"I don't want this to sound as morbid as it will," I said to my wife.

We were one of less than a dozen people in a bar as a long-haired country singer named Corey Michael sang on stage. We sat at the corner sipping our drinks and exhaling after two days of driving.

My wife raised her eyebrows and expected the worst. When I start getting morbid, she tends to laugh. It's a defense mechanism, I guess.

Around the corner of the bar, a guy with a sleeveless t-shirt and five o'clock shadow ordered a shot of Goldschlager, seemingly for no other reason than the bartender had a bottle. He turned up the drink and walked out alone a few minutes later.

This was the first time I'd been to New Orleans since Hurricane Katrina. In fact, it was the first time I'd been since 1998. I didn't know what to expect. I found that the original Tropical Isle was moved across the street in 2004, complete with a jazz funeral. I found that all the buildings looked newer than they had in the past, likely the result of a post-hurricane paint job. I discovered that Hand Grenades still taste the same, there is still a Lucky Dog vendor on most corners, and that there are still guys there who will try to run the old "I bet I can tell you where you got those shoes" con. It was, in short, a freshly painted version of the same place I'd been so many times before.

Corey was more talented than he should be, especially to have been playing in a bar on a Wednesday afternoon. The rumor had it that he had done some sort of American Idol work before moving to the Quarter to play five nights a week for $20 a set plus tips. I guess there are worse jobs. Before we left, we tossed a sizable tip in his jar and wished him well.

We would see similar stories up and down Bourbon Street. Our last stop of the night, in fact, we listened to a rather good funk band until they closed up shop. When the set was over, I felt compelled to buy the guitarist a beer. Color him unsatisfied with the gig. It was just a way to make money. The next night, he was sitting in at the House of Blues for a band I'd never heard of. That's the thing about New Orleans. Whether it was a classic rock cover band, a funk crew, or a lonely singer song writer, everybody there is better than the best bar bands of just about any city you go to.

Throughout what would prove to be a fantastic five days in southern Louisiana, I saw much and ate more--countless sausages, crawfish, gulf shrimp, a 20 oz. bone-in ribeye, shrimp and grits, gumbo, etouffee, jambalaya, you name it. I had some good New Orleans coffee, which I miss when I'm not there. Hell, my buddy Uncle Ted even sweet talked a waiter at Dickie Brennan's into giving up his "Otis" name tag. It was a nearly perfect trip.

That made what I said just a few hours into it all the more strange. My wife sat at the corner of the bar, her shirt the same color as her drink. She sipped and started taking on that smile-laced glazed look that lets me know she has relaxed. No, I didn't want to make it sound as morbid as it was going to, but I didn't have much choice.

"If you ever decide to leave me and take everything that means anything to me," I said, "this is where I will probably come to drink myself to death."

She shook her head in a way only she can.

Yeah, it sounded more morbid than it should've.


Done riding
More photos from the trip on my Flickr page

Labels: New Orleans, Travel

I couldn't get comfortable.

Something was wrong. We crossed Lake Pochatrain and my wife pointed out how bad the railraod bridge looked. I was dealing with spitting rain, bad traffic, and a bad case of tension. The city felt sterile and too new. I wanted to turn around.

Ten minutes later, we drove underground at the Royal Sonesta and found a parking spot that beat me like no other. I tried five times before giving up and moving somewhere else. This wasn't the laid back New Orleans I knew.

Finally, we walked for half an hour and reacalimated ourselves to the city we once knew as our own. When the Tropical Isle was on the wrong side of the street, I nearly suggested we go home. We learned later that it moved, complete with a New Orleans-style jazz funeral, in 2004. That made me happier than I'll be able to express right now.

I thought the city had given me up after my nine-year absence.

It only took three hours before I walked down the street with the feeling like I'd lived here for years. I've only been in town for five hours, but I'm 100% at home. As for why, that's a story for another time.

Tonight, we dine on nostalgia at NOLA. It was the place we ate when I got my first TV job. Tonight, we'll eat with the knowledge that television is long behind us. Better yet, our life is ahead uf us.

With lots to say and still lots to do, I'm not going to spend a lot of time on the wax tonight. Suffice it to say, we're in New Orleans and we're home.

Labels: Travel

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ANDERSON COUNTY, SC--Interstate 85, the major artery that runs from Atlanta, GA, through Upstate, South Carolina, and into to the northern reaches of the Southeast is a wet mess today. It is Mad Max dangerous, despite it running slower than it usually does. Nine years ago--back when I lived in this county, the stretch of four-lane interstate was home to the worst car wrecks I ever saw. It's not a backwoods county, but it was good ol' boy enough that I, for better or worse, ended up too close to the accident scenes. The most vivid memory is standing over a body bag as it was opened up. Inside was the top half of a human body, burned down to the bone. It was a kid on his way to college at UVA. His mom died in the same wreck, despite being in a different car. I still can't stop seeing it. It's been nearly a decade. Worse, though, I think was the girl who nearly had her head cut off by a car that crossed the center divider and went airborne. I spent a lot of time on invesitgations into why the state hadn't installed cable barriers in the too-thin medians. Eventually, after I saw more than my share of dead people, the state got its act together and installed cable or cement carriers for most of the length of this interstate in South Carolina.

Today, we denizens of Mt. Otis are on I-85 in Anderson County and headed south. My mobile work station is set up in the passenger seat, allowing me to maintin an online presence for my employers while still making tracks. It's a double-edged sword, this ease-of-working set-up. While it allows me to get some work done, it also puts the wife behind the wheel. She's a relatively safe driver, but also likes to nararrate the drive. We're seeing the same thing out the windows, but...well, we'll leave it at that. I'm tired and cranky and probably not the best traveling companion right now, either. Regardless, it's snowing now. Snowing chicken feathers, anyway. You'd have to see it to appreciate it.

Indeed, every breathing thing in the house came with is. The wife is decked out in a velour PokerStars jumpsuit. I'm in cargo pants and a two-layers of t-shirty goodness. The kid is kicked back in his car seat and watching The Incredibles. The dog, Scoop, is stoned out of her damned mind on tranquilizers. We won't be in Anderson County for long. Our journey is a week long and will take us through every state in the Deep South (unless you're one of those people who considers Florida part of the Deep South). Georgia is less on my mind than on the horizon.

More from there in a bit...(1:00pm ET)

HART COUNTY, GA--It's 92 miles to Atlanta and I'm hoping I've accidentally been knocked unconcious before we get there. Despite being the capital of the South and one of the most--if I dare say it--cosmopolitan cities within 600 miles, it's still Atlanta, which means it sucks sideways when it concerns anything involving travel. We have timed this trip to avoid anything resembling a rush hour. Still, we will slow down to a mere crawl when we pass through around 2:30pm. I know this because it's part of Atlanta's city charter.

So, why would we do this? Why would we load the car on a Tuesday and decide to travel across four states and back in a week? Why would we do this just a couple weeks removed from a ten-day work trip in the Bahamas. Well, it's a few things, really. First, I spend a few days every Janaury in Mississippi. Usually, I'm in Tunica playing poker. This year, circumstances made it such that that poker trip isn't happening. Still, the wife's family lives there, a scant few miles from where I used to live. Our first stop (not counting the six or seven bathroom stops we're sure to make) will be Jackson, Mississippi. That is about an eight-hour drive from Mt. Otis. After that, the wife and I will head down to New Orleans and hole up in the Royal Sonesta on Bourbon St. while we wait for several friends to make it in from out of town. After that it's marriage for one of our closest friends.

