seen. We also got a Batman sticker autographed by Bob Kane for fifteen dollars. This is ridiculous, as a few of you will know.



We managed to pry ourselves away and headed down through Kentucky on more rural roads, taking in what Holly last night called, "America's last indigenous culture." I have to agree. Really a unique experience and locale that I won't write too much about, because I plan on harvesting it for stories over the next week.

We crisscrossed from Kentucky back to Missouri and into Arkansas, before crossing the Mississipi (for the third or fourth time today) to get into Tennessee and Memphis, where we're staying tonight. Tennessee is gorgeous, I can't believe how many trees there are. Memphis is practically a forest. The weather was mostly nice, if a bit humid, and the thunderstorm that randomly descended on us for a half hour was a mild one compared to the rest of the region's activity today. Plus we drove into it with Journey blaring loudly, fully soaking in the South and its ridiculousness.

Memphis is great, and it reminds me a lot of Long Beach. Its size and layout are kind of similar, and it reaffirmed my belief that if Long Beach were in the middle of Iowa or somewhere away from LA, it would be nationally-known and have at least two of the major four sports leagues playing in its borders. Alas.

We were going to stay in this really cool French Quarter hotel, but it was fully booked by a party Vivica A. Fox was throwing, so instead we headed to the east (ie, really rich) side of town where we're currently holed up in a Hilton. Deluxe room in Memphis: 100 buck. Why do we live in SoCal again?



Our bed is luxurious and our view ridiculous, so I'm logging off now to go enjoy all of that. Tomorrow is going to be great, we're driving to Atlanta and we're going to watch the Hawks get drummed by the Celtics in NBA playoff basketball! So excited!

Don't forget to read Shar's blarg, which is splendiferous.

Also, congrats to Ryan on being quoted in Slate! Awesome!

Next up: Doin' the Dirty Bird.

Labels: Generalness, Road Trip

"The wheel in the sky keeps on turning; I don't know where I'll be tomorrow."
---Journey



Shar did a great job of summing up how wonderful today was on her blog, so I'm not going to write much. It's been great to see my awesomest aunt, Holly, and St. Louis was wonderful to us today. I met a man from San Diego with an enormous Chargers tatt on his arm, had ice cream twice, and got to see my car, which I'm happy to report still runs.

Err…yeah. We're trying to decide where to go tomorrow (looks like we'll plot three routes and then decide in the car), so I'm going to leave it at that.

Except to also say: There is no greater joy than being young, surrounded by other young people, and having a beautiful girl hold your hand and smile at you.

Next up: Who knows?

Labels: Generalness, Road Trip

In one of the stout brick meeting halls on campus, in between the Collegiate Society For the Elimination of the Penny, and the Collegiate Society For the Total Abolishment of Those Little Hairs People Leave on Soap Bars, the first meeting of a brand new Collegiate Society was taking place: The Collejyit Societye For the Reintroduction of Nonstandardized Spelleeng. The Societye was unusual for two reasons: first, the misspellings in its title, and second, because it was the college's first group whose goal was to create something, and not eliminate it. Its chair, the preeminent student, Alex Hudson, presided. Alex was, naturally, an English Literature major.

"My friends, as many of you know, some of our greatest writers, including old man Shakespeare himself, wrote in the times before the English language was standardized, when no spelling was the right spelling, when grammar was up for grabs, and when language served its primary purpose: to communicate. Not to be a series of rules that must be adhered to. Teachers taught great literature to young children instead of drilling them on rote memorization, young scholars could craft poetry in their books, instead of parsing sentences they already intuitively understand. Fellow students, it was a golden age."

The building's thick wooden door slammed open with a THUNK, and the imposing frame of Dr. Peck stepped in. Peck was the department chair, and as such Alex Hudson's greatest friend and enemy. There was an audible gasp. "Mr. Hudson, are you really about to suggest that these students all get Cs on their term papers, just so you can justify your inability to learn the difference between further and farther as a literary movement?"

Alex Hudson smiled.

Labels: Stories

Day Fifteen: Headin Back Out
Alright, here we go! America, round two!

We popped out of bed, enthusiastic and bright-eyed at 6:30 this morning…or rather I shoved Shar out of bed so I could sleep another ten minutes while she showered. Anyway, my Mom gave us a ride to the airport like a champ, we breezed through Long Beach security, and we were off. A two hour flight to Salt Lake, an hour layover, a four hour flight to Cincinnati, an hour layover, and an hour and a half flight to St. Louis later, and here we are, twelve hours later, at my aunt Holly's super amazing house, which we might decide is vacation enough for the next three weeks. There is room aplenty, and the company (cats included) can't be beat.

Thoughts on the day: The rudest woman in the world sat in front of us on the way from LB to SLC. I fully understand that when your hair is braided, it hurts to have it smushed against an airplane seat (I imagine when it's rubber banded (literally) it's even worse), but that doesn't particularly give you the right to shove your weave and ridiculously smelly hair through the seat crack and into my cran-apple juice. Seriously. We wanted to be mad at her, but it was way too funny, and I ended up literally shoving her back through the crack with our atlas, which we were using to try and figure out a route. Still looking for suggestions…

Also, Cincinnati, which I've always associated with the Bengals and all the negative connotations that come along, is really nice. Trees everywhere, lots of good food in the airport, and flight attendants who will let you pee before the plane takes off even if they do try and give you a dirty look.

Tomorrow we're going to de-jet lag, figure out a rough route, and see some of St. Louis while we're here, and I'm going to attempt to win over Jimmy Rose, the stubbornest cat of them all.

Next up: That stuff I just told you about.

Labels: Generalness, Road Trip

There wasn't nothin else open, so I pushed into the McDonald's on Elm around ten o'clock, and planted my ass on the red pleather stool at the front counter, half a shout from the cashier. "Gimme an ice cream sundae," I said. "And go nuts on the fudge sauce, I just got fired." This was true enough.

The woman behind the counter wasn't wearing a name tag, but she told me her name was Isabella. She was a fatass Mexican girl with her eyebrows tattooed on and a thicker moustache than I could grow. I knew I loved her right away, and I told her so. She said she didn't speak no English, but she smiled a little and slid me a small bag of french fries. Five minutes later when nobody else came in, she got herself one and stood on the other side of the counter from me, eating hers silently and watching me. I told her I needed her, bad, and that she was the best thing to ever happen to me, which was true enough too I guess.

She let me into the meat freezer and we had each other real fast, because she didn't have keys to lock the front door and she didn't want to get robbed or her manager would take it out of her pay. I told her I thought that was illegal but she couldn't understand me, and so we had it again and then I left, kissing her on the eyebrows as a thank you, because it was all I had to give her. I wished I'd had more, too, because what she gave me I needed real bad, even though the ice cream was all melty and there wasn't no salt on the fries.

Labels: Stories

"All I every tried to say with words and pictures and music was that I missed, desperately, the memory of a home I couldn't every fully recreate in words or pictures or music."
---Thomas Parke D'Invilliers
"I'd love to go back to where we played as kids, but things change. That's the way it is."
---2Pac

I think today I figured out what's been causing the constant feeling of seasickness I've had since coming home: we spent the last two weeks out experiencing exclusively new sights and sounds and smells and tastes, and then not only did we get jerked back into home life, but I've been sorting through old photos and reminiscing and sharing stories, diving deep into old memories. So in the span of a few days we went from very new to very old. My head hurts.

The memorial service was wonderful, truly. I got to meet all the kids in the neighborhood for whom my grandma was surrogate grandma. They seemed to understand how easy they had it—one of them told me her younger brothers used to intentionally toss their balls over the fence so they could come have candy and hang out with my grandparents. I've of course been hit with walls and walls of forgotten memories, like my grandma's perfect attendance of my sporting events when I was young, the fact that they went to every writing award ceremony I ever had, the fact that they used to let me play Nintendo before I went to school when they were down babysitting, etc…

It's been nice.

