The Traveling Wombury Has Moved; Please Follow Him!

Look, I lied. I thought I could stop posting but I can't. Bob is no longer here and the Traveling Wombury is no longer Traveling, but that's the vein of rich irony we love to mine. For the next few weeks or so we'll be staying on a farm in the town of Lafayette. Here's a picture for you. I took this from a plane. Made from a kit. More on that later. Feel free to read on. The new blog is Off the Grid (with the Traveling Wombury), at www.offthegrid2007.blogspot. It's a work in progress. It's weird, personal, confused, angry, sentimental. In short, it's everything I grew to love about Robin Williams' body of work.



Boulder is home of the University of Colorado, which makes Boulder a College Town. There is a sisterhood of college towns in America. Let's list them in alphabetical order, starting with "E": Austin, Asheville, Boise, Boulder, Eugene, Berkley, Paris, Frankfurt, Zimbabwe, Bermuda, and Neptune. As you can plainly see, citizens of one College Town like to make the circuit of college towns. The young lady above attends the University of Wisconsin which means she's probably drunk in this photo. Look at her: Nordic, blond, shitfaced. The Traveling Wombury went to UW-Madison. He's also drunk in this photo.




What's missing from this picture of downtown Boulder, taken around 2 pm? Rhinoceroses? Salmonella? Give up?

If you answered "Minorities," or "Black People" or "The Minorities", give yourself a high five, Mr. Racist. Or is it Mrs.? Or is it Miss? or is it Ms.? or is it Ms? or is it Mme?



Guess what else you find in College Towns besides people who are not minorities? Hippies who play Harps, like this guy. This guy helped the Traveling Wombury find Saxy's coffee shop, which has free "wi-fi" unlike Starbucks, a corporation known for aiding Nazis during the schleidenfuss. We will never forget the schleidenfuss. You can donate to the harp guy at www.thatharpguy.com

To the Mountain You Will Travel

The year 1982 changed my life, because that was the year my father took me to see The Empire Strikes Back and Rocky III in the theaters. Anyone who knows me well knows three things about me: I'm graceful on skates, I like my porridge hot, and I've always wanted to be a Jedi and/or Rocky Balboa. My friends who interviewed me at Bronx Letters told me I was basically hired because I talked about Star Wars for nearly 45 minutes. Throughout early puberty (for me: ages 19-22) I tried to move inanimate objects like the toaster or my sleeping mom by thrusting my right arm outward towards them, and shutting my eyes tightly and making the veins in my forehead pop in order to will them to move. I was imitating Luke's futile attempt to resurrect his X-wing from the swamps of Dagobah. Similarly, after seeing the toaster (and mom) not move an inch, I would drop my arms, and breath heavily, spiritually exhausted in the presence of the magnitude of the Force.

Girls did not date me in high school.

Since those heady days of youth I have outgrown any aesthetic attachment to Star Wars, especially in light of the artistically disastrous recent installments, and I nearly cried after watching Sylvester Stallone embarrass himself in the latest Rocky film; but, I have never outgrown my desire to find a real Yoda, to find a real Mick. People who know me have often commented that I seem "irreverent", that I have "issues with authority," that I'm a "complete asshole," but the truth is, I go to pieces like Patsy when I find a teacher I respect. I love great teachers. Always have. Wanted to be a great teacher myself, but I could never find my own "voice" as a teacher. I was simply imitating all the teachers I loved from the movies and from my own life. Being a real teacher never interested me as much as pretending to be one. But I loved being taught by great teachers.

And now I've found two. I've finally found Yoda and Mick. And they live together. Here in Colorado. Doctors they are. They run marathons. With them I am staying for a while. Somehow the higher powers that be, be they who they be, have allowed me the opportunity to make my way to the Mountains. Yoda told me I was a warrior, and took me running for three miles in the mile high air. Mick is taking me running "hills" tomorrow. At seven. in the morning. As I write this I'm in surrounded by piles of unfinished tasks. Mick took me around for two hours, showing me all the work that needed to be done. Debris that needs to be tossed, kitchen counters that need to be installed and scrubbed, pictures that need to be hung, refrigerators that need to be hauled from the shed. There are beds to move, carpets to clean, furniture to be stained. Yoda told me to start making a phantom portfolio of stocks and to memorize names of companies. Yoda asked me if I like running. I said, "the first few times I have lots of energy and enthusiasm and then I quit." Yoda snapped back, "That's your entire life; it's time to get over it. " Well okay.

So I'm here. I've come to the mountains, I've come to doctors (not sure if I'll drink from the fountains). I'm in sorry shape now (see photo above); But I won't be for long. I'm too worried about letting down Yoda and Mick. This may be the last opportunity for me to be the Jedi I've always wanted to be.

..................


I'd like to end by saying thank you. Thank you Bob. I'm sure being back in the City is going well for you. Thank you for accompanying me on this-at times- maddening journey. You are, as I'm sure Maiko and your friends already know, a Jedi in your own right. See you on the other side, friend, when I get back. As Karen Carpenter sang, probably right before not eating a breadstick, "We've only just begun..."

Until then.

The Traveling Wombury

Sum Fotos From Illinoise, Iowah, and Coloraddo

Make of these what you will!

Dare I Eat a Peach? (and other Allusions to TS Eliot )

This may or may not be the last post. I'm not sure if the place we're going to has the internet. What is our destination? An ostrich farm in Colorado. We'll be there for quite some time. The posting may temporarily cease, but not the adventure.

If it is the last post, I want to thank everyone who read this, kept up with our travels, wrote comments, or dropped us a line via email or phone. It was a very encouraging. At some point Bob and I are going to sculpt this thing into something interesting and useful. It'll be called "Off the Grid".

If this is the last post for some time, it is fitting that it be written from my parents home. Nothing like coming home. Last night we played the Newlywed Game with Pat and Kathy. We are unable to upload photos directly onto their computer, but it was sort of priceless. We asked Pat and Kathy to name each other's best trait. Patrick said my mom's best trait was her "smile, outgoing personality". We asked Pat what he thought Kathy wrote. "My sense of humor?" To which Kathy replied, "I forget about that!"

Kathy said Pat's best trait was his "spousal devotion".

If this is the last post for some time, I want to ask the question: who is Peaches? We've loved reading your posts, especially the ones where you call me an attractive young man. We love anyone who comments on the blog, but we know everyone else. MLevy, Steven Aloysius, Child-like Robots, Becky, Nicole, all the students from Bronx Letters, but we don't know the identity of Peaches. So, tell us Peaches, who are you? Did we meet you somewhere out there in America? In Wisconsin, Illinois, Tennessee, Kentucky, or Iowa? Inquiring minds want to know.