That's the real reason we are navigating through a rainstorm in 33-degree temperatures. When we left the house, it was 35 degrees outside. Now, it's 33 and threatening to drop more. The only thing hot in this county is the TOPLESS, TOPLESS sign as you cross the border. The locals love that one. But, really, in an area of the country where bare knees can sometimes be seen as too titilating, a topless diner was really a stroke of genius. Pun not really intended, but I'm leaving it there anyway.

Despite working on just a few hours sleep, riding with a headache, and having to work from the passenger seat of an SUV, I'm actually really excited about making it to the Big Easy. Outside of places I've actually lived, New Orleans is top of the list in memories. From bignets at Cafe Du Monde, to the food/drink at Fat Harry's, to a big mess of crawfish on my buddy Al's back deck, New Orleans used to be the place I went when I was looking for a place that wasn't home, but welcomed me like like I was a native son every time. (1:41pm ET)

SUWANEE, GA--I can smell Atlanta.

Actually, I can smell the remains of the fast food we picked up on the way out of G-Vegas, but it's close enough. Sprawl means you can smell and feel Atanta a good 45 minutes before you get there. I sort of feel guilt for making the wive drive the first leg of this journey. If I were officially off work, I'd be driving all of it. So, now, I'm fielding instant messages and offering snide opinions that are probably ill-advised.

I should have better memories of Atlanta. I've spent many a good night there. Saw the Braves make the World Series one year. Saw the Cigar Store Indians play with the Reverend Horton Heat while simultaneiously challenging people to play pool for money and picking a fight with a dwarf in a leather jacket. Once sat around a bonfire for ebout eight hours playing guitar when it was 40 degrees outside.

Despite all that, my best memories of Atlanta have been on nights I didn't actually go there. Really, the best things about Georgia don't happen along I-85. To feel really at home in Georgia, one has to go to Athens. Or, better yet, go to Savannah and cross the bridge to Tybee Island. There you'll find a place you can call home, if even for a weekend.

I find it a little odd that I'm nostalgic for a place I've not yet left. I consider the Southeast my home and, when and if I leave, I'm gonna miss it.

All of it except Atlanta, anyway. (2:00pm)

ATLANTA, GA--Gotta find a way to distract myself from this for a few minutes. How about you meet Al?

Al was the first Jewish guy I knew--or, at least, he was the first guy I knew that I knew was Jewish. After meeting Al, I had a hard time understanding what all the hubub was about.

Al was from New Orleans, but was attending the University of Missouri when I got there. He was a year older than me, but took me under his wing quickly. With a deep New Orleans accent--the first I could really indentify as such--Al led me to my first Mardi Gras in Febraury 1993. I occasionally look back at the pictures at the 19-year-old version of me--slicked back hair, denim shirt, no wrinkles, 15 years younger and more naive than seems possible. Naive in New Orleans is better than you might think. You never expect the trouble you're about to get into, so you don't know to be wary of it.

I won't wax forever on that trip. Suffice it to say, it was a series of firsts for me. It was the frist time anyone had walked up with a paper grocery bag and dumped five pounds of crawfish in front of me. It was the first time--and certainly not the last--that I pulled the crawfish tail out with my teeth, then crushed the head between my fingers while sucking the juice into my mouth. It was the first time I saw girls randomly taking their clothes off for no good reason. It was the first time I--a guy who had never even seen illegal drugs--saw somebody fashion a pipe using nothing more than a pencil and a roll of tin foil.

Al took me back to New Orleans again after that and I owe him big for introducing me to one of my favorite places in the world. We lost touch about ten years ago. I don't know what happened to him or his other running buddies, G and Sal. Damn, but we had a good time together.

I've been to New Orleans a lot of times since then. It has never been as good as that first trip. In fact, a couple of times, it was downright bad. However, a majority of my time in one of America's greatest cities was perfect. I am having a hard time not getting overly excited about it.

It occurred to me last night, though, that this is the first time I've been married in New Orleans. My love and I have been there together before, but never as a married couple. Shouldn't be too diferent, should it? (2:20pm)

TALAPOOSA, GA--Well, Atlanta wasn't as bad as it could've been. There was only one tragic SUV rollover accident and we only slowed to 25mph twice. Now, we're back on fast highway. It's I-20 for us now all the way to Jackson. Apart from being exceedingly boring, I-20 is a very reasonable stretch of road. We pick it up in Altanta and will run it all the way across the Alabama border. From there, it's pine forests, the Talledega Speedway, a sleepy little town where--as a one-man-band TV guy--I once chased a cop killer, Birmingham, steel towns, the Mississippi border, lumber yards, and finally Jackson. On the scale of interestingness, it's way the hell away from driving up the Pacific Coast Highway, but a sight better than driving across I-70 from Missouri to Colorado. You can trust me on all three of these. No drive compares to the PCH for beauty. The only thing I've ever seen that comes close is the Blue Ridge Parkway in October. And nothing is more boring than driving across the Kanas Plains.

It appears now, as well, that we no longer have to worry about the weather. The sun is coming out and the temperature is up to 41 degrees. I figure we'll hit Jackson by 7pm CT. That's not too bad.

As the pine trees plow by, or we by them, I find myself thinking about the worst thing I ever saw in New Orleans. I'd just left the Tropical Isle on Toulouse and ended up in the midde of a massive street brawl. It was Mardi Gras 1994 and it was so crowded that any fight between two people was going to turn into a riot. I was happy to escape with no blood on me. I turned the corner onto Bourbon and walked a block or two up. I didn't have to worry about toppling over due to intoxication. The last few days before Fat Tuesday meant the streets were filled to capacity. Like always, I followed the crowd's cheers and gaze. Nearly everyone on the block was looking up at one balcony. That usually means there's a girl taking her clothes off. I stopped and looked up...just in time to see a guy climb up on a balcony rail and scream "Woooooooooooo-hooooooooooooooo!" And then, completely against his will, and in line with how gravity usually works, the guy fell off the second story balcony and to the ground. I don't know how the crowd hushed quick enough for us to hear the guy hit the ground, but it did. If you've heard the old saying about a sack of potatoes...well, that was what it sounded like.

The guy was alive when the dragged him by me. His eyes were open anyway.

For the first time ever or since, I sobered up immediately. You just don't see something like that every day.

I walked a couple more blocks down when a girl ran full-chest into me.

"I'll kiss you for those beads," she said, pointing to one of the 100 strands I had around my neck.

I shrugged. "Okay."

"But," she said, "No tongue. I don't want to get AIDS."

I shrugged again. "Okay."

And then the girl stuck her tongue in my mouth anyway. (3:15pm ET)

TALLADEGA NATIONAL FOREST, AL--What sucks about Alabama is...well, that's just the start of the joke I'm not prepared to tell. Alabama gets a bad rap. I think it's guilt by association, what with it being so close to Mississippi and all. Alabama is actually a really pretty state. It would, however, be a lot prettier if it managed to keep its roadsides free of litter. We're now doing 75mph through the Talladega Natonional Forest, specifically, just crossing the border into Calhoun County and we're seeing a lot more trash than one should see. Here in just a bit, I'm going to take over the wheel and barrel as fast as is safe toward Jackson. The quicker I get there, the quicker I make it to Louisiana.