My grandpa isn't doing so well, but he is doing a little better. He's lost a lot of weight, but Shar and I were up there Wednesday, Thursday, Friday (for the memorial), Saturday (overnight), Sunday, and today, and it seemed to do him some good. It's heartbreaking, because he still can't really communicate, but he still makes the same pleasantly surprised face he always has whenever I walk in the front door, no matter how much advance notice he has. He still calls Shar "doll." He's entering the next phase now, with a new caretaker, and I have to try and make peace with the fact that I can't see him for three weeks. I'm not really sure how much peace I'll be able to make with that, but we'll see.

Anyway, today has been catching up on deadlines and stuff I put off, and last-minute packing (again). Tomorrow early morning we fly back to St. Louis, and then we have to figure out where we're going from there. Current candidates: Green Bay, Cleveland, New Orleans, Indianapolis, or Tennessee. Any votes?

G'bye for now, I'll resume daily blarging (in addition to stories) tomorrow. Only a week and a half till the story experiment is over!!!!!

Also: it was great to see everyone we did, thanks for taking time to stop by or throw a spare hug our way, they were put to good use.

Next up: The long and winding road.

Labels: Generalness, Road Trip

It's a big cave with a sign in neon on the ceiling looking down that says America and you've been walking around its edges looking for a way out that'll take you deeper in, but all you're finding is more and more edges. There's a woman in the corner who's sick with something awful and there's no telling what it is but the sick stench rolls off her in great tsunamis and it rocks the foundations. It's okay though because she's got drugs to take to make her better but she didn't get a prescription for them she got them from another man in the corner, and you can smell the drugs just as strong as the sick.

A man with a Bible in his hand tries to sell you a used car he calls Jesus Christ and the engine don't run so good anymore he says, but goddamn it's a classic and the chrome is shining and he'll put spinning rims on it for thirty bucks more if you want. At his feet are thirteen dirty orphans with tears in their mouths who aren't even looking at that broke down old car anyway, with their hands out grasping for the crumbs of salvation tumbling off the man's quivering lips.

There's a homeless man whose home is the cave which is as much his home as it is anyone else's but still everyone hates him as much as they hate everyone else, and he asks for a quarter but ends up getting punched out and robbed of his cigarette butts and button lint. And he wails for that trash like a mother clutching her lifeless newborn, a sound he knows by heart. They're all dying and they're desperate and they're digging their own graves, they're all swimming up a waterfall falling back into the cave.

Labels: Stories

I can show you the path from here to Nirvana: I've walked it many times. Its pebbles and jagged rocks and soaring cliffs and devastating drops are like a second home to me, and I cross them with as little thought as you'd give to the steps between you and your toilet as you flip through a magazine.

When I'm up there, on the mountain, in the cloud, the idea of being anywhere else is absurd. Why would I be anywhere else? How could I fall from that place, where everything is so clear? And no matter if I did, for the path there, from that height, seems flat and easy. Then for one moment I forget myself, and suddenly I'm tumbling, tumbling, and within a blink I'm at the bottom looking up, wishing I was there.

And, though ten seconds ago it was lit up like Vegas, I cannot see the path back. I rave and rage and stomp around the base of the mountain, always staring up at the peak, always tripping over the minutia before me. It's not even that it's hard to get back up there; no, once I see the path I'm back, traveling my familiar footpaths, like it was nothing. The problem is that I can never remember the right direction to set off in.

Labels: Stories

And whatnot.

So I've been doing my Mike Across America columns for the LB Post Sports site (which exploded with wonderful activity this last week), and I've been incredibly happy with them. I'm rarely happy with things I'm doing, so this has been a welcome treat. In any event, it's paid dividends already, as I was linked to on ESPN's NBA Blog:

http://myespn.go.com/blogs/truehoop/0-32-21/Golden-State-and-Denver-in-a-Dog-Fight.html?post=true

I'm at the bottom, I'm the "good write up." Crazy!!

It's huge exposure that should be great for the site, and hopefully great for the column going forward too. I'm a little unclear as to how it came to the attention of the ESPN guy, but I'm pretty sure it had something to do with Ryan ZumMallen, my favorite person in the world whose last name starts with the letter Z. So thanks Zoomy! More columns coming soon, I hope y'all keep clicking that link on the right. I've made a temporary return to Sports Night for this week's episode, so give it the old Storied Year bump, whaddya say?

Labels: Generalness

You're on the T in Portland, and you've been riding it all day, waiting for something. Then the train pulls up outside the Rose, and all the Blazers fans pile in. Squashed against the window, you keep waiting, until it's run north of the city, out towards the airport. Your eyes have been closed, because it's too bright and it's too loud, and the noise has been creeping in. Now it's just you, and this young family, a mother and father who couldn't be older than 19, with two kids. They're all very blonde, and very white. You think maybe they're what you've been waiting for.

They're white trash, all the way, with their uneven haircuts and scabby addict skin, and a faraway piece of you feels bad for their children, hellions already and bound for worse. The mother is attempting to contain them, one in each arm, as they wriggle around and try to burst free. The father is going from disinterested to enraged with incredible speed and frequency. One of the children has a balloon. The other child wants it.

Yes, this is what you wanted. They exist at the transit station, where you can see they've parked their beat up, twenty five year old station wagon. You follow them out of the train, trailing behind the children and their toys and the balloon and a stroller that looks like it was broken recently. They're approaching their car, and you're right behind them now, because you have so many questions to ask that they have to answer and you have to know. Why did they have kids, why do their kind always have kids and why won't they ever stop, and why aren't they smarter, and why don't they try harder and why are they so goddamn intrusive? And why can't they do better? You're going to ask.

Labels: Stories

There's no whistle at the end of the day in the Cerritos Office Park, where she works, but she hears one in her head at 6 in the evening, just the same. It sounds beautiful. The drive home takes her an hour if she's lucky, and she listens to an audiobook or a CD, drumming along either way, smacking her steering wheel with her palms to mark downbeats or punctuation. She has no husband or wife at home, but when she pulls into her driveway at the end of the commute, it's still like being welcomed into the arms of a lover.

Once inside, she takes off her suit jacket, and her earrings, and her uncomfortable shoes, and her nylons, and her thick, inflexible skirt, and puts on another CD (never the same ones she listens to on her commute). Then she unbuttons her shirt and slips it off, unhooks her bra, slips out of her cotton work panties, lights the seventeen candles in the bathroom, and runs a bath. She takes her time, doing all of these things. Getting ready for work in the morning, that she rushes through. This moment, though, is worth getting right.

When the water is at the mid-way level and hot enough that the mirror is half-covered in steam, she slides in and closes her eyes, breathes in the steam, and exhales everything else. She just relaxes for the first fifteen minutes, but then she scrubs herself, vigorously, getting the thin film of recirculated air off first, and the smug condescension of her peers next, and the lingering shreds of regret last, since she has to scrub hardest at that. It isn't as relaxing as the meditation, but it's important. When she gets out of the bath at quarter to eight to make dinner and work on her painting, she wants to be clean. After all, it's the start of a new day.

Labels: Stories

"For sale: baby shoes, never worn." Hon? What do you think, is that okay for the newspaper ad? They charge per word so I tried to keep it short. No, I don't think it gives that impression at all. Really? I guess I can kind of see, but why would people be that pessimistic? I mean, we've got a box of unused baby shoes we're trying to unload, I have to write a thousand words about them or people are going to think we've got a dead kid? Christ that's morbid.