Until then.

Monopoly in Iowa City Turned Out Really Well for Some People in The Room

Bob is always flapping his well-brushed gums about something he calls the "singularity," which is a concept he learned from Star Trek or the Filth Element or whatever sci-fi books he reads. The "singularity" is the name for the moment in the not-too-distant future when one generation of humans will be so intelligent that the previous generation will not be able to understand them. Sort of like how some people have no clue what a blog is or what a gigabyte is, or how to use the multiple remote controls lying on the coffee table in their parents house to turn on their parents fancy shmancy big screen television.

Bob says most of humanity won't even know when the Singularity will happen, but I'm fairly certain he believes it has happened already based on spending time with me. He thinks I'm the least intelligent person he knows because I've never played X-Box or changed a tire. Mostly he marvels at how much more adept he is with "technology" than me. He enjoys knowing how to "save" files" and to "export" data. He'll watch me get frustrated and say "Just hit control 'H' and the tab key. You don't know Control 'H'?"

And I know he really got a kick watching me suck at video games. On Friday we visited my brother in Iowa City, Iowa, at the University of Iowa, the state school for Iowa. Joe co-produces and writes the University's talk show, Iowa Desk and Couch. They were taping Friday. I don't see my kid brother (ten years my junior) very often, but I'm proud as hell of him, so I wanted to see him in action. Afterwards, we played video games in his dorm room. College kids play video games. Joe plays video games. Bob was just in college last spring. Bob played video games in college. I drank. We're all very similar.

The last video system I understood was Nintendo. The last game I "beat" came out in 1986. Bob and my brother thought it was HILARIOUS to watch me tap helplessly on the array of buttons and toggles and joysticks, watching my on-screen avatar crash and burn into buildings and people. What a hoot they had snatching the controls out of my hand to show me how easy it was to maneuver in the world of video technology.

But later in the evening we played Monopoly. My kind of game, people. Low-tech game, to be sure, but a classic one; a game steeped in the classic virtues of combat. Like poker and Zen Buddhism, victory in Monopoly depends on mastery of complex interpersonal skills, such as the ability to yell at opponents, call them names, and threaten to "f#$k this board up if Bob gets another damn Free Parking!"

And you know who won when the technological aspect was removed, when raw intelligence was back at the forefront? Joe. But I did come in second, which was way better than Bob who came in third. Oh man it was so embarrassing for him. I think he wet himself, which worked out for Joe because there's a school policy that if your older brother stomps Bob in Monopoly while visiting you get a 4.0 for the semester because of the stress in dealing with how awesome the guy who isn't Bob is.

Until then.

Bob Gets Bibs

Hi. My mom dressed me until I was 19. She bought me clothes until I was, well, until now. For years we fought over what to wear. When I was younger, in middle school, I lost those fights, and as result lost social standing, because how can a kid sport fake parachute pants and Erkel eyewear and be popular? He can't. But for the sake of our project I decided to let Kathy Clarke take Bob and me shopping; but, unlike past excursions I would not fight mama Clarke's discretion. If she picked we bought it.

And this is what I got. And Bob too.

Until then.

Sioux City, Iowa

We're in Sioux City, Iowa. Just mama, Bob, and me. Mama says she wants to take us shopping. For overalls.

Until then.

Car Talk with Bob

Bob keeps telling me how to wish others well, but it's getting difficult to maintain Buddhist detachment as we drive all over the damn country in a series of rental cars. As throw a hershey's kiss wrapper on the floor and wipe shards of cauliflower from my unwashed shirt into the cupholder in the front seat, I tell Bob we're like Felix and Oscar and Bob stops what he's doing, probably contemplating robots and kittens, and says, "maybe we are, but I have no idea who 'Felix' and 'Oscar' are."

"You don't know Felix Ungar and Oscar Madison?"

"Should I? Are they noteworthy humanitarians?"

"How can you not know the Odd Couple? It's a famous play and movie? By Neil Simon? with Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau?"

"Jack Lemmon and William Matthau" he says out loud, and scrunches up his nose, his nose that is not nearly as large as mine.

"They're famous actors from the seventies?" I say. I look at his face, he squints, and searches his memory bank.

"I told you already: if I don't know someone they're not famous."

Earlier in the car, somewhere in Kentucky, or maybe Illinois or Tennessee, Bob asked me to name my favorite Queen song. I told him, "Crazy Little Thing Called Love." Encouraged, I later referred back to this conversation by informing Bob that Freddie Mercury "was a Berber; as in Morroccan. His real name was Faisal. [pause] Pretty cool, huh?"

"Maybe it would be pretty cool if I knew who Freddy Mercury is."

[disgust]

We tried playing G-H-O-S-T but Bob's spelling is atrocious and he had trouble distinguishing between proper nouns and regular nouns.

Any attempt to initiate Kill Marry Screw was abandoned after I used Paris, Lindsay, and Britney, and Bob refused to place them in a category. He then suggested we play Mao, a game with no rules. I asked Bob if he knew who Chairman Mao was. "He was bald. He made chairs."

Later we got into a standard nature vs. nurture argument. I told Bob some of the sixth graders I taught just couldn't grasp the concept of fractions, much less how to add and substract said fractions. Bob said anybody can become good if they train. I told Bob he would never play in the NFL no matter how hard he trained, and for some kids, doing fractions is like Bob making it as a linebacker in the NFL. Bob then claimed he COULD make it to the NFL if trained every single day for the next year. I labeled him "arrogant" and started punching the steering wheel and foaming at the mouth. Then Bob told me I ruined children's confidence and teaching was all about "Finessing confidence" and I started screaming Bob was a "punk" and trying to "make me look like a racist jerk," and he said, "the only thing you're missing as a teacher...is hope." My knuckles turned purple as I tried to squeeze blood from the plastic wrap on the steering wheel.

We tried making mix-cds using my itunes on my laptop. Bob tried to make his own cd using my collection of songs, but he knew approximately four of the artists, despite my love of Motown and 50s and 60s pop music. He labeled the mix, "Slim Pickins", and we argued over whether the correct spelling of pickens was "Pickins" or "Pickens", and whether or not by labeling his mix "Slim Pickins" he was referring to his paucity of musical knowledge or my dearth of good taste. "Do not go there, Robert. You will not win."

Then Bob went there. had the gall to tell me my favorite band, Wilco, was "annoying."
"I like the Neil Young stuff we've been listening to, but mostly your music is sappy. It's all about love and 'ooh, look at me, I'm sooo sad.' It's just sappy to sell more records."

I could feel the lizard-anger surging behind my eyeballs.