The previous entry here paints New Orleans with a rather ugly brushstroke. It's not always that way. Mardi Gras, I assume especially in the days before Hurricane Katrina, is an insane time in the French Quarter. It's no place for a kid and it's not really a place for anybody over 40. It's easy to get hurt. The rest of the time, though New Orleans is a place where one can lose himself temporarily or permanently, and do so quite happily. If you ever go, here's your must-do list:

See the Preservation Hall Jazz Band

Have a sandwich with extra debris at Mothers

Have bignets at Cafe du Monde

Drink at least one hand grenade at the Tropical Isle

Watch people sing karaoke at Cat's Meow

Have real New Orlean's BBQ shrimp

Eat oysters

Have a poboy

Go for a wash and drink at Checkpoint Charlies

Bonus points:

Spend an hour in Oz

Spend 15 minutes in The Dungeon

Spend half an hour in a Bourbon Street strip club

Sadly, I'm already regretting how little time I'm spending in New Orleans on this trip. I'm also already a little hungover from the bachelor party I'm attending...on Thursday. 2:41pm CT

EMBRY, AL--I don't get motion sickness. While that's not entirely true and a few guys who were on a North Sea ferry with me in 1997 might have a couple of stories, I don't get motion sickness. I've ridden in cars, trucks, planes, trains, boats, helicopters, and, verily, blimps and I've never thrown up.

Right now, that could change.

Alabama's road contractors decided to see if they could come up with a notion that overstepped failure. You know that motorboat sound you make if someone does the chop suey massage on your back? That was the noise we made for five miles while trying to talk. I feel like hell.

The road leading to Pell City and Birmingham has finally smoothed out, but I've lost my desire to look at a computer screen for a while. I'm going to fight for the steering wheel. If I succeed, I suspect the wife will take over the live blogging duties over at In Search of Walden. Note: Walden is most certainly NOT in Alabama. If she decides she'd rather listen to more 80s music, you'll hear from us again on the other side. Later, all.(3:05pm CT)

Labels: Travel

I'll admit, my first and final post from the Bahamas was a bit bleak. It was one of those times when I should've just hit delete and waited until I got home. However, I use this blog to help me remember the high and low points in my psyche, so it remained. Thanks to all the people who e-mailed pep talks.

Despite it all, though, there were more than a few interesting things that happened while I was gone. I don't even know if I feel like writing about them. Here are just a few highlights to help me remember that, if anything, this life introduces me to some very interesting and fun people.

***

The lounge is no more than a hotel bar during most weeks. This week, however, it is home to some of the most ridiculous gambling and drinking in the world. I made it my home away from home in the few hours I wasn't working. One night, I sat with my friend B.J. and several other friends. B.J. had been given an uninflated soccer ball and was trying to inflate it with his mouth. I offered him 10-1 on $50 that he couldn't blow it up enough to make it roll across the floor. He didn't take the bet...and then proceeded to blow up the ball with his mouth. In this case, I got lucky to not lose $500, while still seeing the feat performed. I'll just let you guess how he did it.

***

It was going on 2am and I was standing on a balcony overlooking a harbor full of yachts that cost more than my entire neighborhood. I was talking to two guys, neither of whom are American or live on the same continent. As you might guess, the subject of obscene wealth came up. We wondered aloud how we would handle ourselves if we had enough money to buy and maintain one of the yachts. One of the guys said that his aunt and uncle had become unexpectedly very wealthy and later wished they had not.

"If you don't mind me asking," I said, "how did they earn their money?"

"They invented Trivial Pursuit."

***

For the first time in seven days, I was sitting down for a real meal. My wife and I had been invited by a friend and his girlfriend. They were a good couple. I'd known the guy for a long time, but was just getting a chance to chat up the lady. As the conversation wound through every topic you might imagine, the subject of musical festivals and hippies came up. The girl revealed that she had spent the first five years of her life on The Farm, the nation's longest-running hippie commune. I couldn't help but be a little surprised. I might have even been an little incredulous. By the end of the night, however, I was not. By the time the wife and I were wiping the sand off our feet and changing clothes for the night, I felt better about the entire week.

Despite it all--the long hours, thankless work, and obscene disregard for money--I get to meet and hang out with some really interesting people.

And sometimes I think it's all worth it.

Labels: Gambling, Poker, Travel

I'm currently involved in medicine's version of finding Jesus in a foxhole. Last night saw me use the swab and spray version of Zicam. I also pounded a glass of Airborne. Do I think these remedies work. No. Am I willing to believe they work as long as they don't keep me from getting sick this weekend? Absolutely.

This will be the fourth consecutive year I've taken this trip. In 2004, I had a ball. In 2005, I didn't feel so great. In 2006, I got "just kill me now" sick. This year, I'm doing everything I can to get back as close to 2004 standards as I can.

If you're not a parent, you might not understand how hard this can be. The boy brings home two or three monkey viruses a month and between October and February remains in a semi-constant state of Centers for Disease Control attention. I thought I was in good shape when I got sick earlier this year. You know, antibodies and all. However, and maybe it is just my imagination, but I'm feeling a little stuffy, little scratchy, and a little bleh. Therefore, I'm in my foxhole and drinking zinc gluconate by the gallon.

Further compounding the problem, I am not at all focused on tasks that need attention. As a traveling companion wrote me this morning of his anticipatory glee, "I'm like a kid on Christmas eve. With ADD." Regardless, I am a year older today and am trying my best to act like the responsible human being I am supposed to be.

I'm going to be semi-off-grid for the next four or five days. Any news from the trip will take place in the Twitter feed to the left or, in the event of cell phone pics, in the Buzznet feed at the bottom-left.

I leave you with nature's birthday gift to me. For exactly three minutes yesterday, the sky was exactly as you see it below. Not so bad at all.

Labels: Health, Travel

I, for one, believe we aren't all that stupid. Oh sure, there are those among us who still die in lawnchair accidents or end up in the ER because they "accidentally sat down" on the remote control. Those, however, are the exceptions. If we human types weren't that smart, I wouldn't be able to digitally record my favorite programs while holiday shopping online and IMing with my wife from across the room. These are the things--not to be mention the artificial heart and and Platinum Coil Embolization technique--that let me know I live in a society that has a future. Hell, I just learned a few minutes ago that there is a service that will let everyone who knows me know where I am at any given second. That sounds like a real treat.

And yet...

My laptop battery (less than one year old) is completely shot

My wife's laptop battery (less than one year old) has somehow fried her touchpad and keyboard

Guitar Hero 3 users are saying en masse that their controllers don't work right

Vista sucks even more balls than I thought it did

American Airlines computer system and employees have the same amount of intelligence (tonight I asked for my boarding pass for the third time and the gate agent--a fifty-something lady--muttered mysteriously "Oh, shit" before sending me away for a couple of minutes)

Every DVD player I have ever purchased has died or bugged out on me

These are just things that I have come up with off the top of my head. I'm too fried right now to get into this too deeply. Hell, if I did, Blogger would probably eat my post.

Techno-tilt sucks.

Labels: Computers, Travel

1. There is a big difference in doing something because you want to and doing something because you have to.

2. There is a nearly equal difference between Johnny Walker Red and Macallan 18.

3. Some people are just assholes and losers. Time taken to remind them of both attributes is time well-spent.

4. Farm-raised sea bass is not always the same thing as Chilean sea bass. Also, cous cous is sometimes the size of a peppercorn.

5. You might not think honey and coconut milk would be part of a good meal, especially when combined. You'd be wrong.

6. When you hear your kid talk about the size of his excretions and it makes you a little misty, it's time to go home to the family.

I'm headed back to the fort in about 14 hours. It's been a good and revealing six days of solitude. For those who have asked...

a) No, I'm not converting to Scientology
b) No, I'm not yet gay
c) No, my wife has not yet figured out how smart it would be to divorce me.

All is well and getting better every day.

Labels: Travel

Dear Federales,

I can only guess you didn't care if I noticed. I mean, it was 6am in my little suburban neighborhood. Nobody, not even the old lady who stays up late smoking and drinking sherry, was awake. I was the only car pulling out of the cul-de-sac at 6:13am. So, your man in the black Crown Vic didn't go unnoticed. His black sunglasses in the middle of the night did the rest to give him away. Federales, thinking they gotta look all federal.