Labels: Stories

Willie saw a lot of things. She spent the last ten years of her life as a live-in care assistant, providing 24/7 nursing and supervision for the elderly. Think about that. Willie had no home of her own, almost no possessions for an entire decade, just bouncing from house to house to care for new patients, great men and women who once upon a time ruled their generation. She would give these patients baths; she would cook for them; sometimes she would feed them, or clean up after they went to the bathroom. Willie became the parts of these people that they'd lost to old age or addiction or Alzheimer's. Then they'd die, and she'd find somewhere else to go.

Willie used to have things of her own: a husband and a son, both gone. Now she has a bank account nearly full of money, and nothing else.

Sometimes when a smell or a sight would be so powerfully disgusting that she couldn't bear it, her tired, near-blind eyes would start to lift, rolling up towards the ceiling. But then she'd squeeze her eyes closed, and look back down. She didn't want to get distracted. It was so important that she remain focused.

Labels: Stories

This tale be set in the Spring, in the west country, in Scarlet Town where I's born. The trees and the flowers were all abloom, and the air clouded with their smells. But in the tallest tower of his da's castle, young Jemmy Grove lay on his deathbed, a-dying and a-dying while the world sprang to life outside his window. And all his days, and all his meager nights, he cried, Jemmy Grove cried, for his lost lady-love, Barbrie Allen.

His mother and his maids, and yea even his da came to give him comfort, but the poor boy wailed and moaned for his love, until his da sent messengers to all corners of the country, to find her. In a dusty tavern away out east to the city, one came upon a young beauty a-drinkin' alone, and said to her, "Fair maiden, my master bids you come to his side, for his days are short and his nights grow shorter, and all he want be Barbrie Allen."

She rode a-hard and fast and was at his side afore his last breath expired. But she gazed on him with eyes all fired and free, and turned away, saying only, "Death be printed on your face, young man. I believe you're a-dyin'." She rode just as hard and swift from the town, silent tears a-tracing down her cheek, as young Jemmy sang his last breath into the spring eve, a faint and a lovely tune, by the name of Barbrie Allen.

And at last she came to her ma's house, what hadn't seen her in nigh five year, but when her ma tried to embrace her, the lass just shook her head, and bade her ma prepare her life's last bed. "For he loved me pure and true," she said to her ma, "and I could not face him now, as when we were wee. So let me lie my life's last rest, and give to Jemmy my life, what he already gave to me." Her ma cried, but made her bed, made it short and narrow, and lay her daughter down and covered her, and wept for Barbrie Allen.

Labels: Stories

"All I wanted was to go somewheres; all I wanted was a change, I warn't particular."
---Huck Finn
"It's so weird to be back here."
---Ben Folds "Still Fighting It"

So our flights managed to not be delayed or cancelled or crashed, and we arrived home safely at around nine o'clock Sunday night. The last two days have gone by in a hazy and exhausted blur as our bodies and minds have attempted to catch up to our reality. We are home. In our apartment, on our bed, in our shower, at our Chipotle, going to our own stores and seeing our own friends, the ones we've known for longer than an hour. It's stranger than I would be able to describe. Walking into our apartment Sunday night was surreal, as we tried to figure out which rattrap hotel this was, and had to force the thought down our mental throats: this is ours.

Monday morning we woke up and each did our usual morning routine of opening our eyes and trying to tell from the ceiling which hotel in which city we were…but of course, it was the popcorn ceiling we've awoken to for the last two years. We've seen some family and friends, and we're off to Whittier today to see my grandpa and uncle, and to try to offer whatever meager service we can be of in helping close the cover on the remarkable tome that was my grandmother's life. People have been asking how I'm holding up, and I don't know what to say. I miss her, a lot. But then I explain that when I was a little kid, my grandparents were telling me, "We'll be at your game on Saturday, if we're still around." Over the last five years, I've driven way too fast to Whittier Presbyterian Hospital a half dozen times to see her for the last time, and had gotten down on my knees to pray with her to a God I don't believe in for her recovery. I think it's fitting that she got to go out on her own terms, at home, rather than after an extended stay in the hospital.

I think she'd find it funny (and I think my dad would too) that she's called me home one more time, since she was always the only person in the world who could successfully lay a guilt trip on me. She had a wicked sense of humor, especially in the last few years, which I loved. When someone would ask how she was doing, she would give her scrunchy "you can't be mad at me because I'm over 80" face and reply, "Everyone I can."

A few months ago, when I was apologizing for not being up there as much as I used to manage, she waved me off and explained how lucky she and my grandpa felt to have spent so much time with my brother and me, and to have gotten to watch me fall in love and get married. She pointed out that, from their humble beginnings, they'd traveled everywhere in the world that they'd wanted to, and gotten to grow old together even after my grandpa had been told repeatedly that he was unlikely to live much longer. They fought through all of that, and I'm so glad they did. Getting to know them and love them gave me an appreciation for life and its worth that has guided my path since I was a child; they gave me a much-needed haven while my parents were splitting up, and have always opened their home to me, a place where I could go and know that everything was okay, and that there were two people in the world who put me above all else. My confidence and a lot of my sense of self-worth comes from that home, and my ability to connect with people completely unlike myself as well.

My grandma was one of my biggest fans, a source of endless encouragement and love and care. Not long after my dad had moved out, when she was having one of her nagging exhaustion spells, where being up off the couch for more than a minute would exhaust her, I remember her bringing me a cup of cocoa, despite being dizzy. I tried to get up to help her, and she snapped at me to sit down. She steadied herself, coughed, took a few steps, steadied herself again, and walked the rest of the way, then plopped down next to me and smiled. Bringing me something as small as a cup of cocoa was more important to her than her own health. It was a gesture I never forgot.

Later in life, when her health problems became a source of embarrassment to her, I always did my best (and usually succeeded) to make her laugh when she was upset, and I did my best to comfort her after my father's death, though she was inconsolable. It always made me happy to feel like I'd had a positive impact on her life, but it's never nearly measured up to what she and my grandfather have done for me, and I've always wished I could do more.

She was a complicated, confused, remarkable woman, and I count myself lucky to have gotten to know her for 24 years. Thanks to everyone for the kind words and thoughts; I'll be in Whittier a lot for the next few days, but I'd love to see everybody before we leave again, next Wednesday. More later.

Labels: Generalness, Road Trip

"You've probably heard the old axiom that we only use 15% of our brains. This is a misleading statement, because it paints this picture that 85% of our brains sit there useless, which isn't true. Every part of the brain does something useful, we just aren't sure that those parts are working to their potential. What is mostly useless, however, is the human lung. Most men and women fail to breathe deeply enough to utilize more than half of their lung capacity in a given day. It's worse if you smoke because you can't draw air down as far.

"Of course, to remedy this problem with your lungs, all you have to do is put your back against a firm surface, close your eyes, push your chest out, and take an old-fashioned deep breath, just like your first therapist taught you. If you remember to do that once or twice a day, you'll have healthier lungs and a healthier body for it. So what if it's the same for your brain? What if all you have to do to light that puppy up with all kinds of fire and activity is to just open your eyes again, and take in everything around you like you were seeing it for the first time, like your life was just one stop on a fifty-stop tour, and all the colors and smells and textures and corners were brand new to you? Try it! Just open your senses, and breathe it all in.

"Then you get to figure out what you're doing with the other 85%."