"Better watch what you say, pal. I'm serious." I was, too. I was serious. "You know what your problem is Bobby?"

"No, what's my problem?"

"Your problem is you know nothing about anything, because you're like 9 years old and grew up in Idaho and love kittens and X-box. Wilco is for people who have lived, man. You're too young to like Wilco."

Eventually we settled on a few rounds of mental math and historical dates. I would throw out a date like 1941 and Bob would say, "A man cut wood. That's right, bitch, prove he didn' t cut wood. YOU CAN'T."

"Fine Bob, we'll stick with battles. Every date is the date of a battle. Try 1914. "

"World War I."

"Good. Try 1861."

"World War I. "

"Bob you don't know when the Civil War started?"

"Civil Wars are for Civil Servants!"

Then we argued about the proper way to manage highway driving. I maintain the idea is to stay in the right lane as the default lane until you are too close to the car ahead of you, at which point it is necessary, prudent, and polite to change lanes and pass on the left, until returning to the default lane on the right. The beauty of this methodology is the way it combines tidiness with competitive fire. It feels good to pass, and thus symbolically dehumanize a series of four-door compacts and hulking semi-trucks, one after another, like a trained assassin. I feel as though most drivers recognize this system, and act accordingly. I find it aesthetically unpleasing to witness someone passing from the right lane. It's gauche.

Bob says my style of driving is "infuriating." Through clenched teeth and mesh bunny cap he seethes to me, "pick a speed, hit cruise control, and stay in one lane." I didn't have time to explain to Bob the elegant structure of the standardized method, so I gently rested the cigarette lighter on his thigh.

Until then.

NOTES on Colin from a Library in Sterling, Illinois

Let's see. Bob and I came to Prophetstown, Illinois to look for Colin Buyno. Can't say too much about Colin. Met him 7 years ago, he looks like a satyr but loves Jesus. We wanted to find him for my own mollification. We thought the best way to do this was to check into the only motel in town and hit the bars. Both of them. At the first bar we found out where Sally and Philip-Colin's parents-live. We also found out that Micah, Colin's youngest brother married and has two kids with one in the oven. His wife's oven, not his. He doesn't have an oven. We were informed that Micah attended a 6 pm church service at the Winning Wheels Rehabilitation Center for Brain and Spinal Injuries. We also found out Bob knows the lyrics to Tommy Tutone's 1982 hit, 867-5309/Jenny.

At the second place, Kuehl's, we found Ben, who knew Juanita, Colin's ex-wife and mother of his four children. I remember Juanita because I thought it was cool that Colin married a Mexican woman. Juanita lives two doors down from Kuehl's. Around midnight, Ben enthusiastically escorted us to her front door and we called out her name like alley cats. Lo and behold she appeared at the top of the stairs like a Latin Juliet with five children. She told us she just gave birth three months ago to a baby boy. We hugged and cried and talked about old times. Actually, Juanita barely remembered me. We made our way back into the bar. Juanita went back to her apartment, but not before promising to meet with us Sunday afternoon.

Well she didn't. No surprise. Nor did we find Micah at the Rehab center. Nor did we find any administrators. We did find a bunch of people in wheel chairs, several rec rooms, one of which had the classic mini-basketball, 2-basket, timed shooting game you find almost exclusively in Chuck E Cheese's. So I played that for a while and did cartwheels and rode a bicycle belonging to Jeff Conant, and performed magic tricks for one of the residents and did a Word Search with another, and gave a fake sermon in the chapel. Bob was thoroughly disgusted. Especially when I threw a resident's exercise ball at him. We left the facility by hopping the front gate and peeling rubber out of the parking lot.


We spent the rest of the night waiting to hear from our key contacts. I bought 16 dollars worth of bulk vegetables from Mrs. G's grocery, along with ranch dip, and we watched cable television and noshed on peppers, cauliflower, mini-carrots, and brocoli- just like two vegan girls nursing a bad break-up. We watched Sleuth, a taut criminal thriller starring Michael Caine and Lawrence Olivier and the cartoon channel. There were three shows devoted to parodying Star Wars, which creeped me out since I draw upon Star Wars as one of my foundational narratives. I couldn't sleep very well, woke up at 4:14 am and went for a drive around the area. My mind is a bowl of teeming neuroses and thoughts. After we find Colin we'll make our way back to Sioux City to interview my parents.

Until we find Colin,

Until Then.

PS I just want to mention Uncle Mike and Aunt Linda and Gramma Clarke. All three win the purple heart of good hosting. And Mike, the word is "paparazzi" not "potsarotzzi," and the Arabic word for grandmother is not "tutu."

Mysteries Await in Prophetstown

You're looking at a picture of Lake Kentucky, one of two lakes that comprise the Land Between the Lakes, the other being Lake Barkley, named for Ted Kennedy, after the Prussian-Dressing War of 1987.

It's good to be back at the helm of this blog, after letting Bob steer the ship temporarily. We're back in Springfield, Illinois, just got in Friday night. We made the trip quickly, stopping only once to treat Steak and Shake. Bob claimed to be "Freaked out" by the Midwestern fast food chain, that serves tasty steak burgers, as opposed to beef burgers, and tasty shakes. A kosher dream come true. Bob kept complaining and whining about how unhealthy our food was, and how we needed to take vitamins. As we headed up to the cash register to pay the cashier asked us, cheerfully, if we liked the food. I said it was delicious and that my buddy wanted to say a few words to the kitchen staff (who were visible behind the counter). Bob stared at me with the hatred of someone who doesn't like to be put on the spot. To his credit, Bob walked up to the counter and pretended to be deaf, even making the sign for "Thank you." Or maybe it was "Sassafras." Then he turned and left. I felt bad for the cashier and said, "he doesn't talk much, he's deaf and shy." And the guy said, "but he's got a camera." I said, "it's his job."

Bob and I spent Thursday night in Grand Rivers, Kentucky, which lays at the northern head of the Land Between the Lakes. In a small tourist town of 350, there is a nice gay couple, Chip and Michael, who are largely responsible for making Grand Rivers what is today: a tourist trap on your way to Tennessee. Chip's parents founded Patti's Settlement back in 1977 transforming Grand Rivers from a town of 349 into a town of 350, nearly overnight. For over 20 years Chip and Michael were the bedrock of the community, however begrudgingly so. They build and managed Patti's and the Iron Kettle, sat on the town council, and the state Tourism board, invested time and money in building tourist friendly docks along the harbors of Lake Kentucky. They did it all. In 2000, however, that all changed when Chip attempted to rally the town around a petition to convert from an alcohol-free "dry" town to a "wet" town. A battle broke out, which Chip and Michael describe as "ugly." Michael Lee withdrew from the Chamber of Commerce (he was the first openly gay person elected to a Chamber of Commerce in Kentucky, which was a big deal because nobody was aware that a Chamber of Commerce existed in Kentucky).