So, follow me if you like. We're going to be among just a few cars on state 25 north through the Blue Ridge foothills. If you're confused about my almost immediate stop in Traveler's Rest, it's because none of us have eaten in 13 hours. Sure, we maintain a lot of disdain for McDonald's, but that's not going to stop us from getting a couple Egg McMuffins to fuel us through the mountain drive. Sure, you hang back. I'll pretend I don't notice you. It's too peaceful to care anyway. The sun isn't going to come up for an hour or so, the kid is watching his DVD player, the dog is sedated, and the wife is knocked out on some sort of therapeutic pillow. Me, I'm listening to XM-12 X-Country. I'm not unconvinced that this alone isn't the reason you're following me in the first place.

You, like me, are probably happy we left so early in the morning. It means we're going to miss rush hour in Asheville. Sure, it doesn't seem like it would be a big deal, but the drive on I-26 into the Southeast's coolest city can be a real bear in the mornings. Zipping through there at 7am means we're going to be outside of Knoxville by 8:30. It also means we're going to watch the sunrise in our rearview mirrors. If you struggle with believing in a higher power, as most people do, your first stop should be a sunrise in Appalachia. It's not going to make you believe in God, but it's going to make you wish you did. Oh, yeah. The God issue. That might be the reason you're following me.

I feel fairly confident in my driving as I cross the Tennessee line, but less so after I absolutely demolish a fearless squirrel. Sure, it was just a hapless rodent, but seeing it flatten and spin as it went from the front of my car to the back was a little odd. Being forced to look back, though, I noticed your Crown Vic was gone. A black SUV fell in behind me. Black SUV? Are you kidding me? Are you just trying to be cliche? Should I be looking up for the black helicopters, too? Listen, I'm driving a lot more today. Wouldn't it be easier just to track my cell phone and then fly to meet me? It's not like I'm going to do anything that could threaten democracy, the church, or Haliburton in the next 600 miles. This whole, "Make me feel like Henry Hill with the gravy on the stove and a noseful of blow" bit may be fun for you, but it's a little much for me.

I need gas. And a soda. Halfway between Knoxville and Music City, I pull the family mover into a place call the Bean Pot. At the counter, the lady tells me to have a "super Thursday and a great winter day." I had barely noticed that summer had somehow turned to fall in the last 24 hours. Back on the road, I think I've figured out the federale tail. There are four laptops in this vehicle and explaining all of them to the authorities might be difficult. I remember when the polygamist guru from Salt Lake finally got nabbed, the federales made a big deal out of the fact he had way too many laptops with him. Well, so do I. And that's probably why you're following me. Does it worry you that I've now moved to the passenger seat and have achieved Internet access and have a power source juicing this machine? Yeah, it probably does.

Behind a cattle truck, the wife expresses a little concern for the cows.

"I hope they shoot them up before the put them in there. It's gotta be a little disconcerting," she says.

"I'm sure they get used to it," I say.

"Well, I doubt they ride the trailer more than once," the wife says ominously.

And with that, we're in Music City.

(10:43am CT) -- I am opposed to parkways, loops, bypasses, and the like. However, in the interest of saving time on what is already going to be a long drive, I have chosen to follow a piece of my dad's advice and hopped on Briley Parkway. It looks brand new and, at least in the first couple of miles, is making Nashville look like every other city I've seen.

"Hey, look," my wife says with no small amount of bemusement, "Bass Pro."

Back when I was a kid in Skokie, Illinois Springfield, Missouri, Bass Pro was just a local place with taxidermied bears and a big fish tank (not to mention a lot of effin' boats). Now, you can't go to a major Southern city without seeing a Bass Pro outlet.

This is why I'm opposed to parkways. I just missed seeing Nashville in favor of saving some time. In the long run, I'm sure I'll have the chance again (like, five days from now), but it's this kind of progress that makes America boring. The fact that I'm writing this from said Parkway is probably the reason I can't see you following me anymore. Federale rules, I suspect, mandate covert tailing when dealing with a guy who bad mouths capital P Progress.

To offset the potential Gitmo offense, I make a Monkees joke as we take the exit for Clarksville.

11:19am CT--Now in the Middle of Nowhere, TN, you might think I'd be happy, what with my Luddite tendencies and general disdain for suburban sprawl. However, it's a bit boring. The lack of anything to look at (including your agents--where are They?) have left me to write and send a report for work, send some money I owe someone, and check up on the news. I'm doing all of this from a laptop at 75mph on I-24. While the kid watches "Cars" on the built-in DVD screen. While the wife listens to her iPod on a FM modulating device (Charlie Robison' "Barlight") and the dog sleeps in the backseat.

See, it's not progress that bothers me, Mr. Man. It's your means to this end. Yes, I want economic success. Yes, I want rapidly-advancing technology. Is the current state of America what I have to pay for my little toys and convenience? If so, I'll give it back. Pull me over right now, confiscate my four laptops, my Blackberry, and all of our Pixar DVDs. Leave me with the acoustic guitar in the back and enough gas to get home and we'll be fine.

This technology isn't perfect. Mapquest.com did its best to send me 70 miles out of my way in an effort to keep me off a country road for 20 minutes. Even good progress ain't perfect. Now, when I'm doing the Pee-Pee Dance, I'd kill for...well, I guess since we're doing this little "You follow me and I pretend it doesn't bother me" thing, I shouldn't be talking about what I'd kill for.

12:02pm CT--Very clever, Mr. Federale. Old ladies? I never would've guessed you'd employ some post-retirement chicas to keep tabs on me. Fast food and bathroom stop and I'm barely out of my car when an old lady pops from her vehicle and says, "Do you know how to work this?" I think she called it a grommet. Either I mis-heard her or she mispronounced the name of her GPS navigation device.

"I'm sorry, ma'am" I said, giving her the "I know you're a G-Lady" look. "Our car doesn't have one of those."

The lady looked at my laptop and the obviously working Internet service.

"Okay, then," she said. I get the sense that she has slipped a bug in my car and I vow not to say much until I can sweep it at our next stop.

It makes me feel no better when my wife suggests a few miles down the road that we pull off at Ft. Campbell to protest the war.

"Probably not a good idea," I said, checking in the rearview for the ladies

"Peaceful protest," she said. "Throw some limp french fries at the gate?"

I didn't answer. The wife belched loudly, and then said to herself, "That was hot."

As if to answer her, two helicopters appeared on the horizon, obviously from Ft. Campbell. They're desert camouflaged and have double rotors As I struggled to remember the name of helicopters with double rotors, the dog barked. It was the first angry noise she'd made since we left G-Vegas.

"Helicopters are probably wigging her out," the wife said.

"I can't hear them," I said, thinking and I'm obviously a little sensitive today.

"Yeah, but you don't have dog ears," the wife said. Again, it was logic with which I couldn't argue.

I tried to wrench my son's attention from Toy Story 2. My sudden screams of, "D! Helicopters! Helicopters! Helicopters!" probably sounded worse to the surveillance team than the war protest, limp french fries or not.

12:46pm CT--"I will not be picking up anyone along this stretch of road," the wife said out of nowhere.

We had just passed the Lake Barkley Classic Car Museum aong I-24. It was the first structure I'd seen in miles that hadn't been a rusted or rotten barn. A sign promised Elizabethtown in two miles. As I wondered if the town had anything to do with the movie I didn't see (really, it can't be...who would make a movie about Western, Kentucky?), I wondered why the wife was spontaneously refusing to pick up hitchhikers.

"Prison nearby?" I asked.