Labels: Stories

Why does it always have to rain here? Somebody tried to explain the meterological reason to me once, but it didn't really make a lot of sense. I should really get out of the city…when you don't have a roof over your head any night of the year, Seattle is probably one of the dumber places you could live. But it's not so bad, really, as bad as you might think. I have a thick blanket and a thick jacket, and I stay under the overhangs in Pioneer Square, and the people who work around there have been really generous to me, even offering to give me work if I can get cleaned up. I can find shelter in the rain, I can pick food out of the trash without getting anything on my sleeves, and I could con a quarter off a Jew, but getting cleaned up? That I haven't got figured yet.

Labels: Stories

"They ask me where hip hop is goin', it's Chicagoin', poetry in motion like a picture now showing. "
---Common "Chi City"

In Eau Claire, we had a long conversation about whether to head east to Green Bay or south to Chicago, and ultimately decided it wasn't worth the fifty-fifty risk of a no-viz blizzard to try for Lambeau. So we packed up, shoved out of our comfy bed, surrounded by pizza boxes and empty Gatorade bottles, and headed south, that scariest of American directions. The weather was absolutely grand, and we got our first taste of sunshine since Montana, speeding through the barren Wisconsin landscape towards Illinois, the land of Lincoln, Obama, Capone, and half the great rappers still recording today. We were pretty damned excited, even if we did feel a twinge of regret when we saw a Green Bay Packers license plate on a minivan we were passing.

We got into the Chicago area pretty early, and the drive felt like nothing. Back-to-back-to-back ten hour days had hardened us, and five hours felt like a joy ride. We got off the freeway early, to come in on surface streets and gain a greater appreciation for the city, and to make it easier to reach our first destination: the United Center, home of the Bulls and (more importantly) the glorious Michael Jordan statue. The western suburbs of Chicago are like nowhere I've ever been, home to one of the country's first genuine African-American middle class communities, with Obama signs in nearly every window, historic elementary schools and squat mid-western brick houses. It was very cool. Then of course it gave way to non-suburban Westside Chicago, with cracked streets and empty lots, the towering and magisterial churches of the suburbs becoming numerous storefront Born Again "churches." It was another one of those American experiences that both unite and separate every major city we've been to so far.

The Michael Jordan statue was exactly as amazing as I wanted it to be. I'm a little behind at LBPostSports right now, but a column will be up soon with more on how cool and personally important an experience it was for me. From there we proceeded into a decidedly more college-y area for a Shar stop, which I'm sure she's written about more eloquently than I could. Then: downtown.



It was three-ish, so we figured it would be no problem to cut east across the city to Lake Michigan, where we'd been advised to leave our car under Millenium Park while we took in the city. Well, it took about an hour to go the two miles, and we were nearly hit by a few screaming ambulances (the sirens never stopped the whole time we were there), but eventually, after fording a traffic jam outside the Ritz, we made it. First up was The Bean, which is much cooler in person than it is in photos, ours or otherwise. Then we enjoyed the freakish Gehry design of the band stage and bridge, and started heading south for the Field Museum, the second largest Natural History Museum in the country, home to Sue, the world's most complete T-Rex skeleton, and numerous other goodies. Around this time the famous (and freezing) Chicago wind started to pick up, and we pulled our jackets tight and marched faster. We got there at 4:30, only to discover that they don't allow admissions after 4—this from a world-class museum as well as a huge tourist attraction. Retarded? Yarp. That more or less sums up the rest of our time in Chi: it was almost awesome.



We found a tiny downtown bookstore we were excited about, but it ended up being basically an airport bookstore. We went to Giordano's for famous deep dish pizza (which is basically calzone pizza and is delicious, in my much-more-Italian-than-Shar opinion), but arrived literally seconds after a tour bus of Oklahomans, who brought with them a 40 minute wait. We did see several Batman Begins landmarks, and decide that it wasn't Chicago's fault we were having such a lame time, vowing to return at a later date with directions to a jazz club and the knowledge that the Field runs on old-person hours. We made it back to the car around nine, praying that the Chicago traffic would be reasonable enough to let us get east towards Gary, IN where we were going to sleep, before pushing on to Cleveland. In the parking lot I saw that there was a missed call from my mom.

On the highway, I had Shar check the message. It was informing us that my grandmother had passed away. I had that feeling you only get when finding out someone you love had died: my heart went cold, and started pumping a river of ice through me. I got us west to Portage, IN, where were going to figure out how long it would take to drive home. Trip over.

I was totally exhausted, every movement hurting, with a raging migraine, and demanding that we start out early Saturday morning, pack in fourteen hours on both days of the weekend, and be home Sunday night. Shar asked me to be reasonable and get some sleep. I did.

Saturday morning I felt much better, and decided we should fly home on Sunday, stay for a week and a half for services and to help with whatever else needed to be done, and then fly back out to our car, which we've left with my aunt in St. Louis, to either drive home then at our leisure, or finish some kind of road trip (hopefully with a sunny trip to Lambeau and a re-do of Chicago). The drive to St. Louis was fast on Saturday, even with a stop at Cracker Barrel for a bacon cheeseburger and a handful of Dubble Bubble. We were there in time to have an amazing and filling dinner with my aunt. It was great to see her, even under the circumstances.

I'm writing this on an airplane, on what would have been day 14, the day we were in the NFL Hall of Fame and headed later up to Niagra Falls. I'll write about the intervening week and a half, as well as, I'd imagine, a bunch of stuff about my grandma, at some point in the future. For right now, I'm braindead and heart-weary, but still more or less on our adventure. We'd love to see everyone we can while we're home, so let us know when you're about. Hopefully two Wednesdays from now the Road Trip blogs will resume a lighter, more adventurous and enjoyable tone. This has already been a wilder ride than we were planning, and it's only bound to get wilder.

Labels: Generalness, Road Trip

My wife pointed out to me as we were shading our eyes from reflective walls of white faces and blonde hair that Salt Lake City's airport must be the only one in the country where there's no line at Starbucks. That's pretty much where the humor ends. I really really really hate Utah, going back to my first trip to the city, when my father got evil eyed stares for smoking and drinking a soda: God damn that caffeine! Damn it to Hell!

On my second trip, mothers literally grabbed their children away from a black friend of mine. It's that kind of state, I guess. None of this is to mention that I'm currently writing a chapter of my book that deals heavily with Mormonism, and hundreds of pages of reading inform me that the I walk through the airport, sets of blue eyes following the path of my angry jaw, and I know that with my dark hair and untrimmed beard and my olive eyes I am everything they hate and oppose, excepting of course for the color of my skin. But that is alright, because I hate them too, because I badly need something to hate right now, because every time we check our voicemails it's more bad news coming onto our backs, and sometimes you need to be really really really full of rage to throw all of that off of you, to make you light enough to get onto an airplane and get the fuck out of Utah, which is the approximate size and shape of Hell.

Labels: Stories

Rocky stood out in Mug City like a head of blond dreadlocks. He walked around in thousand dollar suits, stepping over men who hadn't seen that much money in their whole lives. Rocky was unaware. Rocky's luck was, frankly, bound to run out at some point.

One day he was out for a jog, down by the lake. When he'd just reached the farthest point of his route and was turning to start home, a man brusquely grabbed him, and demanded his track jacket. Rocky was indignant. Then the man showed him a knife, and Rocky complied.

Chilly and confused, he jogged on towards home. Then another man accosted him, and demanded his shirt. Rocky gave it to him. On down the shore, a man mugged him for his shoes, another for his socks and watch, and then another for his shorts and wallet, though he let him keep his keys. By the time Rocky made it home, he'd been mugged another four times, losing his cell phone, his boxers, and even a nipple ring. One last mugging had stripped him of all the keys but the one to unlock his apartment, which he used to let his naked self in out of the freezing rain. When he'd asked the mugger why he wanted the other keys, which would be useful to him, the mugger just shrugged and said, "I gotta take something. I bet I can melt these down and sell them to a key maker."

