Author Archives: Jerry

Maybe It’s Kansas After All

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Back at Roma, belly full, glass full, novel almost to 50K, and the local news is on the television behind the bar. I have a theory. I think every local news broadcast around the world really only needs to be produced once. You have a pair of talking heads, one blonde with a frightening amount of makeup, the other a distinguished-looking gentleman with just a little gray at the temples. The glamor and the stability.

It’s the holiday season, so of course you spend five minutes of the broadcast showing people putting up trees and other decorations. There is the shot of parents hiding the presents, another shot of the kids finding them. Some guy is droning on over the whole thing. Blah, blah, blah. For this spot language matters not at all. You’ve heard the same crap year after year. Finally the tape is over and we find ourselves back in the studio. The blonde turns to the gentleman and says, blah, blah, blah. He chuckles and says back, blah, blah blah. You could use Charlie Brown wah-wah-wah dubbing and then use the same clip the world over. No one would even notice that it was not in their language.

And now, the sports.

Thanks!

Now, there’s someting you don’t see every day

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Dead Rooster on the Landing You don’t have to be assaulted by crowds of little people, accused of manslaughter only to be instantly acquitted because the victim deserved it, then snared into a blood feud with the victim’s sister, to know that you you’re a long way from home. Sometimes the signs are more subtle, but they add up.

Take being locked in the building. Any building manager that would change the locks without warning so that his tenants could not get out in a fire would be arrested in the US. Here, people just shrug and go find the guy to get their new keys. Apparently it’s not that uncommon of a circumstance.

I smell ham right now. Mmmmm… ham. I can smell the ham because my window is open. It’s really quite chilly outside, but it’s nice and toasty in here. In fact, it’s downright hot. There is no temperature control in the apartment. In the true collectivist spirit that reigned when this building was slapped together, everyone freezes or bakes together. I guess the man with his hand on the dial down in the boiler room likes his toes to be toasty.

And speaking of buildings, there’s a dead rooster on the little balcony outside one of the landings.

I have to say, everyone I’ve talked to has been very friendly – or at least they sound friendly. For all I understand all the things they say, they could be cursing at me from behind their friendly smiles. When they discover I don’t know what they’re saying, that doesn’t stop them at all. On they go, discussing the weather or, well, whatever. Once NaNoWriMo is over, hopefully I’ll have more brain to devote to learning czech. The guy at Roma Pizzeria has taken it upon himself to teach me one new czech word each time I go in. Last time it was “Dobrou chut” (bon apetit), which I already knew, but I didn’t know how to tell him I already knew.

Thanks!

Movies and accidents of fate

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One time on late-night television, Letterman or something of that sort, Tom Hanks was interviewed. I guess at some point in the past he was in a movie where a dog was a major character. I remember if vaguely; I believe the dog’s slobber was as much a character as the dog. Tidy people forced to live with big sloppy dogs is a Hollywood staple. Not as common as the fifty attempts each year to recreate the odd couple with guns, but there are obviously many producers who read Marmaduke and somehow haven’t realized that the implicit punchline (Boy! That’s a big dog!) hasn’t changed since the first frame was drafted many years ago.

This has nothing to do with what I intended to write about tonight, but if Marmaduke were to choke to death on Garfield’s corpse, the world would be a better place. I know, I don’t have to read them, and I don’t, but my newspaper is paying – giving someone else money – to put that crap in when their whole business is selling space to other people. But enough of that.

I guess the Hanks-dog movie didn’t do so well. So there was Tom, sitting smugly in the guest chair, and rightfully so as I think at that point he’d picked up two oscars in a row, lovingly bashing on Gary Sinese for dragging him down, and the dog movie comes up. The Hankster said something like, “We forgot the hollywood rule. Never kill the dog.”

I just got done watching The Road Warrior. There is only one line I would change in the whole movie. He comes staggering out of the tent and says “I’ll drive the tanker.” There’s some argument, and then he says to the leader, “I’m the best chance you’ve got.” That’s the line I would have changed. ‘Cause really, he doesn’t know how tough the others are, and he’s pretty banged up. I would have written, “They killed my dog.”