I first met Chip and Michael Lee just as the wet petition battle was heating up, back in the early fall of 2000. At the time I was halfway through walking to Atlanta when I came upon Patti's Settlement. The restaurant host thought my walking-to-Atlanta story was a hoot. "You've got to meet Michael, the owner. He just loves traveling." Wouldn't you know it, Michael the Owner appeared, we talked he comped me the dinner, and offered me lodging for the night.

At the time I was nervous. I had never met gay adults before, nor I had met many gay non-adults, or even many non-gay adults. Mostly I only met gay parakeets and refrigerators. But that was the point. The walking-to-Atlanta trip was supposed to be about new experiences.

After spending considerable hours with Michael and Chip a deeper structural truth became apparent: they were very much like a sitcomish heterosexual couple, with Michael in the role of the fussy wife and Chip in the role of the Falstaffian husband. Sort of like Bob and me. Bob has a pink bunny hat and I have a new cowboy hat. Bob is like Marie Osmond and I'm like Elvis Presley.

Chip sort of scared the bejesus of out of me back then. No longer. He's 6 foot 4 and wears denim overalls and a flamboyant yellow shirt as his working uniform. Hulking. He says he's a hound dog. Michael dresses like Jerry Seinfeld. Dress shirts tucked into stonewashed jeans and neat white sneakers. Back in 2000 Michael spent 2 hours showing me his stock portfolio. A few waiters and waitresses from Patti's showed up, so Michael had a glass of Franzia. Within 45 minutes he was on the floor, face down, supine, passed out cold. Chip liked to smoke pot and talk about a sitcom he was writing called "Ginger and Pickles." More than once he suggested I take advantage of the facilities on the premise, like the Jacuzzi on the back porch. At the time, I was exceptionally wary, the way Midwesterners are when they visit New York and accuse every Taxi Driver of ripping them off. (Or maybe that was just my mom?) I steadfastly refused, making up a story about a bad case of adult acne or eczema or enemas or spina bifida. Chip seemed a little huffy about refusal.

This time around I had Bob with me. Chip and Michael welcomed us with open arms. They've added a third member to their family, Jamie. Chip, Michael, and Jamie. The tripod. Balance. The power of 3. Three men and a Yorkie. Chip says, "We have a wonderful relationship." Jamie told me over Mexican food, in as endearing of a southern drawl as I've ever heard in Forresssttt Gump, "I've loved Chip forever." Michael said threesomes are relatively common in the community. I tried my best to contribute something complimentary, so I picked the number 3. I expostulated grandiloquently on the significance of the number three to the ancient Greeks, quoted hindu philosophy and a smattering of Christian mysticism, while also acknowledging that I didn't believe such an arrangement would fly over as well in a heterosexual relationship. "I think it has to do with the uniformity of the private parts, you know?" Nothing but blank faces.

I'll try to convey the facts of the relationship without adding a layer of salaciousness. Jamie is a young man in his thirties. He moved in with Chip and Michael about a month ago. This was after a year of correspondence. See, Jamie moved to Grand Rivers when he was fifteen from Eddytown. It seems the grandfather of the girl he impregnated ran Jamie out of town. Jamie didn't know he was gay back then. He lived in Grand Rivers for a few years, residing with a friend of Chip and Michael's. For six months when he was 21, Jamie moved in with Chip and Michael, then he left town. They thought he was just a regular good ol' boy. For several years there was no contact. Jamie Got married, had a daughter, like you would.

A year ago Chip and Michael got a letter from Jaimie declaring his love for Chip. The rest they say, is history. As we speak Chip and Michael are en route to Cancun. Jaimie will remain in Grand Rivers.

Now:

As for Bob and I, we're gearing up for our 20/20-esque investigation of the Buyno Family of Prophets-town, Illinois. Something happened to them, and we intend to find out that something was.

Until then.