Labels: Stories

Carl was a cool customer, a real cucumber of a man. Sarah, his girlfriend, had never seen him break a sweat, or jump, or freak out about turning a corner late at night. It was almost eerie. So on their way to San Francisco, she decided to play a joke on him. Carl always fell asleep after the first hour of her driving, so while he was dozing, she pushed the button to switch the big digital miles per hour display to kilometers per hour, changing the car's speed from the mid-seventies to the low one hundred thirties.

Then, she gunned the engine a bit, cackled and shouted, and shook the car a little from side to side. The noise woke Carl, who saw the speed, noticed the look in Sarah's eyes, and promptly vomited all over the inside passenger window.

Sarah only felt a little bad.

Labels: Stories

The grass should be green here, but it isn't. The government told the men of this town that there was oil underneath it, and that if they were willing to work their asses off and get their hands dirty, Bum Fuck Egypt, North Dakota would be on the map at last. Well, the men worked their asses off, and they got their hands dirty alright. Some of them lost their limbs, one lost his life, a few lost their marriage as well, all to the wells and the drills and the pipes. When all was said and done, there was barely anything under there. The government, to no citizen of North Dakota's surprise, had gotten bad information.

Overnight, over one cold, bitter North Dakotan Winter night, the subsidies and the exploratory capital dried up, taking the town's future with it. Overnight, the stores closed and the cafe went out of business, and all that was left was the bar, and the remaining men who filled it, the ones too stupid or slow or poor to follow the subsidies to wherever they set down next, tossing money and promises around like they were nothing, when they were everything.

The men sit and brood in the bar, while their wives sit and brood at home, stomping their feet and checking their watches. They are all angry. And it's April, and the grass is still dead and choked and tread upon. They are all wondering when Spring will come.

Labels: Stories

NOTE: Blogger is being a feisty little bastard so photos may or may not ever go up.  Too bad, cuz they're rad!

"90 miles an hour, girl, is the speed I drive." ---Jimi Hendrix "Crosstown Traffic"

Labels: Generalness, Road Trip

"But still this emptiness persists…perhaps this is as good as it gets."
---Colin Hay, "Beautiful World"

First, apologies if the last few blogs we've posted have been a bit grumpy. We've been within a yard of each other for 24 of the last 48 hours and we're very tired and smelly and some other word I'm too tired and smelly to think of. But we're having an amazing time, even during these stretches of pure insanity (and they have been insanity). Today I drove through fog in Montana (which, having spent a month of my life there, I'd never heard of) for about two solid hours:


We passed three dozen frozen lakes, including this one with trees growing out of it:



And a number of really hilarious anti-abortion billboards. When you've been driving through badlands for 8 hours, these are legitimately hilarious. Shar listed a few of her favorite signs on her Blarg today, so I'll share my favorite with you: a billboard in Jamestown, ND (a full sized one) with a picture of fading picture of Darin Erstad diving for a ball, with the text, "Darin Erstad's Hometown, World Champion 2002." Rumor has it he hasn't been back since.

Anyway, I love Montana and the Dakotas and there was way more to see than most people who haven't been there would imagine. However, by the time we reached Grand Forks, ND, where we're spending the night, I was pretty ready to be done driving, and to start watching….CURLING! Hell yeah! I beg you to check LBPostSports.com over the next few days for whenever I find time to do a writeup, but let me just say this: I fully expected to enjoy the World Championships of Curling on an ironic level, but ended up cheering loudly and getting emotionally involved. Way more fun than anticipated, and it's going to be a hell of a writeup, for sure. Here's a taste of the picture goodness:



And with that, I leave you, because we wasted an hour watching the Daily Show and the Colbert Report (on accounta we miss satire and humans who appreciate it) and now it's late and we're driving across Minnesota tomorrow. So, er, yeah. G'night!

Read Shar's blog from today, she's funnier with nothingness than me.

Also, Montana and North Dakota are great. And they're great judges of people's ability to find beauty in their surroundings.

Oh! Also, yesterday as we were driving we saw smoke coming from fifty yards or so off the highway, and then later saw fire trucks screaming past us in the opposite direction. Turns out we narrowly avoided a multi-acre brush fire because some idiot tried to do a controlled burn in thirty mph winds. The firefighters were actually laughing at him on the newscast we watched over continental breakfast today, five minutes before I scraped the ice off my bug-coated windshield. Seriously, we're having a good time!

Next up: Twin Cities? Sounds hot…

Labels: Generalness, Road Trip

Beyond the hills and the frozen lake and the herd of cows pulling up frozen grass with their huge, prying lips, he is there. It's twenty degrees outside in the sun, but he is wearing only a skirt and a loose shirt garment, both woven out of prairie weeds. He is not cold. He is dancing, into the dawn, into the day, a dance to turn the world, to blow the winds and raise the sun from its grave, a dance to lull it back to sleep.

While you are sleeping, he beats on his cow-hide drum, he beats it out of rhythm, and your dreams are muddled and confused, and you wake up with a hangover even though you went to bed sober at ten the night before. He beats his drum and the birds flap their wings, the cows chew their meal, the machinery of the world keeps pumping.

And it is possible that all of this would happen without him, the shaman of the Montana hills. Yes, it is possible. But he has always been there, and so we have no way of knowing.

Labels: Stories

There is nothing like seeing your city asleep, naked, resting, at peace. Running your eyes and your feet over her the way you'd touch last night's lover on the back of her neck as she slept, knowing that if she were awake she'd never permit such intimacy.

The way the sun peeks over the mountains, then slips behind a cloud, flirtingly, coyly. The way everything comes to life all at once, doors bursting open to a cacophony of car horns, the screech of angry tires and frozen brakes. The way the wind moves the whole scene, the way only you can see it from the park halfway up the mountain.

It's perfect.

Labels: Stories

"The spirit of the hill, Danny. The spirit of the hill."
---Casey McCall, Sports Night

Every time a man takes a long trip, he ends up facing parts of himself he doesn't like, or that he has problems with. Last night, upon learning that today's drive wasn't just twelve hours long, but was in fact twelve hours long over three mountain ranges covered in snow, potentially in snow storms, I had to face up to the fact that I am, in many ways, a total insecure chickenshit. Poring over maps and routes last night, I realized there was no other way east, save driving back down to SF, or waiting for the snow to thaw in a month, other than over the Cascades, the Coeur D'Alenes, and the Rockies. I very strongly considered going home. The last thing I wanted to do was get us killed, and while I have a goodly amount of mountain driving experience, I've never driven in snow, never put on chains, and am, essentially, as was previously mentioned, a chickenshit.

We went to bed pretty sure we were headed east, and when we woke up I was ready. We left at six in the morning, and ended up driving (by myself to prove a point to myself) for thirteen hours, 830 miles, over three mountain ranges, and through two storms, one of which dropped some snow on us. We saw forests, mountains, plains, badlands, and made it from Seattle to Billings, Montana, a full two hours farther than we originally planned on going.

Once we checked into the hotel, we went out to this great locals place called Gusick's, watched the women's basketball NCAA championship with surprisingly interested cowboys, had a steak as thick as my fist, and came home, where Shar rode the waterslide over and over again into the heated indoor pool while I sat and watched frost form on the cars outside. It is currently 27 degrees, and I'm going to bed, because we have another 12 hours to do tomorrow. Wish us luck with the apparently world-ending storms of the next few days!






Next up: More driving!