I had a housemate once, one of the lowest people ever to walk the Earth. Listing his sins would have to be a whole nother episode. But when I list his sins, the one I finish with was, “and he’s mean to his dog.” Truly, some of his other, um… habits… were more despicable and more harmful. He was a blight on the planet. But his poor dog’s brain was entirely dedicated to pleasing him. I’m digressing again.

In Road Warrior, the bad guys kill the dog (whose name is ‘dog’) in cold blood, while Dog is defending its master. (Incidentally, the dog in question bears a striking resemblance to John and Janice’s dog Jesse, but with a lot more tail.) In that same movie, there is the amazon warrior, up on the tanker as it blasts out of the compound. If I’m not mistaken (and when was the last time that happened?) her last line was “I was wrong about you.” I have seen the movie more than once before, but my reaction every time her body is torn from the barbed wire to bounce across the highway, transfored from being a warrior to being a traffic hazard, has always been the same. “They can’t kill her!” They killed her, and left her on the side of the road for the buzzards to clean up. Not even a pause in the pacing of the film to let us feel the tragedy. Just another casualty. You wonder how she lived so long, being so brave.

The title at the top of this episode promised you an accident of fate, and looking back I may have oversold. But, when looking up the name of the warrior woman, who had a fierceness but carried a lot of freight when she said “I was wrong”, I ran across an actor whose name is… Boulder Road Warrior. Now I could be wrong, but I’m guessing that’s not what his momma named him. The name of the movie he was in was Twister:A Musical Catastrophe. Yeah, I’d change my name, too. Possibly I’d change it to Joe Blow or something like that. Boulder Road Warrior. Imagine you’re casting a film and that name comes across your desk underneath the head shot. There’s an agent crying to be fired.

In one of those Lethal Weapon movies they kill the girl, and wasn’t he the guy in payback, where they kill his dog and his wife? The dog is a much more sympathetic character, but you know sittin here typin I have to take my hat off to Mel, that he turned what for Tom was a Hollywood mistake into a great role. More than once.

Gotta sign off now, I’m playing the soundtrack to Get Crazy, and damn if it ain’t the best movie soundtrack ever.

Thanks!

Trapped!

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Yesterday while I was at Roma eating pizza, sipping pivo (beer), and doing some writing, they changed the lock to my building. I got back and my key simply didn’t work. There was no sign, nor any warning that it would happen, and no indication what to do about it. It wasn’t just a language thing; there were no signs up at all. I stood outside the building in the light rain, asking myself, what the heck?

I stood in the doorway, flipping through my slovnic (dictionary) trying to figure out how to say “What the heck?” to anyone who happened to open the door. Eventually someone did, but by then I was too tired and frustrated to try to ask him anything. I really should have. Even if he spoke no English I by then knew the words for lock and key, and certainly he had got a new key from somewhere.

I mentioned the incident to another Prague NaNoWriMo participant and she said that she had heard of that happening to three other people. I had planned to be reclusive this month, but this is just crazy. The key is required to either enter or exit the building. (Most buildings are like that as far as I can tell. Imagine an American fire marshall over here.)

The biggest problem of all is that since I buy beer in quantities that fit in my coat pockets, I have no reserve. It never seemed to be an issue; there’s a beer store half a block from the front door. It is filled to bursting with yummy beer. Just down the street from there is a grocery store with even more beer. In between there’s a wine store and a booze store. All of them are on the other side of that door.

This just in: According to an email from Marianna, the building superintendant leaves town on the weekends. I probably puttered around the house too long, and now he’s gone. I will just have to hang by the doors until people pass through this weekend. Next time I leave, I’m coming back with plenty of supplies!

Thanks!

The Slacker Method for Avoiding Jetlag

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Location: pL and Marianna’s place, Prague (map)

Had a great burst of noveling over the weekend, then caught a couple of z’s before rushing out first thing on Monday to pick up my wireless router. A few hours of setting that up was followed with a long, long night of catching up with various organizations, pontificating in the nanowrimo forums (I’m not an expert but I sure can sound like one), and of course, getting things rolling again here at MR&HBI. On top of that, I had my computer hooked up to pL’s stereo system. Sounding good! I resolved to get the plug adapter soon so I could listen to my REAL music collection, which I’ve been lugging around on an external drive for seven months. Well, that distracted me way into the wee hours and then I realized that I had been neglecting my novel, so I spent the rest of the night on that. Then my computer died. About then I realized that I hadn’t eaten in a long time. Or slept.