16 Paces and You Turn and Shoot- Nashville , TN

It's 3AM in Nashville Tennessee, 4Am in NYC, 5PM in Tokyo and who you think I am is not who I be. This is not Christian, this is Bob; the Bob of travels with Bob. I'm pitch hitting at the moment out of necessity as I am the only one coherent enough to scribe the days events. I am no poet nor a writer, I am a cold logician, and the days events will be told in that fashion which best suits my personality. So, all ye who has read of me shall now be able to glean the truth of the day's events and a tidbit of my soul from the next words which follow.
The day begun with sunshine pouring into my tent. It was about 9 and I knew I had to get up. everything hurt, the ground was hard, I was a fool to choose that place as a camp site. At the kitchen I made the first of 3 PB&J sandwiches I would eat for the day's meals. We met up with Jai and Christan had a tarot reading on camera. The conclusions were...inconclusive.
In the garden we spoke with Mr. Rose about permaculture and how Short Mtn. sustains itself. After a long and elusive conversation the interviewer and interviewee swapped places and Christian found himself answering questions of his life goals to a radical farrie in the wilderness of Tennessee. Conclusions were equally inconclusive as tarot readings.
For the first time Christian swung in a hammock, falling ut the first 2 attempts to his delight. Attempting to do his first hand stand on a rock, once again he decided to trick me into a tackling match, which ended in a very hurt knee for him. A few dart games later (P.S. Bob/Wander beat out X/War Path both games) we talked with Socket who apparently moved to Short Mtn. sanctuary for the goats. She was one of my favorite faries and the conversation took place on a slanted log as goats grazed in the background, mosquitoes stole my blood, and a cream colored tabby wandered about aimlessly.
We were both sad to leave and Neil Young soothed our woes through the majestic Tennessee hills. But, it was bye-bye farries, on to Nashville to find a real southern honky tonk. That is exactly what the sign read in big bold letters, "Show me a REAL honky tonk." Walmart and 15min had bought Christian a plaid shirt, cowboy hat, and boot-cut wranglers along with enough poster board to make 5 signs along the remainder of the journey.
At the hotel he suited up as I prepped the technology for what was going to be one of the most spectacular, frightening, and memorable (for one of us) nights of our brief existence.
Broadway, Nashville, Tennessee; one of the most pathetic an synthetic attempts of a tourist trap we had ever seen...perfect to stage our re-immersion onto the grid. Armed with a country get-up, a ridiculous sign, a who-the-fuck-cares attitude, and a few hundred in wireless equipment we hit the streets looking for a real honky tonk.
Christian managed the following with the sign: to alienate many tourists, make friends with a few street musicians, give $10 to a one legged hobo, and encourage a rickshaw driver to pity him. With a few shots and a $6 a pitcher joint the stage was set and Tom, a motorcycle rickshaw driver, had no clue what to think when a drunken urban cowboy and a kid in a pink bunny hat showed up yelling into the night about needing honky tonk authenticity in a plastic world of fake honky tonkys.
But wait, got ahead of myself and missed a part. Make this in bulleted part in points.
-Met 3 street musicians and gave them a ride to East Nashville
-Drinks at a great place where young people where playing the old songs of blue grass in a circle seemingly evolved from nothing, but sounding oh so sweet
-One beer and were out with a great story of how some Weasel stole 2 mens dreams
-2 party buses full of masters of business students are too good to pass up
-Sure, we're from a reality TV show
-An overcrowded bar, a fight between bloggers, yelling, humping, racial jokes, handshakes, and a gay remark that would taint the night
We left and Christian was devastated for "loosing" the talk he and the other blogger/business major/Jewish man had. He was so upset I knew the rest of the night was in trouble, and he himself said the night was ruined as we walked back onto plastic Broadway. Another $6 pitcher that Christian somberly stared down while he drank, looking lost in a deep depression, and we were back on the streets.
Then we meet the rickshaw driver and before we know it he is driving us to another part of town where the real, or as real as you can get in the tourist trap that is Nashville, honky tonks are. A little joint named something or other full of somebodys listening to something that sounded just right. Bought 2 hot dogs from a guy named Ricky and some beers from the stereotype of a country bartender. While I was diverted outside by a crazy man who recited 9/11 poetry to me, Christian was all alone in his cowboy hat at the the front of the stage listening to a few musicians pour out their country souls. I had to hug the crazy man and salute the American flag to get him to leave me be and I had no idea whether Christian would be where I left him. But he was, and his diligence listening as the sole audience member earned him a kiss from a waitress who wanted to be filmed.
Tom told me I was on my own and left, he had done us right and I hope got something from the experience. A hungry man beside me watched enviously, and commented often, as I ate my hot dog that would round out my complete and balanced diet for the the day (if jelly counts as fruit and sour crout as a vegi serving). Stumbling out into the night Christian confessed that he loved his girlfriend Nicole and also New York City, and Nashville. We were walking back to the car, with no real idea where we were after Tom's rickshaw ride had turned me around, and then Christian stopped at a business lobby.
It was one of those multi-story generic corporate buildings with a lot of glass and a blank single secretary desk set against a marble entrance. At first I thought he was staring himself in he mirror and confronting his inner daemons, but instead he turned to me and was ranting about a duel and how I didn't understand we had to fight. I thought he wanted to fight me, but was totally wrong as he told me. I was on his side, and we were to duel the corporate structure. 16 paces, turn and shoot!
Staring at me as if for validation he collapsed into a large amount of landscaping; only his white cowboy hat visible in the shrubbery. He than began to fight other forms of landscaping and running into the road unpredictably. After that it is hard to sum up what happened as it was hard just to keep up with him. For the next 20 min it was an ongoing poem about life, the chorus of which was "16 paces, turn and shoot!" From challenges to the system, comments on passerby's clothing, and surprisingly eloquent metaphors we stumbled through town, dancing with homeless men, screaming at limos, and offending a very large man in suspenders. Like an madman he poured through the streets unbridled and free from his conscious. I found it all rather moving to tell the truth, but people on the street did not share my sentiment and without the camera he would have surely been in a fight or arrested.
I had kept a green pepper from the Short Mtn. garden in my pocket and gave it to him to chew on as he waxed on about the state of the world and "turn and shoot" changed to "know the truth." A man moving to Miami seemed to agree that 16 paces was the right amount to know the truth and despite my urging we had to go into another bar, the worst looking trap of them all, to which Christian commented, "I want to experience the worst."
A gorgeous waitress gave him another beer and he sat amongst the dancing couples for about 30 seconds before storming out without drinking a drop of his purchase. By now tape was low, battery dying, and patients running thin so I steered towards the car in a zig-zag pattern that took a while to accomplish. Jeff Tweedy was one the radio and I knew roughly how to get back to the hotel but Christian was being controlled by another spirit (later identified as the evil spirit living in the white $5 cowboy hat) and the voice wanted to go somewhere to get out its angst. Well, I convinced the hat it wanted to go back to the hotel, but the hat thought I meant the hotel bar so within 1 min of being back in the room it ran out into the night again.
I found him in the courtyard as a drugged out hooker and a john walked by me commenting on how hot it was in the 40 degree Nashville night. Christian attempted to climb a relatively gentle slope on all fours and then hopped a large wooden fence to get to the bar. Of course, his doing so brought security, who found me dumbfounded on what to do about the whole situation. Thankful for my soberness I convinced the officer to let him be as we were filmmakers just back into society from a long stint in isolation and the culture shock had led to overindulgence, which was only human. The guy agreed to help me get him back to the room, but I found Christian in the bar waiting for me with 2 beers on the table. The officer told me just to keep him away from fences and wandered away to look for the other hotel residences who bore an eerie resemblance to our other Nashville hotel patrons.
After telling 2 middle 50's women singing Patsy Cline that he could not be more attracted to them, he noticed a Greenbay Packers foam square thingy sitting in a booth. Head down on the table clutching the square he began to sob momentarily before springing up and and excitedly stating to everyone he loved that team. That opened the gate to sports talk with the 3 remaining patrons of the bar. One was a 1/2 Mexican man in a soft yellow polo shirt. He had sold paint, put 3 kids through college, and has been a sprinter back some 30 years and 150 pounds ago. The other was a special forces vet who had never married or had kids. The last was a leathery faced bartenderess who would periodically wander over to the claw game to pluck at plush toys in exchange for quarters.

So we closed out the bar and we wandered back to the hotel. On top of me constantly calling him a writer, which made him happy, but it was the truth, he was full of mixed feelings. "Bob, I feel really bad right now, but I am having a good time." With that he stripped of the costume he had purchased and fell into bed asking me to do the blog tonight an promising I'd say it was me, Bob Geile, and not he, Christian Clarke.
But, through all the madness of the night no one was hurt and promises were made that may never be kept. In this cold Nashville night I miss Maiko deeply, and I wonder what she is dreaming of 1,000 miles away, all alone in NYC. I look at Christian and see a very exceptional person with very normal questions to ask of the world and am glad to know I too want to get married. When morning comes it may be only one of us still wants to, or even remembers the promise, but like a river time passes on and no amount of chasing will ever allow us to change what we said on a cold October night in Nashville Tennessee.