"Yep," she said.

By now, we've just about finished our time in Kentucky. As we cross into Marshall County over the Tennessee River, the wife's iPod plays "Livin' on a Prayer" (not my fault--driver gets to pick the music) and the wife mumbles, "I hope this isn't among the 70% of sub-standard bridges in America."

I'm neither killed by the bridge or Bon Jovi. When the wife utters out of nowhere, "My ass is starting to hurt. I have restless leg syndrome!" I know it's about time for me to take over the wheel again. I've lost sight of the federales, if they were ever there at all. I feel better about the idea of driving. Plus, we'll be back to X-Country on XM radio. That's worth it right there. Here in a bit, we're going to cross into southern Missouri. Provided that part of the world has cell towers, I'm going to turn this over to the wife. She or may not begin it with the line she just mutterered too me while pointing at a 4x4 truck driver.

Check in over here in an hour or so.

Labels: Travel

I know, I know. The Mental Massage is supposed to happen on Fridays. I mean, who goes for a mental rubdown on Wednesday? Well, as I mentioned before, this week and the next few are going to be a little odd and more than a little busy for me. At the time I should be mentally massaging on Friday, I'm likely going to be somewhere on I-44. So, just in case I can't make it back to the blogging machine, here's a quickie.

Devon Epps--I really expected to wake up this morning and see a lengthy piece in the Greenville News about Devon Epps. Today marks the one-month mark since the seven-year-old Greenville County boy was asphyxiated. While his mother, Amanda Smith, maintains a knife-wielding maniac sprang from the shadows, forced her from her car, and smothered her son with a pillow, there have been no arrests and no suspects publicly identified. Of course, the one-month mark is rather arbitrary, and in the investigative process means absolutely nothing. However, I think it does serve as a reminder to everybody that this case is still open.

Previous Coverage:

Reading between the lines of Devon Epps' death

Devon Epps, Amanda Smith and the difficulties of reporting crime news

Devon Epps: Scene of the Crime?

Rapid Eye Reality coverage of Epps case makes it to print

Devon Epps: Waiting

Devon Epps: Pictures

September 11th--Also missing, I felt, from this week's news at large was much news coverage of the sixth anniversary. Again, anniversaries are little more than a date. However, every time the date 9/11 comes up, I can't help but think that September 11th should receive some sort of recognition. There is no date in my life that holds greater significance and I think that's even more true for many, many more people. Am I wrong to think there should be some nationally recognized day on 9/11? I hesitate to call it a holiday, because it is not a day of celebration. However, if we're going to take a day off to recognize our Presidents, Columbus, and the day or day declared its independence, we might consider federally marking the day the America changed forever.

Truckin'--I simply don't promote my buddy Pauly's literary 'zine here enough. He's been running this thing for what seems like forever and has been kind enough to ask me to write for him. I should be promoting it every month, and not just the months he publishes something I wrote. But, since he published something I wrote...well, here's this month's Truckin' (my piece is a typo-ridden and comma-splicey rumination on why airports sell condoms in their bathrooms).

1. Monk's Siberian Dream by Paul McGuire
Brain dead. Deep into the sixth day of a foggy bender, I had forgotten the day of the week. Frisatursunday? I’d successfully lost time. The demoralizing result was that my conversational skills had dwindled down to a few muttering sentences... More

2. The Rubber-less Traveler by Brad "Otis" Willis
Breathless, confused, and sick to my stomach, I arrived at the British Airways gate and looked at the departure board. The flight was delayed for an hour. This is how I travel. I run to nowhere to fly to somewhere where I see little, do much, and find myself asking questions like, "Why do they sell condoms in airport bathrooms?" ... More

3. It's Not Like I'm Dishonest; Honest by May B. Yesno
I'm a private investigator. A damn good private investigator. I have a wife, a very expensive wife. She likes the good things in life. We're matched. I like good things too... More

4. Coming Home by B Kemp
Some of my former friends think that she is using me for my money. It doesn't seem right to them that a man my age would "throw it all away," leaving my career for a life of unpredictability and adventure. My old friends are naturally suspicious of younger women wanting to spend their money, rightfully so I suppose... More

5. The Confetti of Life by Sean A. Donahue
I read the love letters that my grandfather sent to his wife. I could see the tears in my grandmother's eyes as she read them, touched them for one last link to him. I shed many a tear today, ones that no one saw, because I left the room before they fell... More

Roadie--Not sure what, if any, excitement the pending road trip will offer. Anything of note, interesting or not, will appear in the Twitter and Buzznet feeds. Oh, and because I've turned into a guy who has to be connected 95% of the time, I have outfitted the gas guzzling family mover into a mobile office. I could conceivably travel 100% of the time and never be away from work.

Now, there, friends, is an idea.

Labels: Devon Epps, Mental Massage, Travel, Writing

This was not Las Vegas. It was, but it most certainly wasn't. I'd just left a valet named Dan standing in the dark parking lot of a place on the corner of Paradise. He had my cell number and I had his. That night, he was going to get hooked up and my friends were going to get hooked up and it seemed like all was well.

I had a different kind of urge in Las Vegas. I didn't need what everybody else in Vegas was looking for: drugs, women, or a casino host monitoring my every bet. I needed to get out while staying in. I needed to see something different. For one night only, I had taken on the role of making sure everybody was having a good time. We were a silly group, bound to not get in trouble unless we tried.

"What do you know about the Double Down?" I had asked the valet.

Dan rolled his eyes. "People in all black. Loud."

His words were meant as discouragement. He really wanted to get on with calling his buddy in the stretch limo so they could start divvying up the kickbacks and making me think they were doing me a huge favor, when in fact, they were just passing a little of their deal on to me. Price of doing business.

"Perfect," I said and told him my friends would be back in an hour and half to make good on the little deal we'd just struck.

So, there I was, leading a dozen guys--only two of them already messy enough to begin qualifying us for any Dirty Dozen discounts--down a dark side street and toward a place called the Double Down Saloon. My friend Joe Speaker had recommended it to me. The dive called itself the anti-Vegas, and after spending two months in Sin City already this calendar year, I wanted anything that wasn't Vegas. What's more, I wanted to make sure my friends saw more than the lions at the MGM.

Even though my back was turned to all of them, I felt the group pull back as soon as the place came into view. It was small, barely lit, and looked like the type of place where a knife fight might actually be something you could order from the bartender. The first off-strip place we'd hit, we actually ran into Mr. T. In this place, I figured we stood a better chance of seeing George Peppard, despite his fatal 1994 pneumonia.

The Double Down was packed and about the size of a bathroom in a Strip Vegas hotel. A band played in the corner, loud and shredding enough to make me wish I'd remembered to pack Advil. I looked on the wall where signs advertised the Bacon Martini and Ass Juice. Two girls dressed in all black looked as us as we walked through the door.

"Who invited the frat party?"

I stopped short. "Frat party?" I looked back at the guys behind me. Sure, Marty, the bachelor, no longer had bright red punk hair. Sure, my hair has been cropped back from shoulder length to a manageable mess. But frat party? That was just insulting.

"We're the farthest thing from a frat party," was all I could really manage over the noise. I started pointing at my friends. "Doctor, D.A., Bar Owner..." When I realized I was making her case for her, I shut up and ordered four Bacon Martinis.

"What's in it?" I asked the bartender over the lead singer's scream.

The guy looked at me like I was his mother. "Bacon and vodka."

That's when a calm started to come over me. The chicks at the bar were rude. The bartender was rude. The guy at the front door had been rude. Not once since we had crossed the property line had someone offered me a timeshare brochure, a drink in a yard-long glass, or show tickets at a show in exchange for just a few minutes of my time. The bartender poured like he was drinking the mess himself and not like he learned by watching Tom Cruise in Cocktail.