Some days I wake up early, some days I just don’t go to sleep at all. I think I need to leave the house more. I’m going back to the Roma Pizzeria for some more writing-in-bars action today.

Yesterday, having used physical violence to fix my laptop (mechanical problem called for a mechanical solution) I was up with the sun to go out and get a plug adapter so I could run my external drive and turn it into a backup drive as well as a music collection. I had spotted a store right up the street that seemed promising. I knocked around the apartment for a while, giving the place time to open, and at 8:30 out the door I went.

The place was closed. “No problem,” I thought. “It must open at 9:00.” I enjoy traipsing up and down Vinohradská. It is filled with the little shops that cater to little shopping trips executed by people who have to carry their booty home. More on the automobilization of Prague in another episode. So I went a’wandrin. Lots of shops were still closed, and I started to notice that many of them had hours posted that said they should be open. At first I laughed to myself. “There’s an interesting cultural difference,” I thought. “The keepers of these little shops aren’t so worried about their hours.” It was after nine when I got back to Electra Electro, and it was still closed. I checked the hours on the door; it said it opened at eight. I pulled out my dictionary to make sure I was looking at the right day. Maybe Wednesday is a traditional shop-closing day. Nope.

Then it hit me. Holiday. I had noticed that traffic was relatively light, and everything fell into place. It was a holiday. All the adaptér electricky stores were closed. I started walking down toward the center of town, hoping to find a place down there that catered to tourists and would therefore be open. Vinohradská goes straight down the the top of Václavské námisti (Winceslas square), with a statue of the good king himself (map) gazing down the long, broad street with every sort of shop imaginable crowding in on each side. Except electric adapter stores.

Finally I found a place, a computer and Internet store tucked way back in a not-so-glamorous shopping arcade (map), the kind of place that you could imagine people in Cyberpunk novels go to get contraband chips to put into their heads. I paid way too much for the adapter and back out I went into the threatening rain. The weather threatened and for the first time since being on my own I gave in and took public transportation rather than walk. Standing on the metro, I realized that I still hadn’t eaten more than a snack.

While getting all my technology straightened out, I started reading a book during file copies. I read the book almost straight through, pausing at 03:30 to take a nap. I finished it this morning.

This morning (no, wait, afternoon! It’s hard to tell; the sky has been cloudy almost constantly since I got here) finds me sitting, sipping tea, planning my day. Gotta get out. Gotta get back to the novel. Gotta start using my “Talk Czech Now” CD-ROM. Gotta get a new hard drive for the laptop and get my external working. Gotta start getting to bars.

I think I’ll take a nap.

Thanks!

If a tree Googles in the forest, does it make a sound?

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Yes, it’s high time to take a look at the accidents that bring people here. For that is what brings most people here – blind chance and the whim of Google and the other search engines. In the past I have obfuscated some terms by using pig latin to prevent future searches from coming to the google page instead of the rightful target page. This time I’m inserting spaces in the words instead. It makes it easier to read, even if it’s not as fun.