Labels: Generalness, Road Trip

"Seattle is full of doers, don'ters, doubters, and deadheads."
---Bill Speidel

Today started out looking like One of Those Days (the story from today is more or less true), but ended up being One of Those Other Days, the great ones. Seattle is very cool; I think Portland agreed with me more because it felt like less of a tourist attraction, but Seattle is definitely the right kind of tourist attraction. Twenty-something indie chicks drive buses and read while waiting for people to get on and off, and there's a higher PRP (People Reading in Public) rate than anywhere I've ever been. And it's gorgeous: we lucked out on weather again today, dark and windy in the morning and then the clouds parted around noon and stayed that way.

We crammed more into today than I can conceive of. We got on a bus at nine in the morning and were at the Seattle Center (this cool downtown area with half of the locations you've heard of, like the Space Needle, the EMP, and the basketball stadium) shortly thereafter, where we decided to cave and do something legitimately touristy, visiting the EMP, which I must say is housed in the dumbest looking building of all time. I get that it's supposed to be edgy and arty, but it just looks like one of those autistic paintings you see sometimes. The Music branch is kind of skippable (Michelle Branch was playing in the lobby, for example): it was cool to see Kurt Cobain's guitars, but the Hendrix exhibit I was excited for wasn't opening until next week, so we just kind of walked through and then went into the Science Fiction building, which is definitely NOT skippable. No photos were allowed unfortunately, but here's a taste: the real E.T., the Terminator from Terminator, countless awesome movie props, the Sci-Fi Hall of Fame, and the peak of coolness, the robotic miniature T-Rex used to control the gigantic T-Rex in Jurassic Park. Drool.


Get your shit together, EMP. Maybe you should have been designed by an Apple co-founder, instead of Paul Allen.

Then we took the Monorail (Mono! D'oh!) into downtown, where we hoofed it to the Pike Street Market. If you're looking for a tourist-friendly place that is still clearly designed for the local, this is the place. Yes, there were some Ohioans gathered around to watch them throw the fish and sing pirate shanties (which was cool) but for the most part, it's just the biggest, most delicious food mart I could conceive of. We ate free samples off everything, and filled up for lunch. We also had the World's Best mac and cheese, with homemade cheese. It really was the World's Best. I'm drooling again. We stopped and chatted with a pair of street musicians from New Orleans after buying their CD; they sounded great! We left the market with four jars of the most excruciatingly delicious jam you can imagine, and full bellies. What a great place.


New buddies, and our favorite buskers since Julian Davies

Then we walked down to the Aquarium, cuz we dig those and cuz this one actually juts out into the ocean. It was equally cool, but in a less describable way. Then we took the streetcar to Pioneer Square, which has a ton of really cool bookstores. The northwest does used bookstores right: they're huge, well lit, well organized, clean, and they're centers for local authors, the way bookstores should be. I got the recent best-selling Mark Twain biography for a few bucks. Then we took the Seattle Underground walking tour, which was also pretty touristy, but which is absolutely unmissable. Most of Seattle is built over an older Seattle, which burned down a hundred fifteen years ago or so. This tour takes you under the sidewalks and streets to the old Seattle, underground, where you can see burnt-out store facades and stuff. AND IT'S ALL FUCKING UNDERGROUND!!!!! Crazy!


Bumming around Seattle in our ripped jeans and hobo gloves

After that we got halfway up the tallest building in the city before being told the Sky View was closed, tried unsuccessfully to find the Hendrix statue I wanted to worship at the foot of, and then took a bus home. We've gotta go to bed early tonight, because tomorrow is an 11-hour drive through Washington, Idaho, and Montana. It's gonna be rough, but we've got our new CD, our audiobook, and a shitload of meth. Just kidding about the meth. We're not looking forward to the prospect of not spending two nights in the same place until Rhode Island, so we're going to milk the last few hours out of this quaint little place, and I will try to push through with the novel whilst sipping English tea.

Or was I kidding?


We really lucked out on the weather here; but it's supposed to probably snow in our next stop...

Don't forget SharBlarg!

Next up: Vast Nothingness and a Very Small Chance of Internet

Labels: Generalness, Road Trip

I was driving from New York to Frisco, and for some reason I let a bum friend of mine convince me to stop in Seattle, the dreariest, weariest city on the coast. I crashed in this dive hostel and made the mistake of trusting the owner/operator when he told me I could park in an adjacent lot for free until 8 o'clock the next morning. When I got to the car at 7:30 to move it, there was a thirty buck ticket on the glass, sneering at me like it knew it was coming out of my food budget. Pissed, I shoved it into my pocket and pulled the car out onto the street, heading north to look for an all day lot. I don't know what the hell is wrong with Seattle, but there weren't any, just these ten hour lots which meant I'd have to move the damn think again by six. Disgusted, I pulled into a lot behind Chipotle.

I used a card with 40 bucks left on it to buy the ten dollar parking pass, wrapping my jacket around me to shield me from the bitter cold and the whipping wind. When the receipt printed out, the wind grabbed it before I could, and took it swirling through the lot, with me chasing and cursing it the whole way, before finally I subdued it and slapped it on my dashboard, turning and heading back to the hostel to grab a toast and tea breakfast before I headed out into the city.

A friendly retard approached me and we gabbed for five minutes about New York before I blew him off and finished my trip to the hostel. Opening the door, I remembered that in my anger I had forgotten to bring my change of clothes from the trunk, which meant I was faced with the unpleasant choice of walking five blocks back up the street to get them, or wearing my already soiled and savory outfit. I chose savory, and shoved the hostel door open, the wind rushing in behind me and all around me, stuffing me inside like an unwanted bill, like a parking ticket. The city wanted nothing to do with me.

Labels: Stories

"My wife and I just prefer Seattle. It's a beautiful city. Great setting. You open your front door in the morning and the air smells like pine and the sea, as opposed to bus exhaust."
---Ron Reagan

Another unbelievable day today. Woke up lazy and late in Portland, had a nice breakfast in the hotel, thick bacon, hash browns made of Oregon potatoes (second in the country only to Idaho), eggs, and toast. Good road food. Then we nipped east to check out the Grotto, a Catholic sanctuary set into a cliff…kind of hard to describe, so here's a picture:



The Grotto marked the first time in my life I've had something like a religious experience in an actual religious place of worship. It's outdoors, and the altar is carved into a cliffside, with flowers and statues inside. The statues are everywhere, the stations of the cross on a woody path…unbelievable. And the sun was just right, too.

Then we hopped in the car and headed north, crossing the border into Washington almost immediately, where there was a huge, thick rainstorm waiting to greet us. All the politeness of Oregon disappeared, the dainty no rubbish dropping signs replaced by "Litter and It Will Hurt" notices, and constant anti-hitchhiking warnings. It stayed stormy almost all the way up the state until, miraculously, like a shuffleboard puck slid just right, we coasted between the black clouds into the blue-skyed panorama of Seattle, which really is a breathtaking city in the sun.

We got to our hotel, the historic College Inn on the U. Wash campus, with surprising ease, no U-Turns necessary. The hotel is weird and cool, the kind of place we like to find. It's very very old, so it has that vintage kind of smell to it, and the manager has a fourth-floor office, where he had to buzz us into. Our room is on the third floor (no elevator) and has the following: antique dresser and nightstands and writing desk, comfy bed, old lamps, a sink, and a mirror. The bathroom is communal. It's kind of like living in a centuries-old dorm room, I guess, which is cool. We've had happy times in dorm rooms. Plus, the showers here are cleaner than at UCLA.



Almost immediately after dropping our stuff off, we headed out to Seattle Center by bus, crammed onto the 74 with five dozen college students, most of whom were headed to the same place we were: the Sonics/Nuggets game. We bought tickets for it on a lark, since I found out Shar somehow grew up in America without ever going to an NBA game, and since I'm covering random sports stuff across the country. The Sonics and the city are at odds, so this was their second to last game in Seattle, after residing here for forty years. The game ended up going to double overtime and being insanely good, much to everyone's surprise. Check out LBPostSports.com for my full writeup and more pics.