The drinks came across the bar at me. I took a sip and felt my gorge rise. Perfectly disgusting.

I handed my drink to my brother and said, "Make sure somebody else drinks that." I walked over to the corner of the room. There was no stage, save a small riser for a drum kit to rest. Four natty old couches made the boundary for the musicians to play. I collapsed on one with a cold beer in my hand and watched the next band set up.

For the next hour or so, I watched three guys in neckties rock out. I learned later they were the members of SKORCHAMENZA, a band that's been tearing up Vegas for the past several years. I left a little while later with a good memory and three pictures on my cell phone.


The men's room of the Double Down Saloon


Justin Vega, SKORCHAMENZA guitarist


SKORCHAMENZA drum kit, pre-show

Las Vegas is one of those odd places on earth where everything looks different, but everything is pretty much the same. The city itself is much different than most places in the world, but after you're there for a while, it's almost impossible to find anything that will make you say, "Heh, how about that? That's something different."

The Double Down Saloon was one of those rare places. Sure, I was just a tourist there for a couple of hours. I stayed just long enough to enjoy it, but not long enough to make the locals start worrying we were going to ruin their joint--a brief diversion accented by loud music, bad booze, and a staff that didn't give a damn whether I was there.

I never tried the Ass Juice.

Maybe that will be an adventure for another day.

Labels: Las Vegas, Travel

I'm always the guy who vows to keep in touch. I'm the guy that grasps hold of a true friendship and refuses to cede control to the forces of time. Of course, I'm one of the world's worst at actually keeping in touch. I abhor speaking on the phone, I'm not much for instant messaging, and my life is so full of professional travel that I rarely get back to see my old friends. When geography gets in the way, it takes real effort to make sure friendships don't change or fall apart.

Over the years, though, I've been fortunate enough to develop friendships with people who share a love for the road and none-too-casual leanings toward mischief. These people need not be named. You read about them here on a regular basis. One of those people is a guy I met almost exactly 15 years ago. One of the first things I remember him saying is, "I like my coffee black and bitter--like my life." Sure, he was pretty dark back then. In the past decade and a half, he's lightened up more than I ever thought possible. He's forgiven me when I needed to be forgiven and he's been there for me every time I needed it. The only other thing I require in a friend is an understanding of my adventurous spirit. This guy has always done me one better and hit the road with me.

I've been a lot of places with a lot of people over the years. I've got running buddies in a lot of states and few different countries. However, no one has seen more new places and sought out more mischief with me than Marty. We hit the road together the first time in 1993 on the first of what would be three trips to New Orleans. That year and the next, we went in the middle of Mardi Gras. After that, the only thing that ever stopped us was running out of money or time. And even those things sometimes didn't get in the way.

There were times over the years that Marty, our friends, and I would literally grab a map at 4am and ask, "Okay, so where are we going?" That usually worked out pretty well. When we did it one night in Scotland, it landed us in Inverness at a really odd hour. We were looking for Nessie and ended up on an overnight train ride with some drunk Canadian girls.

Now, 15 years later, I'm married with a kid, dog, mortgage and screwed up professional life. Still, Marty and I have managed to hit the road together at least once a year for the past several. And now what is doing? Well, my running buddy is going and getting married. Insert whatever jokes you like here. I can't find one in my head. His wife-to-be is a sweetheart and seems to be able to put up with Marty. Of one thing, I'm relatively sure: our travels will continue.

Still, this whole "running buddy getting married" thing has gotten me a bit nostalgic. I spent some time today thinking back on our trips and looking over some old pictures. I probably have a thousand photos from those old days. I'll post the ones that won't get us in trouble.


I-70 rest stop on way to what I think was a Cardinals game. We're all throwing the "Jerry Brown! Write him in!" hand gesture. I wish I remembered what started all that.


Marty having a theological discussion with a street preacher in New Orleans


Breckenridge, CO...I picked up the nickname Otis, my brother (not pictured) picked up a fantastic head wound, and Marty went punk (Ryan and Frank, also pictured, were neither wounded nor punk)


Punk pre-law


The same four guys on a ledge overhanging the North Sea. We randomly jumped off a train at an unscheduled stop because we liked the view


Checkpoint Charlies with Joey Two-Hands, Marty, and our late friend John


Marty, Frank, and Ryan in Paris, making sure everyone knows they are Americans


Marty in the Louvre


Scotland, 1997


No one ever said traveling was easy


Marty and Ryan in the stairwell of Museum of Science and Industry in Chicago


Marty with another Marty making up two parts of The House That Love Built's Trinity of Leisure hammock art (what we did when we stayed home)


Thinkin' man's chess after a ski trip


Vegas, 2002, with a group of hooligans that we call our friends


Marty, Scotland, 1997...I can't think of a more appropriate picture to end this

With less than a month to go before the nuptials, there is only one thing that makes sense. Sure, we could go to his town and follow some pre-marriage script. Or, we could do what we have always done and hit the road.

And, so, once more into the breach we go. It's not going to be a roadie this time, but, really, we're in our mid-30s now. We get in a car together, it's going to end up being some bad version of Old School. So, we'll skip the "drinking in the back seat and driving all night" portion of the show and just land in, well, of course, Las Vegas. After seven weeks there this summer, there's only one thing that would get me to go back, and this is it. And, of course, I wouldn't miss it for the world.

That's the good thing about the road. When it's your home, you're never far away from the people with whom you've shared it. I'm luckier than I can say to have shared it for so long with my running buddy, Marty.

So, here's to surviving this week and making it to the next dot on the map in the near future.

Labels: Travel

I haven't done the old Friday Mental Massage for a while, so let's get it all out, shall we?

Africa Hot--I spent most of my summer in Las Vegas. The temperature was in triple digits all the time. Sure, it was hot, but it wasn't miserable. This week, G-Vegas is, to quote Biloxi Blues, "Africa Hot." I started working on cleaning out my garage yesterday afternoon and gave up after half an hour. My wife and I took the kid to the pool. When I started sweating in the water, I knew it was time to go back inside.

So, I did what any reasonable guy does in such a such a situation. I went to a bar. Then a poker game. By 10pm, despite being in a room with central air conditioning and two fans, I was sweating like my friend T does on an 80 degree day. I left before I'd planned to and came home. Once in bed, I continued to sweat in my 72-degree house. Something was so obviously wrong with my body, I decided to not go outside today.

Guess who's back?--It's about time I say.

What? WHAT?--Well, let's see here...I've been wanting to take a particular trip for the past three years, but wasn't able to do it. Now when I really don't have the mental fortitude or time to do it, I've been asked to go on this ten day jaunt. Well, that was fast. Back you your regularly scheduled program. I'll be maintaining the schedule I'd intended for the next couple months.

That news alone has turned this massage into a beat down.

I'm just going to sit here and not go outside.

Labels: Mental Massage, Travel, Weather

I woke up Saturday morning in Portsmouth, Ohio at 8am. It's a depressing little town that sits in its own shadow. Once a thriving steel town, it now seems to exist on little but welfare and disability money. That might be overstating things a bit, but I don't think I'm far off. The houses there are all--or, I should say were all--beautiful. The architecture is fantastic and in my downtown area, the houses would start at half a million bucks. In Portsmouth, the houses are homes for broken people with broken bank accounts. No home I saw in the city proper look like it had been painted since I was born.

At night, the city is actually somewhat beautiful. The summer sky paints purple the train trestles and old brick buildings. The peeling paint and worn human faces all sit in the dark. The hills that surround the city loom overhead and it's worth a picture or two.