  • witchcraft in springerville arizona – linked to the general road trip page. Part of the match was me telling about H i g h w a y 60
  • pup that ass – linked to an episode about Spike falling on his ass while trying to pee. But what were they really looking for?
  • bobbi hall boobs six – the Bobbi I met only has two.
  • enormous bosom – Bobbi again
  • Writing a good E U L A – One of my more important public services
  • h i g h w a y 60 New Mexico – links to ann episode with lots of good stories in the comments as well.
  • crystals feet sex – linked here
  • “passed out” marker – top of the list! Links to the episode where Jojo became my beer slave
  • positive things about drinking – they came to the right place
  • pitchers of hairstyles – Got more than one of these. I am popular among stylists who can’t spell.
  • “automobilization of America” – guess I can’t copyright that phrase. I used it here , but it is a theme in many posts.
  • iggy trumpet San diego – linked here; another one where you just have to wonder what they were actually hoping to find.
  • G i l l i g a n colour pics – links to the “Call me G i l l i g a n” series, which starts with a more muddled than usual ramble here
  • “friends bugging each other” “need space” – I’m an expert on bugging people. Links to a G i l l i g a n episode.
  • what to eat with b e e r c h e e s e s o u p – One of several searches that came to the right place
  • prenostalgia – It’s a nice word, I’m not surprised someone else thought of it too.
  • what is the state of alabama currently doing to curb de homeless? – de same thing as every other state – damn little
  • montana cactus thorn hand injury – clearly looking for something specific, and they got me instead.
  • man p e r f u m e manual – Another public service to be found here
  • pimp my peterbilt – the search phrase is more interesting than the the thing it linked to
  • fun getting get drunk – linked here. Obviously the searcher didn’t really need my help.
  • america as granfalloon – mentioned offhandedly here (Jesse’s comment is more interesting than the episode) – it just feels good to me that someone else thinks that way.
  • six bucket coltrane – amazing coincidence that all three of those words appeared in a single episode. Six Bucket Coltrane. That has a nice ring to it.
  • m e g a n smells – links to one of my more important public service announcements
  • baby ocelot pictures – linked to another Google episode, not to the original elevator ocelot rutabaga entry. It was the word baby that did it, but it’s nice to see ocelot show up now and then.
  • Suicide Meter – Linked to this episode, rather than SSDC – some good comments in there.
  • heard the voice of god while watching creatures – went to the homeless tour category page; where I would be stunned to learn that he who sought did find
  • tweaker whore san diego – sweeeeet.
  • tell her goodbye – linked to G o o d b y e, R o s e

In a given day, about 30% of the people that come to this site are looking for advice on how to cook eggs. I think the ratio is higher on the weekends. Lots of people find their way here looking up specific bars I have mentioned. A m y’s car generates a lot of hits. I’ll have to see if there’s a song by that title or something, because they come from all over the world. x r a y g o g s still brings ’em in as well. Finally I get a lot of hits when people search on the phrase “P r o u d to be A m e r i c a n”. I expect they’re disappointed by what they find.

There you have it! Did you find this site through a search? I’d love to hear from you!

Thanks!

Tranquility Base Here, The Eagle Has Landed

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The air is brisk today, but when I get walking I keep warm. I cut quite a figure, at least in my own imagination, walking down the street, hair and long coat blowing behind me, scruffy two-level beard (need to get some tools), and purpose in my stride. Apparently 3pm is when pretty girls take their dogs for walks. None of them so much as glanced at me. They must have been intimidated by that ineffable machismo I was exuding.

Or something like that.

Anyway, after one small memory lapse (26, 16, whatever) sent me into a fancy little wine store I found the place I was looking for. I opened the door and walked down a few narrow steps and took a left into the quiet room, found a table, and sat down.

I’m back where I belong.

I’m in a bar, with my laptop, writing. I could get to like this place. Not smoky, not crowded on a weekday afternoon, decent tunes playing, good beer. No danger of me falling in love with the bartender, either—he seems like a nice guy, but, well, he’s a guy. He just brought my pizza, a fine looking pie. He also brought a bottle of Kečup. There’s an American stereotype I had forgotten. The beer is good, the pizza is good.

Life is good.

Thanks!

Christmas lights are up here already as well

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It goes something like this…

On my first trip to Albert here is what I bought:
Beer!
On my second trip to Albert, here is what I bought:
Bread, and Beer!
On my third trip to Albert, here is what I bought:
Green Tea, Bread, and Beer!

Albert is the local grocery store. I’ve only been three times, but I think you can see where this is going. Three trips may not a trend make, but you never know. I have a big coat with pockets just right for carrying bottles of beer (two pockets outside, two pockets inside). I can squeeze small items in with the beer, but sooner or later I’m going to have to scrounge up a shopping bag.

I believe the addition for the fourth trip will either be laundry detergent or nutella.

Thanks!