We're back in the hotel, soggy and marinating in road stink. I'm gonna wash my face, work on my novel for an hour, then wake up early to move my car, grab a continental breakfast, and head into the city to check everything out. More later.



Read. Shar!

Next up: More!

Labels: Generalness, Road Trip

You might be surprised at all the dumb things kids think, if you've never really talked to one. Yeah, there's the famous stuff, like how kids aren't all that great at seeing race or class divisions, but you don't know just how stupid kids can be until you've heard one talking about sex.

Like this one kid I knew when I was just a kid, he used to think that girls' parts were on their fronts, like where boys' parts are. Like the girl parts were just guy parts, pushed backwards, and inside out. And he told me that if a guy played with himself in the shower, a monster would crawl out of the drain, and it would be his baby. And if you went in the girls' bathroom, you'd get AIDS. One day his mom overheard him telling me all that stuff and she took him into a room and yelled at him and lectured him for twenty minutes, and when he got out, he was ghost white, like he'd had all the life drained out of him.

After that, he mostly kept to himself, and he'd cringe whenever a girl approached him, which was too bad, because Sally, the prettiest girl in fourth grade, had a big crush on him according to her friend, Susy, the fourth-prettiest girl in fourth grade. I wonder what happened to Sally and Susy? My friend, I know what he's up to: he started taking naked photos of girls in high school and selling them, and now he's a fabulously well to-do pornographer. When I talk to him, he seems just as scared of girls now as he was then, though. I don't really know what that's about.

Labels: Stories

"It's the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine."
---R.E.M.




Portland is awesome! Sorry, got a little ahead of myself there. We woke up this morning in the redwoods, slapped ourselves awake, threw our junk in the car, and headed north, hoping to make it to Portland as soon as possible, a happy end to our second six-hour driving day in a row. I have to say, crossing the CA/OR border was…interesting. Landscape obviously doesn't change very neatly with border lines (unless that border line is also the Mississippi River), but culture and attitude definitely seems to. Oregon was, instantly, so polite.

For God knows what reason, it's law that there be no self-serve gas stations, so when we filled up a few miles into the state (in the home town of a current American Idol contestant, several signs told us), I had to stand aside and let a friendly young man pump for me. Signs were politely worded, such as, "Discarding rubbish is prohibited by law," instead of the California, "Littering Gets You Fined a Shit Ton." And nobody passes in Oregon: the fast lane was pretty much all ours.

We cruised into Portland around 1:30, checked into the nicest fifty dollar hotel room in history (two desks and a plush armchair!) and pretty much immediately dragged out exhausted asses out the door, to the rail, and went into town. I was absolutely blown away by Portland. It's definitely the indie capitol of the world, as well as the possessor of maybe the largest ratio of white kids who want to be black to actually black people in the world. If that makes sense. Our first stop was Powells, which is bigger than I can describe. It's like Acres, but with twice as many books, and clean, and well-lit and organized. It's a used book store with their own bags, bookmarks, bookstamps, and they even print UPC labels to stick on. I got a rare Eliot book and a less-rare but still very cheap Library of America Twain edition. Then I got the hell out before we mortgaged a house we don't even own.


Our exhausted selves


Powell's: This doesn't even begin to describe it.

From there we wandered, impressed by the large numbers of urban parks, the fact that parking downtown on a Saturday cost four bucks, and the number of street musicians. There was a young waif playing an accordian under a bridge at one point, and I suddenly got a very clear picture of the Decemberists as a product of their surroundings, much as I felt about Shakespeare the first time I read Marlowe. After several hours of walking, we grabbed dinner at this great Italian place downtown, our first real meal in two and a half days. We'd subsisted on nothing but beef jerky, crackers, and water in that time, and we were happy to have the food. A nice dinner with drinks and dessert in downtown? Twenty five bucks. Everything is affordable here, and everyone is so smart, and the city is so pretty…I could definitely live here. If Shar would come with me, I guess. There are supposedly more writers and musicians per square mile in Portland than anywhere else in the country.


Shar, in Printing Press Park. Yes, in Portland they frame famous newspapers and put them in a park.


Then, late night, we took in an opera, which I assume Shar has told you all about, since it was her scene, really. I had a great time, though, as it's always fun to watch Shar get all bubbly and excited, and since the opera was genuinely hilarious. Then, a dicey light rail trip back, and we collapsed in the hotel around 11, where we are now. And I'm going to go to bed, because we're driving to Seattle tomorrow.

Read SharBlarg! And comment!

Next up: Seattle!

Labels: Generalness, Road Trip

From the highway, nothing marks their existence, unless you squint between the passing trees and catch a flash of color against the gray background. They have a commune here, in the redwoods, about two dozen of them, hippies in every sense of the word. Each morning they rise with the sun and fling their arms open, welcoming it and drinking it in. Then they dance and chant, and try to emanate peace from their little community, try to fill the whole world with their love, with their calm. It is their hope that this will end all wars and human suffering, and that a day will dawn when they can reenter society, welcomed with open arms as heroes, forefathers and foremothers of the new generation of peace.

As religions go, it's pretty dumb; but then again, not particularly.

They're fighting a war on war with tie-dye, granola, and the smoke of anything new they can find to burn. They don't drink or get high anymore, because it was getting in the way of the chant. The battle they're fighting, slapping their bare feet against the moss and twigs of the forest, was lost a long time ago, swallowed by a war they weren't ever really fighting in. But they don't know, or they don't care. They just keep throwing their arms open, every morning, and welcoming the promise of a new day.

Labels: Stories

"And the weather will hold: it's been ever so, ever so gray."
---The Decemberists "The Gymnast, High Above the Ground"






Another 7 hours of driving, and somehow we're still in California. Today we started by taking the Golden Gate Bridge over a perfect bay, the sun low on the horizon, and then we rolled north, as green hills turned to hills with some trees on them, and then finally thickened into vast forests, redwoods sheltering us from the light rain that started to fall about halfway north. I mentioned in an earlier post how impressed I am with California, and today I became even more impressed: in addition to everything we'd already seen, today we started out in SF, which used to be boggy wetlands, and ended in Crescent City, smack dab in the middle of the redwood forest.

We're staying in a KOA Kampground, which normally I wouldn't recommend since they're usually for RVs and since they have many unnecessary Ks, but if you're ever near here, you'd be a fool not to pop forty bucks down for a Kabin. We're in a little one room cabin (like the size of the office in our apartment) with electricity and a bed, and nothing else. There are 11 acres of redwood trails behind our secluded cabin, all of which we have to ourselves since nobody else is staying here except the owners right now. There is also cable television, and wireless internet, just like the pioneers had.

I'm gonna rest up, since tomorrow has a number of big honkin' milestones: we're (finally) leaving CA, we're arriving in the first big city I've never been to, we'll go over 1,000 miles of driving for this trip, and my car will reach 20,000. When we get home, it'll have well over 25k. I hope you're all enjoying your nights, I'm going to sit under a redwood and listen to the rain and read comics. Which is, all things considered, pretty rad.

Never ever ever forget to read Shar's blarg. She's great. Also, happy birthday to Robyn! She let us room with her once more in SF, and today was her birthday. As Robyn is a neuroscientist, we celebrated by buying her a zombie brain gelatin mold, which we made and devoured for breakfast.

