I’m not sure why it was I was reading that part of the newspaper. There wasn’t much in sports, I suppose, and the headline that a major cleric in the middle east is calling for the violent removal of US forces didn’t really seem like news. They know we’ll be leaving eventually anyway, so by speaking now they can take credit later. I have a pretty fertile imagination (lots of bullshit), but I cannot imagine any scenario in Iraq that even vaguely resembles us ‘winning’.

Which is to say, I was reading the classifieds this morning. There is a section in the Albuquerque Journal job classifieds called “Drivers Wanted”. They mean truck drivers, of course, people with special training and special licenses to haul freight or get cement to the site on time. Nestled among these was an ad by Dave. It seems he is a vietnam vet and he and his buddy are heading out in an RV to see America. They want a driver.

OK, OK, I’m not going to take the job. (I might keep scanning the ads for the two Victoria’s Secret vets looking for a driver.) That it would be pretty stupid for me to drop everything and hit the road for a few months is kind of a lost argument on me, and when it comes right down to it I’m probably better off hitting the road with strangers than I am with people that I would regret never speaking to again. But.

Just how unmoored am I? Do I even have a frickin’ keel? Free is nice; rudderless is lame.

I am a boat, not a raft. I am sailing unknown waters, but I’m still steering. There are clouds building on the horizon, a big blow is heading right for me, but I have a rudder and a keel and even sails, if no engine. Hitting the road with a couple of strangers could be the stuff of the next great American novel, but I’m already saturated. I simply can’t afford to do something like that. I’m behind already, not just with writing but with keeping up with friends, getting a 1.0 of Jer’s Novel Writer out, getting short stories to magazines and partials to agents, and to drop all of that now for a road trip would be pretty damn stupid. People joke about my inability to plan, but I do have a plan; it’s painted with a 4-inch brush and favors the distant future over the immediate present, but it’s a plan. To punish the nautical metaphor just a little more, I’m on the open sea, fresh water is running out, but I can see the stars.

I’ll be calling Dave in the morning, just to find out what the story is. You know, out of curiosity. Just to see where they’re coming from, and if they know where they’re going.

Sweet!

Thanks!

It was a good drive today, crossing the desert the easy way (Interstate), with only the occasional construction slowdown to distract my thoughts. Unfortunately, not much of what I thought about will be of interest until it finds it way into stories. So it goes.

There is this, though. If I had a place in Gallup that sold Green Chile Cheeseburgers, I would put up a billboard right at the border that said, “Welcome home! Your Green Chile Cheeseburger is waiting for you at Jer’s Burgerville. Turn right at exit 20.” It would be a valuable service to those of us with bad memories for places but good memories for flavors. I ended up at Blake’s in Grants. I ordered the Lottaburger and knew I was back in civilization when the girl asked “you want green chile on that?” It was OK, but far from a religious experience.

Right now I’m taking a little road break in a place with WiFi, then I will head on to the folks’ place. Hopefully I can ignore the Internet long enough there to get some of my ideas into more concrete form.

Sweet!

Thanks!

This is just a quickie to let you know that planes have changed and become a bit more complicated. I will be staying in the US longer, and right now I’m in Arizona. By tonight I’ll be in New Mexico. In mid-April I will turn once more westward, possibly by rail.

As I headed out into the desert, my thoughts spun back to old themes with new images interposed, fresh food for the Road Myth beast lurking somewhere behind my retinas. I’m anxious to let the beast out to play, but that will have to wait for tonight. Now, I must be rolling once more — at least to a place with decent phone reception.

Sweet!

Thanks!

It was a strange day in the graveyard, with exhumations coming as quickly as burials. I’m tired now, not sure how far I’ll get through this narrative, and not sure how much you will care. I’m tempted to use shorthand that only certain people will understand (pitcher of water on the table at China Inn), but in the end it was a day of being recognized, back in the old places I used to haunt.

First off was BinaryLabs, my place of employment back when you could use that label on me. I knew then that I was working with dedicated, hard-working folks who knew what it was all about, not afraid to have fun, and that is still true today. I wandered through, undermining productivity, and had a great time. It is a matter of pride to me that a company I helped create, and a culture I in no small part defined, lives on. Tom and Kristin were gone, but the rest of the nucleus is still intact, and that’s pretty cool.