On My Own

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Marianna left for the airport early this morning – she knocked on my door and said goodbye briefly. I bid her bon voyage and went back to sleep, finally dragging myself out of bed around noon. One cure for jetlag: sleep late and stay up late. It’s like you never left home. I spent most of the day reading rather than writing, not even motivated to eat or drink anything, just expanding into this space that will me mine for the next few weeks, enjoying the lonliness.

I just put on a CD from my host’s collection, a band whose name I don’t understand singing songs I don’t understand the lyrics to, but the music itself carries a sadness that augments my mood well. This is going to work. I’ll be writing late into the night, I can tell, but I suspect it will be The Fish rather than my NaNoWriMo effort, already so far behind. You have to write with the vibe (or at least I do), and a thriller isn’t were my head is right now. Although a novel needs to shift geard now and then. Maybe I can write a couple chapters for November as well. Whatever the case, I should be writing one of those things rather than this.

I hope all is well over on the other side, where the sun is still shining and you are all looking for diversions from your work. I’m only too pleased to be of service.

Thanks!

Pivovarský Dům

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Snow is falling wetly outside my window, though it is still too warm for it to stick to anything. I get the impression that Prague rarely gets the winter wonderland look. I am sitting in my bed, 1.5 liters of Dobrá Voda at my side, replenishing my precious bodily fluids. They seem to be depleted this morning.

Pivovarský is Czech for brewery. Dúm, I believe, translates to “One heck of a good time.” Or was it “Yummy?” I know Marianna used that word more than once as we reduced the world beer supply half a liter at at time. At some point during the exercise we ordered fried Camembert with cranberry sauce – also yummy. “We already have bread,” Marianna said, pointing to her beer. I had several orders of bread last night.

Another reason I need to learn czech quickly: over the course of my journey I have become mildly skilled at flirting with waitresses and bartenders. It’s going to take some intensive study before I’ll be able to do that here. The waitress last night wasn’t really a flirtation candidate, but I realized that an important part of my bar-going experience was missing.

When we got back home Marianna pulled a big ‘ol bottle of Gambrinus out of the fridge. Of course, I couldn’t let her drink alone, so she pulled out a bottle for me as well. Yummy indeed. The stockpile in the fridge was greatly reduced last night. We talked about stuff and nonsense and listened to Irish music. Dang, I love Irish music. Out on the road it served as a great loneliness enhancer. It seems even in the happy songs there is a trace of sadness, and in most songs someone either dies or leaves home forever. Good stuff.

I have not heard Marianna stirring yet this morning. If she is suffering any ill effects, she will blame the fact that she had two different kinds of beer, not that she had so many beers. I think she will miss the snow; the flakes are fewer and falling faster as they melt on their trip down from the featureless gray sky.

Thanks!

How do you say jetlag in czech?

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Location: pL and Marianna’s house, Prague, Czech Republic

Not much to report yet, except that I am here. Saturday I climbed into a large metal cylinder, sat for a few hours, changed to a smaller cylinder, sat for a couple more hours, and now everyone is talking funny and the sun comes up way too early. I broke my own jetlag rule and allowed myself to sleep in this morning. Oh, well, there’s always tomorrow morning to get on schedule. Today’s only plan is to get some writing done; tomorrow I’ll go out on a technology procurement expedition, so that I can actually post this episode.

Umm… That’s all for now, I guess.

Thanks!

End of the Road

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Location: 37,000 feet above the Atlantic Ocean
Miles: That particular bit of information is currently buried in the baggage compartment

There are different kinds of road stories, I suppose. The good ones have some kind of transformation take place in the course of the narrative – perhaps the driver has gained some insight into his nature or the nature of the world around him. Occasionally they even get where they’re going. I imagine, compared to actual literature, that this narrative is one of those where you’re getting close to the end but there’s no real end in sight. As you read along you start to realize that there aren’t many pages left, and barring a jarring deus ex machina or a mighty epiphany (“Flossing is the answer!”) you’re going to be pretty pissed off when you get to the end of the book.

On the penultimate page our hero is hurtling across the heartland, thinking deep thoughts. You turn the page, and it just says, “And then he stopped.” You blink at the sentence, feeling gypped. “That’s it?” you ask the book, but the book just sits there, ignoring your ire. “And then he stopped.”