Labels: Generalness, Road Trip

We are legion, and we are one, immovable and grand, imposing and hardy and true. We are the forest, and we are the trees. You can cut us down, but you cannot remove us, because we are always growing, even when you're blowing your nose on us, or resting your ample buttocks on our mighty frames. We disdain you, all of you, the ones who cut at us and the ones who try to stop them. You are less than ants to the tallest of us. You are a nagging virus.

Do not think yourselves so powerful and impressive as to have hurt us, to have logged so many of us that it's affecting your atmosphere. We are ancient, and you are small, smaller than you think. Yes, we are affecting the atmosphere, but it's because we choose to. We are holding our breaths and choking you, we are undergoing radiation therapy to remove the cancer, we are operating on ourselves and our planet, and we are wiping you out. When we stand together, close together, we are impenetrable.

Labels: Stories

She is a tired, ancient Asian woman, with lines and wrinkles etched so deeply in her face you feel like you could tell your fortune by them, if she'd let you. Her white-gray hair is pulled back severely, tied with what looks like a greasy bandana. She's wearing a ratty yellow jacket, which she pulls tight around her whenever somebody bumps past her towards the back of the bus. Nobody is offering her their seat, even though with each jerk of the bus she nearly goes horizontal.

Through the dimly lit tunnel, you and she look out the window, at the same wall. It's white, but parts of it are a brighter white, where graffiti has been painted over with a fresh coat. The sections that are merely dirty receive no attention.

The Asian woman coughs, a belly cough, a tornado cough that makes the UCSF students in front of her duck and check the back of their beanies for saliva, or worse. You're not sure, but you think she may have smiled a little at this. The bus pulls into Chinatown, and she extends one bony hand out in front of her, commanding the glut of people crowding the door to move aside, and release her. You notice that while her clothes are old and worn, her fingernails are meticulously kept, and you wonder what that means, about her, her family, her neighborhood, or her country. Before she descends, her foot hovering over the final step, she shoots a dirty look at all the remaining passengers. Nobody offered her their seat, and if they had she would have refused, but you can see now she would have appreciated the gesture.

Labels: Stories

"The camera was out of film. I put it down, came out of the tunnel, fast, and saw San Francisco for myself."
---Sean Wilsey, "Oh, the Glory of it All"

Our SF leg is coming to a close, which is a bummer because we're leaving behind a lot of people we like and a nice situation, and because it means the real road trip starts tomorrow. We've visited SF so many times it's barely traveling at this point, and we pretty much just spent the last two and a half days hanging out with good friends and family, as the following pictures clearly show:






We did a lot of park exploration, a lot of delicious food-eating (since staying with Robyn eliminated room and boarding costs (right?)), and a lot lot lot of walking, much to my short-legged companion's ire. But we saw a lot of the things we wanted to, and all of the people, and I somehow began serious work on my novel again as well, after a break of almost a month. All that while writing stories every day, and doing regular posts for LBPostSports.com, which I hope everyone is reading avidly as we get our land legs under us, which will probably take a little bit.

Now I am to bed, as a long day of driving into unfamiliar territories awaits us tomorrow.

Also, here's a photo of Sock JJ and I staring reflectively at the original home of the 49ers.



And here is another, of the Sausage Factory. Heh.



Also, next time you're in SF be sure to visit the Exploratorium! As usual, check out Shar's blog for better junk than what I c'n write.

Also! Added SF bonus: Obama posters and street art EVERYWHERE. So cool.

Next up: A Cabin in the Redwoods!

Labels: Generalness, Road Trip

Aside from watching a car accident in the parking lot today was great, but I'm not going to blog about it until tomorrow, when I blog about our whole stay in SF.

The SHOCKING DEVELOPMENT is that on Monday, LB Post Sports launched. That project will be absorbing the majority of my writerly efforts for a while to come, as Zoomy, JJ and I try to get this goddamn city turned around. It should be both fun and exhausting. Please find the link now permanently stuck onto the links bar at the right. While on the road, I'm doing a series of (what I hope will be) very cool columns about sports across America (hint: they're fucking weird).

If you want more on our trippy dip dip, here's that link to Shar's Blarg again: Shar's Blarg!

Labels: Generalness, Mike Recommends or Trashes Random Shit, Mission Statement, Road Trip

This is my least favorite kind of Bay Area weather, when the sky is blue but it's still drooling rain down on you, one drop at a time. I'm on my way to work, on the T going north by the Embarcadero. For the second time this week, I'm late. Every day it gets a little harder to wake up, because no matter what I try to tell myself at the office or during my commute, I don't want to be there. And when I'm sleeping, my brain knows, and it tries to keep me away. I appreciate the sentiment, believe me, but it's put me in the terrible position of having to convince my boss not to fire me, when secretly I wish he would. I'm 32 and I have no idea what I want to be doing with my life. Just…something else.

Since I overslept rush hour, I almost have the train to myself. I'm sitting on the right side, my back to the ocean, and across the aisle from me is another woman, though she's younger than me, and she looks like she's perfectly happy with the corporate lifestyle, in her tight little business suit, tapping away at her PDA. Shifting my briefcase awkwardly, I roll over and stare out the train window. There are two girls skateboarding in front of one of the abandoned pier stations, grinding their mark onto the concrete just under a "No Skateboarding" sign. I smile at their rebellious joke.

But I am as unlike them as I am the woman sitting across from me. I hate my job, but I would never just ditch out on it the way I suspect they're ditching school right now. But I can't commit to it like my neighbor on the train. I'm just…somewhere in the middle. I have no idea where. Any openings for that?

Labels: Stories

"The United States themselves are essentially the greatest poem."
---Whitman

We're safe and sound in SF, where we're staying with Robyn until Friday morning. I'll write about our stay in The City when it's over. Had a good drive today, stopped by the 49ers team headquarters in Santa Clara and saw where the new stadium is going to go up, which was cool. We also drove through Stanford, which was a surprisingly nice school; I always imagined it being as ugly as USC, but up north, and it's not that way at all. We also stumbled upon the Google headquarters, had our car valeted (for free) and asked the Visitors Lobby guy if we could tour around. He said they had a closed campus policy in a very embarrassed tone, then gave us free Naked Juice and sent us on our way. We poked around as we left: I want to work for Google! They give you free Google Bikes, and the complex is like it's own city. While we were there, Shar and I were probably broken down into streams of pure information and cataloged somewhere. Oh well.

Also, today we started our On the Road audiobook, and I've begun rereading Leaves of Grass. We also bought the brand new Vonnegut book, which is splendid and heartbreaking. It's a heady time.

Next: SF!!!!

Labels: Road Trip

Here is how it happened. For two decades afterward, I didn't shed a single tear. They bubbled and boiled in my throat and threatened to tip over, but they didn't. Then one day, without any particular cause, a teardrop, dark and angry, slipped out of my eye and fell and landed on my breast, and festered there, and grew horrid and blackened and disgusting. It burned me, burned deep into me until it had burrowed a deep, narrow tunnel. From where you stand, the hole must have looked like a pinprick, but in my body, all around it, it was like a great chasm that ran all the way in to my very soul. It was freezing.

I tried to fill it, with a laundry list of things, most of which were good for filling most holes. I poured in the advice of friends and lovers and ex-lovers, the beautiful lies of books and songs, the hard acid of booze, the chalky stink of cigarettes and the exploding rainbows of hallucinogens, and I tried to fill it with sex, with men and with women, with anger and violence and blood, and I tried to fill it with the open road, and the wispy vapors trailing from an airplane, and finally, when it could not be filled, I tried to dive into it, with pills and with gases and a noose. But it would not take me. Not then.

Now it has taken me. Now it has grown, and I have shrunk, until somewhere in the middle I became the chasm and the chasm became me. And we have each other. And there is nothing else.

Labels: Stories