I didn't take any because I left my camera at home. I had a surprise work project pop up and my head was stuck with the idea that I would be working a 13-hour day on Sunday. So, after my wife's family reunion in the 100 degree heat, and a trip to the fire station so my wife's uncle could show L'il Otis the trucks, we got back on the road and traveled the eight hours home. Then the kid puked up two helpings of green beans, two ears of corn, and some BBQ ribs. In the car. Fifteen minutes from home.

By the time the kid was cleaned up and put in bed, it was nearly time to go to work. Before I finally fell asleep, I had been awake for around 39 hours. The only time I had ever been awake longer was during an ill-advised 40-something hour run in Las Vegas in December 2004.

So, when my wife shook me awake an hour and half later, I wanted to die. Not just go back to sleep. I wanted to die. The home alarm system apparently works, because--for reasons that I still haven't figured out--the back door came open. I stalked around the house wishing I'd bought that gun a few years back. No intruder appeared and I eventually went back to sleep.

And now, it's back to the grind. I probably have half a dozen things to write about, but I time is limited at the moment. Just wanted to drop in and make sure everyone knew I was still alive. Also, if you have the time, please send good thoughts out to my buddy Uncle Ted's dad. He's in a big surgery today and could use some good luck.

Finally, a couple of pictures. The first is of the boy at the small town firehouse this weekend (primarily because my wife is on a blogging break that I'm working to end). The second is blind to my buddy G-Rob and Ashley Judd.

Labels: Family, Travel

On a roadie with the fam and posting from the road. In fact, we're crossing the TN/KY state line this very moment.

I check in for only two reasons. First, please note the Twitter feed on the left. I can't promise to be interesting, but I can promise some semblance of blogging. Oh, and while you're at it, I've added a Buzznet feed at the bottom-left, because the idea of insta-publishing makes me feel all bloggy.

Second, we recently stopped in a place called Jellico, TN. Its most endearing quality was its name, which means I don't have to write eight paragraphs about whoever thought it was worth the time to scrape "FUK DRYERS" into the hand dryer in the BP bathroom.

Oh yeah, anyone need a blogger/writer/poker guy to mow their lawn or dog sit?

Labels: Travel

(Las Vegas, NV) She's an Asian woman who doesn't speak a ton of English, but I imagine her conversation in the housekeeping room of my floor goes like this.

Housekeeper #1: The boy in 012, he sick boy. He have problem.
Housekeeper #2: It's Vegas, everybody has problems.
Housekeeper #1: No, he sick boy! He masturbates! He cokehead! All day long!

I couldn't blame her for making the assumption that I'm a chronic masturbator and hooked on coke. On days when I can't clean up my room before I run out to work, I leave behind at least one empty bottle of lotion and a Kleenex that may or may not contain evidence of a nosebleed. There are days I should just keep the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the door.

The simple fact is, the evidence is confusing. I'm too tired to pleasure myself, and I don't use cocaine (the one thing I don't need in my life is another addiction). In truth, no matter how much water I drink, I can't stay hydrated. No matter if I drink no booze for 48 hours, I can't stay hydrated. The result is lizard-like skin and frequent nosebleeds. Nothing I can do.

This is not for a great effort to remain healthy in an environment that caters to being as unhealthy as possible. I'm even betting on how healthy I can be.

The main source of food during the 16-hour workdays here is something they call The Poker Kitchen. Cold food involves wraps and salads. Hot food ranges from burgers to stromboli. Last year, I pretty much ate one piece of over-cooked pizza a day. This year, my first day on the ground, I accepted a bet from Pauly that I couldn't last the full seven weeks without eating a slice. To this moment, I'm good. However, this is the first day I have been tempted.

I'm $30 to the good in what Pauly calls "Throwing Things" prop bets, in which one or the other of us tosses something (water bottles, matchbooks, a Milwaukee's Best show girl) into a container. Also so far this year, I have accepted no prop bets that require me eating or drinking anything. Last year, I made hundreds of dollars on those (note: crayons are easier than daiquiris and crackers).

In a dream world, I could set up a staged scenario in which the housekeeper walks in on me, Pauly, and six of our friends from South America. The room would be a snowstorm of cocaine and an oil slick of Jergens.

My first question to the maid would be, "Would you eat two Keno crayons for $400?"

"You sick boy! Sick boy!"'

Labels: Gambling, Las Vegas, Poker, Travel

(Las Vegas, Nevada) When my plane landed here, a crosswind threatened to send my American Airlines jet sliding into the dessert. I chalked it up to the odd gust and didn't think a thing about it. That was until a windstorm unlike any I've seen whipped up and threatened to destroy the World Series of Poker's overflow tent. I knew it had gotten bad when paramedics were brought it to see to a guy who was clipped by a piece of steel the size of a phone book.

That night, or morning as it was, I stood at my window looking out over the Nevada desert. The wind was blowing so hard, a constant whistle squeaked through the glass. It was unnerving enough to use it as the excuse for my sleeplessness.

Dr. Jeff was pretty straight forward in his prescription for my health at the World Series.

Less caffeine. NO RED BULL. NO SOBE. Less booze. More water. More fiber. 3 days a week on the treadmill for just 20 minutes.

I've been following his advice. I've cut my caffeine intake in half. I swore off Red Bull a while back. I'm not drinking like a fish. I'm consuming about 120 ounces of water a day. Fiber? Well, I'm eating, but not much. Treadmill? I'm on my feet for most of a 14 hour workday.

And so, why can't I sleep? Falling asleep is easy. Staying asleep is not. If I get three uninterrupted hours, I'm happy. In fact, until last night, I was getting about three hours of sleep a night. Last night, I pulled six hours and I feel, as you might expect, like a champ.

This work is not ideal for a family man. I've spent many a word lamenting the time I spend away from the family. I probably need to reflect more on that subject, but the environment here doesn't really allow for it. I learned last year, if I loosen the armor during the middle of the battle, I fall pretty quick. Today, I loosened it a bit and I'm quickly working to steel myself. It's too early to be going crazy. Enough on that for now.

The oddest thing so far this trip is what I can only assume is an acute case of dehydration. It's no fault of my own. I drink water in 24 ounce gulps. If I drank any more, I'd worry the health implications of drinking too much water. Still, even though I haven't been outside in the wind, my skin and lips are dry. Like a lizard...which is probably pretty fitting for the desert.

Recently, my wife and I have enjoyed a running joke about how too much work and writing actually hurts my vocabulary. "I'm out of words," I've been heard to say regularly. And that's sort of where I am right now.

I'm out of words.

Labels: Travel

(Las Vegas, Nevada)--I'd just accepted the fact that I wasn't going to eat for another ten hours when the pilot said Las Vegas temperatures were registering at 100 degrees. I was already steaming because the frail young steward wanted to charge me $3 for a bag of chips. What I didn't say--but wanted to--was "You know, I paid $25 for a cheeseburger in Monte Carlo. But, I'm not about to give you $3 for a bag of Lay's."

It didn't make sense to me, either. I'd been up for too long after sleeping too little.

One hundred degrees feels different in a 25 mph wind. It dries out your eyes and nostrils in about 30 seconds. By the time you make it into the cab with the Ukrainian taxi driver, the smell of air conditioned body odor is almost welcome.

"Rio," I said.

"How are you?" the driver said, his accent as thick as his moustache.

"Good. You?"

"Working," he said, like he was Atlas and the world had just borne another billion.

"I'm here to work, too," I said, hoping my empathy would ease whatever pressure he was feeling.

"There is a difference," he said. And then, almost to himself, "Pussies come out for a meeting..."