You think back over the stories within the narrative, looking for something you might have missed the first time. Sure, the individual bits are occasionally interesting, but what do they add up to? Is there a motion, a progression of any sort? Is there a grander metaphor? What if the road is life, the car is the soul, and the destination is death? That sounds poetic enough, but then what does “And then he stopped” mean in that context?

And then I stopped.

Not that I ever expected to find anything out on the road beyond a few stories to tell, which will probably make me insufferable in conversations for a while. (“That reminds me of when I was Calgary during the Stanley cup…” Oh, yeah. It’s not going to be pretty.)

The only thing more annoying about getting to the end of a book only to find it doesn’t end is discovering that there’s a sequel and nobody told you. You have to buy a whole nother stinkin book to see what happens next. But what if it doesn’t end there? How many volumes will you buy before you just throw your hands up in disgust?

And then I stopped, and got on a plane to Prague.

To be continued…

1

Thanks!

Ely (rhymes with mealy) redux

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I woke up somewhere in Kansas. The benefit of 25-hour days is apparent, by shifting one time zone per day I have been able to keep up a pretty good pace and still get up reasonably early. I walked across the parking lot to collect my complimentary breakfast and the first thing I noticed was the cloudless blue sky. The second thing I noticed was the cold. I tried blowing vapor rings in the still air, as always without success. The sun shone down like a cold, hard, diamond.

After a pleasant breakfast I hit the road, top up, windows up, and heater on. Before long I was hurtling across the high plains, especially appreciative of the higher speed limit when I crossed into Colorado. The fields were lightly covered with snow, which on the lea side of embankments had formed curvaceous structures. I snapped a couple of pics on the fly and then flew on.

I was still one hundred miles shy of Denver when the first snow-capped peaks rose over the horizon. Passing through the city was easy enough (note: I did not have a chance to tell you yet that St Louis drivers are the worst I encountered on this trip) and up into the mountains I went.

Wow! I’ll say it again: Wow! Interstate 70 west of Denver is a minor engineering marvel through some unbelievable scenery. Finally I just had to put the top down. I got out of the car to stretch and had quite a headrush. Who stole all the oxygen? I seems I was almost at Vail Pass (10,600 feet). Heading down the Western Slope I stopped in Vail to put on my jacket. Later I stopped for lunch and couldn’t get my fingers to work. The top went back up.

I’d never been through that part of eastern Utah, and boy does it look cool when the Sun is going down. I took a couple of pictures. Somewhere east of I-15 I left I-70 and headed out into the little-road version of the desert on Highway 50. Once it got dark I only stopped once more, to see what a 30-second exposure of the vast night sky would look like. I’ll let you know, but in retrospect I think I messed them up. I had to turn off auto focus but I don’t recall manually setting the focus to infinity.

Heading out into the desert night, I saw a sign that said “Next Services 110 Miles”. No problem, I had plenty of fuel and the car was running perfectly. An hour later I passed a sign reading, “Next Services 40 Miles.” I had to laugh. I wonder how many people have seen that and thought, “Man, I’m not sure I can make it 40 miles,” and turned back, only to see another sign 30 miles later reading “Next Services 40 Miles.” I mean, sure it’s good to know how far it is to the next gas station, but just what are you going to do about it? Perhaps the sign should have said, “Next Services 40 Miles. If you’re not sure you’re going to make it, pull over while you still have gas to run your air conditioner and get help.”

Now I’m in Ely (rhymes with mealy), drinking with the Lord, as Pants says. The Casinos are close by and the beer is free there, but I have no time for cards tonight.

I’ll put up the photos (and add a couple to this post) later. The top was up and the windshield dirty, so there aren’t very many good ones.

Thanks!

Take Me Home, Country Roads

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Location: Grayville, Illinois

I wanted to cover a lot of miles today, but I didn’t want to retrace my steps. I chose a more northerly route through America’s heartland.

Add Highway 52 in Virginia to the list of tops highways in America. It was a sunny morning and the car and I were in fine fettle. I headed north from Winston-Salem with a full tank of gas and a desire to see the world. I flew around the curves, through clouds of leaves, slowing down for pretty little towns with their pretty little churches. I was awash in the smells of the land.