At 5:30AM I'm looking at his smiling face and I know he had the best night in Nashville of his life, and you know what, despite my other night in Nashville was full of drug dealers, cockroaches, and hookers, so did I.

-B.G.-

Oh What a Beautiful Morning!

Bob Wasn't Nude.

We're at Short Mountain Sanctuary, Tennessee. It's another community devoted to growing their own food, using solar power, composting waste, recycling all materials possible, sharing work and food. Everybody has been to Asheville, Austin, San Fran, and Portland. Everybody has a unique food allergy that requires special herbal care and dietary restrictions. Somehow people who vote for democrats can't digest gluten products. There's a sociological research paper dying to be written on the subject.

And there's a lot of talking. It's really about talking. We've done a lot of talking about capitalism and duality. The people at Short Mountain do not like capitalism. Or consumerism. Or Western Civilization. Jimmy blames society's ills on the invention of writing. He thinks writing is responsible for the breakdown of brotherhood and community. "Writing created the division. 1st person and 3rd person." I got flashbacks to teaching 7th grade English. My students would've been ideal revolutionaries. They could never tell the difference between 1st and 3rd person.

"Once the 1st person and the 3rd person split, we became alienated from each other." Jimmy's problem is that he learned about the evils of writing by reading a book. Jimmy wants to bring about the downfall of capitalism. I can sympathize with his sense of focused anger at the system, but I'm not convinced the way to do unify humanity involves Pageants and Drum Circles. I asked him about this. I said, "It sounds noble, but a little too theoretical. For the 'Revolution' to succeed don't you need to reach out to the mainstream? Don't you need to convince the guys watching the New York Giants to watch pageants, and the guys watching pageants to watch the Giants?" Jimmy replied, "I watch football. I love football. I watched Vince Vaughn in the National Football Championship help his team from USC beat Miami. He made 14 points for his team in the last two minutes; it was beautiful!" I didn't have the heart to tell Jimmy that Vince Vaughn was really Vince Young, and he played for the University of Texas. He made his point. And mine.

The members of Short Mountain do not like capitalism, but they do like arts and crafts. They have a Maypole and Decorative Gourds all over the Short Mountain grounds. And they like to play Rummikub and Scrabble. And watch John Waters movies. And giving each other names. Among others, there's Branch, Driftwood, River, and Socket. Socket is one of the few females here. Or as Socket phrased it, she is one of the few female-bodied individuals, but one of many who are female-identified. In other words there are many hes who are shes. Bob kept referring to Socket as "Ratchet," in conversation, which was a real scream.

Once again, Bob is our savior. The members of Short Mountain are clearly uncomfortable with our project, for obvious reasons. They want anonymity. They asked we spend a day or so without filming so they could get a sense of us as people. I've spend most of the time watching. Bob made about 40 friends. I'm too detached. I couldn't even use the outhouse yesterday. I made up a lie and drove into town to use the bathroom at the local Hardees. I'm not sure anyone believed me.

But Bob is a winner. Last night a guy named Jai asked Bob to model for the daily 10 am drawing session held in Jai's bungalow, called "the lighthouse". Bob did not think it humorous that I teased him about this when we woke up this morning. Bob does morning stretches. I asked him if he was limbering up for nudity. Then I asked him if he wanted help practicing nude poses. "Is that your only joke?" So I refrained. When I went to spy on the drawing session I was dismayed to discover Bob wasn't very nude. He was sitting in a wooden chair, wearing his threadbare yellow Bambi t-shirt and his Pink Bunny Hat while avant garde music chimed on in the background and Jai and Lucy sketched him on easel pads. With all the focus of a cold-war spy I slipped away, trudging back to the main cabin.

It's noon. We have to go now. I need to go to Hardees.

Until then.

More Fun With Signs

Gypies, Tramps, and Thieves

Bob and I are in a Super 8 motel, a dozen miles Southeast of Nashville. It's 5:45 am. We're heading out for Short Mountain Sanctuary. Yesterday we were almost undone by deer, several of them, dashing in front of our rented automobile, and the squalid conditions of a Tennessee motel, called, The Motel. There bugs everywhere in our room. I nearly had a heart attack. There were A set of red track pants in the drawer. We had to register our vehicle so the cops wouldn't tow it after midnight. The parking lot looked like the waiting room for the state penitentiary. IF the State Penn was Co-ed. I heard Cher singing "Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves" somewhere on the side of the road. We asked for our money back and but first I was asked to play the Banjo and squeal like a pig. Thank the lord for Super 8.

Emotionally, Bob and I are in a rut. People back home are getting tired of our road act. Bob made me take a pit-stop in Belleville, Illinois, home of Jeff Tweedy, the lead singer of my favorite band, Wilco. Bob made wear a sandwich board that said, "WHERE IS JEFF TWEEDY?" and walk around an empty downtown Belleville for nearly an hour. We're in a rut, I tell you, a trough, a valley, if you will. We're like an old married couple. We've gone over the same ground conversationally, (Religion, Favorite Bands, How Bob Thinks He's Going to Die, Why I Yell For No Reason, Robots, Pink Hats, Bob's Family, The Time Bob Went on Stage at the Rocky Horror Picture Show, and so on and so forth.

It's good to head out for another community.

Until then.

A Day of Hell So Far.

This is how I feel. A man full of rage.

Look, I'm starting to understand the Unabomber. The hatred of modern society, with its fancy shmancy doo-dads and gadgets. Red tape. Small minded administrators.

Here's a picture

Let's do an hour by hour analysis of the day.

12:14 am: Bob drives us home from a roadside tavern in Sherman, Illinois. We went to see if I anyone I knew growing up in Sherman was the kind of person who frequented run-down dives. They weren't.

7:37 am: Wake-up. Slight headache. Realize I need to call "Dan" about his '96 Jetta. Dan lives 30 miles south of Springfield in Virden. He's a fireman, so he told me to call him at 7:30 am about the car. Dan wants 1,950 dollars for the vehicle. Bob and I test-drove the car yesterday with permission from Tammy, Dan's wife. She was extremely un-smileful. I need to return the PT Cruiser to Enterprise Rental by 8:30 am, get a cash advance from the Chase bank, then have Uncle Mike drive me to Virden, haggle over the car, buy the car, drive back to Springfield, pick up Liability Insurance from Triple A, and watch the Wisconsin-Illinois football game.

8:30 am: Bob and I follow Mike in his Buick Century to Enterprise, just down the highway. Mike drives faster than me. We have no problems. I explain to Mike how the key-drop system works. I'm feeling good. I have no need to end lives and break necks.