The Rio is purple, garnet, and blue, set against the Nevada mountains. The haze of scorched air and smog makes it look like a desert mirage. From the back seat of a 90 mph cab, it looks like the only thing on the horizon. And for me, it really is.

This place is the same as it ever was. The waitresses still know what we want to drink. The food in the diner is still the same. The view of the Gold Coast next door is only slightly lower, a product of ending up on the fourth floor instead of somewhere higher.

I didn't bother explaining to the cabbie that, regardless of whether I was a pussy, that I wasn't here for a meeting. I was here for the World Series of Poker.

And that's how things being here...a Ukrainian guy calling me a pussy and me trying to find a way to prove him wrong. I've been awake for 21 hours now, after sleeping for just a few.

I feel, oddly, at peace with my assignment and the prospects of the next few months.

That, friends, is how I jinx myself.

Labels: Poker, Travel

Last night, after an anniversary dinner with my wife (I really need to see the rest of the lobster that had a one pound tail), I took a walk through the downtown arts district of G-Vegas. Despite the underhanded and often dirty way the area developed, it's quite nice and the perfect place for a walk on a warm Thursday night.

My wife held my arm as we walked. I let my hands hang to my sides. After about a a half hour of walking, I felt the familiar tingle in my hands. It's a combination of swelling and repetitive motion issues that make my hands feel like arthritic sausages.

It was a quick reminder that The Sickness is about to begin.

I realized that my marathon Vegas summer is about to begin and I will be sausage hands for the next two months. I usually begin these trips with a long lament about leaving my family, the romantic dread about spending a summer in Sin City, and an anecdote or two about one of my past trips.

Instead, I'm just going to clear my head of a few niggling little things and try to go into the summer fresh. I've made a decision to treat this summer like a test of will, ability, talent, and discipline. That likely means I'll be a shivering mass of flesh, writing nothing, and sodden with booze by mid-June. But I hope not.

So, let's go into this one clean, eh?

* I'm a bad judge of depth. Evidence of this can be found in most areas of my life. This week, I bought a new washer and dryer. I judged the width and height of my utility closet very well. Not accounting for depth, I'm now waiting for the delivery guy to bring something new that can fit in the space. I have only moderate faith that--even with the use of a tape measure--I got it right this time. I think there is probably a greater life metaphor somewhere in here.

* I bought a new cell phone that was probably more than I need. The Blackberry Pearl is a fabulous little device. However, I think I bought it to compensate for other depth issues I have.

* I have had a small halo of concern hovering over my head for the past couple months regarding a professional issue. While not entirely to my satisfaction, the issue has been resolved and I'm glad it's over.

* I wanted to go to Bonnaroo this year. I couldn't pull the trigger on it because I wasn't sure if I was going to be working. Now, I'm sure I'm going to be working and I'm disappointed I can't go to the 'Roo.

* Last Friday night, I almost had myself convinced to drop out, sell my house, buy an RV, and travel the country writing a book based on a silly but intriguing premise. My wife, noting my relative insobriety, remarked, "We'll see what you think about this idea in the morning." Remarkably, I still think she would've been up for it.

* Until last Friday, I had never played Washers. Thirty-three years is too long to live without having played this game.

* To anyone thinking of visiting my wife while I'm gone: The house is fully alarmed, I have a dog with sharp teeth, and my wife is skilled in various martial arts and the use of a handgun. Oh, and she has a scorching case of herpes. Oh, sure, maybe I'm kidding about that last part, but do you really want to find out?

* I think it's pretentious to consider myself the J.J. Cale of my chosen line of work, but sometimes I do.

* I also think it's pretentious that I've been drinking premium vodkas on a regular basis. Given a taste test, I could probably tell you the difference between premium and crap. However, it would take a lot of work to work up a palate that could distinguishing between the good stuff. And working up that palate is probably not the best idea.

* An old guy spilled an entire cup of hot coffee on me last week and I didn't get mad.

(Note: As I type, the real test of my tape measure skills is taking place. A muttering, gangly delivery man is shoulder deep in my utility closet. In just a few minutes, he will either say nothing and all will be well. Or he'll poke his head out, call me mister, and say, "I don't think this is gonna fit." At which point, I will likely use the words "mother fucker."

* I so suck at home repair, woodworking, and anything that requires physical skill that I sometimes wonder if I'm just an exceptionally gifted monkey. Then again, a monkey could use tools better than me. Probably play pingpong better, too. My brother recently installed...well, everything in his new house. As he gave me a tour, he was talking about remodeling his master bath. "I just need to cut out half of this wall," he began. I stopped listening to measure my penis and realize that I have more than depth problems.

* Fill in the blank: "I never thought there would be a day--like today--when someone would hand me ___________ and I would be disappointed."

* I forgot to write Skip back.

(I couldn't resist and peeked in on the delivery guy. I'm worried I may have to use, as my Grandma Ruby used to say, curses and bad words.)

* My dog is a real bitch when she comes home from the doggie country club (aka kennel). Her breath stinks, she refuses to eat any of her own food or treats, and she can't stop nervously moving around. I, like the sap I am, have been feeding her chicken breasts. My wife gave me the stinkeye for that.

* I just finished Carl Hiassen's "Sick Puppy." Those books make me smile.

(Okay, we may be alright on the delivery front. Just a couple more steps and I can claim second-try-success).

* I don't care what anybody says. The final season of the "Sopranos" is the best since the first season.

* I can't dance.

(Motherfucker. Wait, that's a good motherfucker. All systems go.)

And that's it. My next dispatch will be from the road. And if it's not, then you know I'm not coming back.

When the road I travel starts to unravel
Every which way it goes
The beat starts to press on my bullet proof vest
And my high turns out to be low
Give me my guitar I'm going to go far
Let me see it let me hold it in my hand
I'm the devil in disguise I tell you no lies
I'm playing in a rock 'n roll band

--J.J. Cale

Labels: Mental Massage, Travel

The title will be better explained in the coming days. For now, a few pictures from an extended trip to the Show-Me State.


My mom prepared a big meal for us Saturday night. Twenty minutes before we sat down to eat, a typical Missouri storm blew through and knocked out the power. We ate by the remaining sunlight and flickering candles.


The power was out for several hours. With no TV, no computers, no music, and no light, we did what few extended families do anymore. We sat around talked and laughed for a long time. We bet on what time the power would come back on (my wife won) and when it did, we all turned off the lights and went to bed.


For a kid who never stops moving, I find it pretty amazing that I'm learning a lot from him about when to stop and smell the flowers.


And what he knows about concentration, I'm not sure I'll ever learn.


This is the face of a woman displaying incredible patience.


Looking out from the inside of a small Missouri cave. We debated while here whether Missouri is known as the cave state and whether anyone outside this state would recognize it as such if it were. Turns out, Missouri is The Cave State, but I'd guess my friends in California just don't care.


A good uncle who would make a great father, if he should ever so choose.


A father who is about to endure an annual departure that hurts worse every time he does it.

Labels: Family, Parenting, Photography, Travel

I've spent the last couple of days wrappping my head around my few short hours in Italy. As I sat down to write up this part, I decided it was better suited for the sports blog to which I contribute. It's just a short look at what it's like to end up in the middle of a foreign sports rally without knowing the language or the sport.

From Up For Sports Blog's Lost in Translastion:

It was a Tuesday afternoon and not any holiday I ever celebrated. But the square was packed. There was chanting like I'd never heard. Kids carried cases of beer on their shoulders from nearby stores. The crowd seemed to move and speak like a huge, red, Italian animal. They shouted at each other. They beseeched some unseen sky god. They did the wave. The only reason I didn't run and hide in my hotel was that it seemed like it was something big--whatever it was.