From there I pointed my feet toward China Inn. Brian, they asked about you. They do the orange chicken differently there — not fried — and man oh man is it good. If you’re in the US, you should drop by for lunch. Tell them Jerry sent you.

Next was Tiki. I walked in and there was Tom. I had run into him the day before in Ocean Beach, had a beer at Tiny’s, and heard about his roommate. Tall, redhead, built like a guggenheim shithouse. Somewhere in the shuffle I had missed that Erica was a bartender. Turns out, she works Tiki on Tuesdays. I sat next to Tom, and turned to regard a strikingly distracting bartender. Much of the conversation was how she was a shirt-optional kind of girl. While it goes without saying that I am far too classy to ever encourage a friendly and efficient bartender to expose herself, I really was hoping that the clumsy efforts of the guy to my left would work out. They didn’t, of course.

Erica is a storyteller. She’s got the gift of gab, something that includes a little smile that tells you that while what she says is all true, she knows that even the worst moments are somehow funny. It’s all right if the joke’s on her, as long as we both see the ridiculousness of it all.

Before too long it was time to move on. “Leaving already?” she asked. “I can’t stay,” I replied, “I’m already in love with too many bartenders.” She laughed and took the compliment for exactly what it was. I could have stayed, but I had a hankerin’ to see Rose. I left without seeing Tiki Dave. Maybe I’ll have to go back.

To Callahan’s. To Rose. (Lifting glass) To Rose!

We talked Penguins (rhymes with hockey). She broke a glass (just for me, I suspect). I told her she rocked, something I always reminded her of back in the day; she almost squeaked when she said, “I haven’t heard that for a long time.” Honestly, I can’t imagine why she doesn’t hear that every day, but life is crazy. I was happy to remind her. I joke that I’m in love with bartenders, but Rose and I have got past that. (Well, Rose probably never was even at that, and if she was I don’t want to know about it.) I can’t imagine anyone I’d rather go to a hockey game with, though.

Sweet!

Thanks!

In case anyone was wagering on it, the first place I went in San Diego was Callahan’s. It’s been more than a year since the last time I was in here, so it was no surprise that I didn’t recognize the girl who seated me, or the guy who is waiting on me. Or the other waitress. I recognize one of the bartenders, but I’m not certain of her name anymore. It’s not Travis, and , more significantly, it is not Rose. No worries, she used to work weekdays anyway.

Jocelyn – that’s the name of the girl I recognize. She hasn’t recognized me yet, but that’s not surprising. I considered waiting until I was less scruffy to come in, but who knows how long that will be?

I checked the board and was happy to see that Bernardo Bitter (my favorite, but the quality is not consistent and they don’t have it on tap very often) was available. “It’s like you knew I was coming,” I quipped to my noncomprehending waiter. Joe Byrne was playing on the Juke Box. I settled in, ordered my jalapeño beer cheese soup, and whipped out the ol’ laptop.

My eyes strayed back to the chalkboard to see which other beers were up right now, and my heart sank when I saw Hopnotic IPA. I like a good hoppy IPA, but that used to be called Rose’s IPA. I checked the printed beer list, and there’s no mention of Rose’s IPA there, either. I have a bad feeling about this. Perhaps this is all an elaborate Road Trip Eve prank (three years ago, I celebrated the very first road trip eve sitting at the bar on a quiet night, counting down the minutes until midnight. I did not say “elevator ocelot rutabaga” at the appointed hour (that tradition came later), instead I said, “Wish me a happy birthday.” I completed my 4th decade in quiet conversation with my favorite bartender ever, then drove away to a life of adventure (or at least uncertainty) the next afternoon.

It’s not fair, of course, for me to ask a place to stay the same just so I can stumble into it every now and then and feel like I never left. That’s what I want, though. And now who’s going to tell Rose she rocks?

* * *

Good news! Rose is still working here. Now I can sleep.

Sweet!

Thanks!

I’ve fallen a bit behind on the travelogue. Whether that’s good or bad is open to debate. I am in Columbia, California, in a nice place nestled in the forests at the foot of the sierra nevada. There was gold here once, and perhaps there still is. A large stretch of land nearby is still reserved for destruction should more gold turn up. This is also a place were Emus used to live, though none live here now. (The emu pens remain.)

Before this I was staying in a nice house nestled among the redwoods north of Santa Cruz, California. Camels used to live there, though none do now. (The camel shed remains.)