Not far out of the city, before the road got really interesting, there was a smell it took me a moment to place. Tobacco. Sure enough, the next exit was Tobaccoville. North I went. The road got twisty and turny and the air was heavy with the smell of leaves decaying, making the rich loam that would slumber through the winter and fuel the spring. I turned off the tunes in favor of birdsong. Passing through one of the little towns I breathed in the smell of fresh-mown grass as I passed an old man on his tractor.

One cool part about this stretch of highway 52 is that it is not the best way to get from point A to Point B. There is I-77, which is much more efficient. There were stretches of several miles of perfect driving road in which I saw not a single soul. Sure, I’m trying to cross an entire continent, but I wanted to see more of what the east is like. What are their contributions to the new pantheon?

Interstate 77 turns into a toll road in West Virginia. I’m a cheap bastard, and I was having fun on 52 so I decided to stay to the little road. I’ll tell you this, I don’t know what the West Virginia Turnpike costs, but if you’re trying to get anywhere it’s worth it. Highway 52 in West Virginia take you along a rail line, through little coal towns nestled in valleys, strange combinations of postcard views flanked by run-down and abandoned buildings. (According to a political ad I heard more than once today, West Virginia is the only state whose population has declined since 1950.)

As I passed the mines I was met by the acrid, acidic smell of the coal, and in one town I saw a man whose job it was to scrape the coal dust paste from the street gutters.

On this part of the highway there is no alternate route, and people drive at a maximum of 45 no matter what the posted speed limit is. I spent long, long hours watching the ass end of mal-tuned pickup or a Buick with no visible driver. I lost a lot of time, but now that I’m here I’m glad I did it. I’d read about that country, but I’m glad I got a slow view of it, even if it was a driveby. I drove by a lot of photos, but that would have slowed me down just too much.

The final smell I picked up driving top-up in the light rain as I drove through southern Indiana in the darkness. Fertilizer clogged my nostrils. It was worse even than Clovis.

Thanks!

Happy Birthday

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10

I woke up early this morning, due in part I’m sure to the end of daylight savings time. No one else was stirring, but there was evidence that my hosts had been up. I padded around the quiet house for a bit, not wanting to head out to Camille’s for my morning Media Empire session without touching base with them first. On the stove was a bowl of pumpkin seeds, scooped out of Jack-o-Lanterns the day before, waiting to be roasted.

Tara has been fighting a cold the entire time I’ve been here. I’ve felt vaguely guilty about going out with Jesse while his bride lays at home sick and pregnant, and Tara’s been feeling guilty about not being a better host. All the guilt you need, only half price! Yesterday evening we finally all went out together to a really nice Thai restaurant in Raleigh. The place earned high marks from all of us.

This morning I settled in and read for a while, but I had a hankering for broadband. I was just getting set to leave when Jesse came downstairs, looking tired. After obligatory “good mornings” and whatnot Jesse said, “Tara’s in labor.”

I’m no expert, but I suspect the Panang Beef. There was something about that delicious curry that probably set things off. Pregnant women, take note.

Jesse and I discussed plans for a while and then I headed over here. The roads were empty early on a Sunday morning, and the low sun brought out what color was left in the leaves. The grass lawns around the churches are silvered, heavy with dew. The air is still, as if the world is holding its breath. There is anticipation; change is coming to all of us, and this Indian Summer day is a chance to look back at the good times, to feel the reverberations of the season past, but also a chance to look ahead.

Apparently there’s a chance that the labor is a false alarm, or that things will go slowly, so today may not be the day. I am standing by, prepared to offer what help I can, but in general I think I can be the most help by staying out of the way. I had already planned to head out tomorrow morning, ready to embark on the last leg of my tour, one that may not really qualify as being part of the tour at all, as it will probably not involve any exploration of the continent. I simply need to get to the same city named on my plane ticket—San Francisco. I’ve got a hankerin’ for that Rice-a-Roni.

So, happy birthday, <name to be determined based on gender of child>, welcome to the world, whether today as a goblin or tomorrow as a saint.

Thanks!