9:05 am: We enter the Chase bank. I ask for a cash advance of 2,000 dollars. It takes five minutes before Lila informs me the transaction is declined. She tells me to take my card over to Morgan. Mike laughs. Someone asks Bob about his camera.

9:08 am: Morgan calls Chase. Chase tells them they stopped the transaction for security reasons. This level of security makes me feel safe and protected, knowing Chase cares about me. I want to ask Chase to begin Freudian therapy, take our relationship to the next level.

9:12 am: Cash advance is mine. The tellers ask Bob and I about our documentary. Everyone is smiling. I have twenty 100 dollar bills in my pocket. Mike and I debate how to show Dan my money. Mike is convinced Dan will bring down his price once he sees my roll.

9:13 am: Mike coaches me again on the finer points of haggling over the car. I'm supposed to offer 1,500 dollars in cash, right away, then talk about the battery, the timing belts, and the tires. I say, "Should I ask about the catalytic converter or the Flux Capacitor?" Not funny. We get in the car. Uncle Mike as a GPS gizmo in his car. I enter Dan's address into it. Immediately, the gizmo speaks to us in that quasi-seductive female computer voice, telling us where to drive, no matter where we are, to find Virden.

9:14 am: I call Dan. He drops the bombshell. "Oh man," he says, "I'm not home right now. I'm in Raymond, and oh yeah, I forget the bank still has my title. I mean, the car is paid off and all, but the bank forget to send me the title. They won't even be open until Tuesday." I tell Dan I'll all him back. Mike and Bob and I drive aimlessly around debating what to do. The GPS keeps telling us where to drive. Linda calls from work. Mike tells me not to worry. "I can find a car in fifteen minutes if I have to. There's ALWAYS a better deal. We'll find it. Just relax! I can tell you're uptight about the whole ordeal. Is it because you're from New York?" His confidence is very reassuring to me. I figure I'm uptight because its in my blood. From my mother's side. We're uptight people. Hot blooded. We're ARABS! We love life! We're more suited to betting on racehorses, playing cards, starting Jihads. Mike is from Springfield. He was in the Marines. He reads Consumer Reports the way Southerners read the Bible. He'll have Bob and I driving off the lot in a Caddy in no time. Mike says, "If your dad knew I was driving you around like this he probably wouldn't speak to me for a year."

9:17-10:55 am: No car. We've been to a dozen dealerships. Mike finds something wrong with each one. One lot was selling an old police cruiser for 1,995 dollars. I want it. Mike and Bob say it's worth 500 dollars. Plus the dealership owner didn't show up for work. The cheapest car at the other eleven lots is $2,995. We give up. Now I've got all this money. I want to return it to Chase. The interest is $30 a month. Mike and Bob say I should keep it in case we see a car in Tennessee. We drive to the bank to turn the $2,000 dollars into traveler's checks. It costs me $20. My mind is going, "This is getting bad. I'm spending money on MONEY."

11:05 am: Mike suggests I call Dan, offer to give him $1,500 dollars, in person today, then pick up the title on Tuesday. If Dan balks, I should offer to "split the difference." Mike asks me if we should pull the car over so I can have some privacy, as if haggling over a car is like taking a leaker in the woods. We pull over. I "haggle." Dan won't budge. Says he's got another buyer. Mike gives me the throat "slash," sign to end the deal. I end the deal. Mike tells me the game has started. "Now I'm dipping into my football time!"

11:05-53 am: Bob and I use the internet to explore train rides, bus rides, plane rides to Liberty Tennessee. Amtrak only goes to Memphis, on the wrong side of the state. Greyhound is 180 dollars for two, and its GREYHOUND. It's like the Modern World doesn't want to go to East Tennessee. I'm sick of hashing out plans B through Q. Suddenly, it dawns on me. I'll check monthly rental rates, since I'm willing to spend $2,000 dollars, and I don't want need a car in NYC, what's the big deal? I call Enterprise. Talk to Jeff. Tell Jeff I just dropped off a PT Cruiser. Tell him I want a month long rate. Jeff sets me up with 721 dollars for one month. And only a $50 drop off fee. PERFECT. I can buy a car later. I'm happy. Mike's happy, "Does that mean you two freeloaders will be gone! YES!" Bob and I are laughing. I ask Bob if he wants to drive a Cadillac around the country. Mike and I are cramming Goldfish and pretzels into our mouths. Bob is recording this moment of sheer triumph.

12:31 pm: We pick out the car from Enterprise. Kia Rondo, which is a tiny SUV. Jeff gives us the compact rate. Jeff is holy.

12: 34 pm: Jeff sees my "license." New York State takes 6 weeks to send out the actual physical plastic card. In the meantime, the NY DMV gives you a paper receipt that is valid for 60 days from the time of the driver's test, which for me would be Oct 30. Jeff worked at the DMV. He KNOWS the rules, but Jeff's coworker, a husky Hawaiian fellow, demands Jeff car the area manager for approval. I'm tempted to say, "Hey, fatty, we don't need to involve area managers." Then Hawaiian dude leaves. Jeff calls.

12:35 pm: Jeff tells me Cathy, the area manager won't let him rent us the car. I tell Jeff we just rented from Enterprise. He says Cathy won't approve it. I ask to speak to Cathy

12:47 pm: After 12 excruciating minutes arguing with the dumbest cunt alive, I'm ready to slit throats. Smoke is coming out of my ears. I call Uncle Mike. He's understanding but peeved. My cell phone dies. The Hawaiian returns. We talk. He apologizes, "See, we just need a valid license." I say, "Look, it's nothing personal, but you really need to stop referring to this receipt as invalid license, okay. This paper and this permit, in tandem, are as valid as Jesus' sandals, in every state in the union." He nods, and I continue. "I could even use these to drive in Puerto Rico, if I so choose. Ask Jeff. He worked at the DMV. the Problem is, Jeff is here behind this desk and Cathy is the Area Manager. I got the wrong combination."

1:09 pm: Jeff drives Bob and I to the airport to check out Budget Rental. He tells he lived in Wyoming until he was 9 and his dad was a disco dancer who in turn put Jeff in dance class, which won him no respect on the kickball field, and now he teaches Latin Ballroom dancing with his girlfriend but he speaks no spanish.

1:27 pm: Avis, Budget, and Hertz are side-by-side. Bob and I ask each for rates. We take Budget. Sandy rents us a car with an ink stain the front seat. Ink gets on Bob's pants.

2:30 pm: Back at Mike and Linda's. Mike spends 3o minutes using every available cleaning agent to get out stain. Nothing works. He tells us to go back. He goes to Grandma Clarke's to help her clean up her place.