Before that I was in Ripon (rhymes with hippin’). I do not think any domestic livestock ever occupied the backyard of that house, though it is the dwelling of a renowned ornithologist. (He has also written a lot of other stuff.)

I have seen, over the last few days, rain, sun and fog, a band covering Do You (Feel Like I Do) by Peter Frampton, and a pair of chickens that did not look both ways before crossing the road. For a few hours I had a four-year-old attached to my leg, but I have recovered.

And there you have it. Today I point the car south, south, south.

Sweet!

Thanks!

It was in Griffin, WA, just past the turn off for Addy-Griffin Road (double-take), on the stereo “One More Suicide” by Marcy Playground was shaking the upholstery when the squirrel threw himself in front of the car. The first autotoreador of the season to make his bid for mortality before my machine broke left, then cut back right as I hit the brakes and swerved. It’s a habit, what can I say? There was no thump, and in the rear view there was no furry carcass. I believe that rodent has lived to be run over another day.

South, and west. Now I sit at a place called Cleary’s, somewhere in the vicinity of Portland. I was sorry to leave Colville; mornings in the quiet house, feet up in front of the fire are hard to beat. Bob and the H’s were sorry to see me go, for divergent reasons. Helen, whose first question on my arrival was “do you still have your convertible?” subsequently summarized just what it was about me she liked so much. “You’re easier than Dad!” There was only a trace of incredulity when she said it, and she meant it as a compliment. Henry is older and still a dreamer. When he saw me, his first question was “Do you still have your convertible?” Henry launched into a writing project while I was there, and I think he was a little surprised at what his imagination was able to do. I don’t kid myself that this flurry of pencil to paper will last much past my departure, but there might come a day when he remembers that story, and remembers the fun he had writing it.

I didn’t mention to his parents that when he said he had to write an essay for school (the dreaded 3 points in 5 paragraphs format) I told him to bag the rules, write from the heart, and count the paragraphs later. I wonder what a teacher would do, faced with a really good essay that was (gasp!) six paragraphs long. In fact, I might even be willing to relive those years just to write such an essay. Almost.

At the time I followed the formula like a good little robot.

Bob and I go way back, Back in the day there was no one better to kill an otherwise lost afternoon with. First, Bob has a creative mind tuned towards having fun. Take an unexploded bomb, a golf ball, and a hula hoop, and Bob will find the game waiting to be played. These days, Bob isn’t around land mines so much, so when I’m in town it’s a special opportunity. It’s a chance to go and drink beers and shoot pool and do guy stuff.

For precisely these reasons Bob’s wife, Jeni, is happy to greet me and also happy to say goodbye. Recently I revoked the right of people to complain about how busy they are if they watch TV. Throw your TV out the window and light it on fire. Take all that extra time and put it into the community, into your family, into the sports team. Feeling tired? I don’t blame you. By the way, Jeni is putting out your burning television. She’s got firefighter of the year awards hanging on the wall. While I was there she had two days extended into significant sleep deprivation by fire calls. I’ll tell you this, though: In my life I’ve had neighbors of various sorts, and there are a very few who take being a neighbor seriously. I am shameful in this regard. Jeni will drop what she’s doing and pull an all-nighter because it’s the right thing to do. Dang.

That said, I didn’t make Jeni’s life any easier while I was visiting. I was a polyp of institutionalized chaos, the guy who plays big ball hall soccer. More that once the H’s caught grief for transgressions that I affirmed. (OK, encouraged.)

Rachael. I am a time traveler, a stone skipping across the surface of the lake, just touching the life of this family at intervals. Between this skip and the last she has changed, dramatically, beautifully. I had heard about the teen threshold in girls, but I had never witnessed it firsthand before. Rachael and I did well before, while she was the engine of the conversation, but this time some scruffy friend of dad’s wasn’t automatically cool, no matter what he drives.

She’s about to make life hell for some poor bastards. She will do it innocently, or at least without dishonesty.

Then there’s hoops. Rachael plays a position game. While her teammates crash and bang about, she gets where she needs to be. She raises her arm, providing a target, put it there and see the offense work. If that doesn’t work she can rotate to the top and move the ball around. Snap!

OK. so that’s Rachael. Dudes, be ready to have your asses kicked.

And… I have much more to say, much, much more! But they’re kicking me out. Stay tuned.

Sweet!

Thanks!