3:06 pm: Sandy tell us the stain was probably documented by the service worker. I say, "But you and I didn't do the rental car 'walk-around'. What if someone blames me?" Sandy is overweight and has bad skin, and is clearly angry at the world. She says, "they won't."

5:17 pm: Bob and I are off to say goodbye to Grandma Clarke.

Sunken Treasures

So far I haven't had my transcendent moment. I'm looking for that BIG epiphany, you know how it goes: the protagonist enters into a higher consciousness. I'm looking for the moment when my consciousness shifts from the personal "I" to the universal "thou". I'm looking for my Buddha under the Bodhi Tree enlightenment.

The first house I lived in was on Cottonwood drive.

I thought driving to each house I lived in as a child would lead me to my Big Moment. For months I've been looking for to exploring this possibility. For years I've been tormented by recurring dreams regarding Sherman, Illinois. Sherman is where we lived from 1983 to 1989. Population 2900 today, population half as much when we moved there 23 years ago. I went to school in Sherman from 1st grade to the first semester of 6th grade. Very formative years. By the time we left, my friends started puberty, and I was only a couple years from joining them. I remember my mom asking me for updates on my "progress". I wanted to puke. She told me my buddy, Clayton Brockman, updated his mom, Mrs. Brockman. "I'm not going to update you. That's final. I don't care who Clayton Brockman tells."

In all these dreams about Sherman I'm doing the same thing: driving down the road. Driving down Flagland Drive, or Old Tipton Road, or down by the Rail Golf Course. The Dream that really plagued me was the most simple: walking down Stardust Drive. Brandon Taylor and Mandy Stewart lived on Stardust. The most socially entrenched people lived on Stardust. Their homes are unremarkable, but to me they were keepers of a truth. I longed to be invited into them. I longed to walk through their backyards as the sun fell and they were sitting down to dinner, and just observe how they passed the potatoes.

I think my subconsciousness has always sensed something important changed during our time in Sherman and it needed more processing. I think my life changed radically in Sherman, Illinois. For one, my brother Joe was born in 1988. My mom was 40 at the time. Dad was 41. This seemed irresponsible to me. I was a conservative child. I thought it was embarrassing mom got knocked up at 40. We had the textbook American family. 2 parents, 2 kids. Now mom was walking around with a swelled up belly? At the time I was embarrassed by the obvious lack of control on the part of my parents. I wanted to ground them, take away car privileges, put the child up for adoption, and install my mother in a convent, any convent, something impressive like the Carmelite Order of Benevolent Stricture, where the Sisters of Everlasting Chastity could help her get a handle on herself.

But I was only ten at the time. I was conservative. I'm conservative now. I'm puritanical at heart. Everything disgusts me. It's horrible. I can't accept anyone for who they are. I'm very judgmental about people's choices in life. I like religious people like nuns, I like artists, musicians, writers, and filmmakers. But only the ones whom I respect as people. I use to be obsessed with the Beatles. I never had a favorite, but I did like Paul McCartney because he was married to Linda for 35 years and appeared distraught when she died. But then he started dating Heather Mills, and it really offended my notion of true love. Two legs or bust. Bruce Springsteen dumped Julianne Phillips, a professional model to marry Patti Scialfa, not a model, but a Jersey Girl. Jeff Tweedy has been married for 12 years.

I'm conservative, by nature a Puritan; but I'm a seeker too. I need my Big Moment. I thought Bob and I could find it. I thought we could recreate the dreams I had been having and the Big Moment would happen. We walked throughout the old neighborhood. We took pictures. We walked through backyards. I shared anecdotes about Brandon Taylor and Missy Fitch and Mandy Stewart. We went to old Schools and Churches. We found out Father Mascari was excommunicated for scamming senior citizens. We were forbidden from walking around the halls of my Junior High because it was school hours and I told the school secretary, "but I just cut my hair and bought a new shirt."

No big moments. I felt terrible for dragging Bob along. He was a good sport. Always is. We talk. Bob told me how he met his Japanese girlfriend. And we sing along with the Radio. Bob knows the lyrics to many songs, even if he doesn't know who sang them or when. He's the Jason Bourne of lyrics. He teaches me the lyrics but I never remember them. But it's not enough. There's no Big Moment.

Reminds me of a story my Uncle Mike told me about The Treasure of Grandpa Clarke. When he was on his last legs, dying of Parkinsons, Grandpa Clarke hid his possessions around the house. A few hundred here, a few hundred there, a little between the mattresses, behind a book, etc. Just before he passed away, he gave my Uncle Mike a detailed map. Mike stashed it away for 21 years. Didn't take it all that seriously. Last Thanksgiving Uncle Mike and my Dad, and their kids went looking for the treasure. Thought it was in the front yard of 2544 Holmes. Asked the new Owner, a guy named Duffy, for permission, "to look around," and he told them, sure, come back in an hour, and he left. After two hours, the family got impatient, and began their search for the Treasure of Grandpa Clarke; that is until they were interrupted by the sound of shrieking sirens and flashing blue lights. Turns out Duffy was spooked and called the cops. The Brothers Clarke were foiled. No treasure.

So Bob and I will continue our quest for the Big Moment. We're going to document, in photos, more homes of the past today. We're also going to a high school football game. The Williamsville Bullets take Mt. Olive. I would've gone to Williamsville had our family stayed in Illinois. I would've worn the purple and gold. Then again, had we not moved to Wisconsin, I wouldn't have eaten cheese curds, which are salty, and I wouldn't have gone to Catholic Memorial and met Sara, and wouldn't have gone to Madison, and wouldn't have walked to Atlanta, and wouldn't have driven Badger Cab and lost my license, and wouldn't have moved to New York City, and wouldn't have become a teacher at Bronx Letters, and wouldn't have met my wonderful students, and wouldn't have asked Bob to come with me on a journey to Springfield, and wouldn't have written this sentence.

Until Then.

Hustle and Flow

Bob and I had a very silly day, as well as brutally emotional day. It's very strange experience to have Bob down here on this part of the journey. It's asymmetrical. Bob has no connection to Springfield whatsoever compared to my fully steeped past.

Earlier in the day Bob and I drove to the White Oaks mall and bought dress shirts and ties, a la Rain Man. I wonder who's the Dustin Hoffman character in this scenario? From there we headed to the Capitol Square, right in front of the Old Capitol building, and set up shop. "Free Interview with a New Yorker," read our advertisement. As you can see, I interpreted the dress of a New Yorker based on what George at Bergerner's informed was the prototypical New Yorker outfit: black fitted dress shirt with white tie.

For three hours we interviewed folks in and around the Capitol Square. Old, young, black, white, homeless, homeful, criminals, law-abiders. We even interviewed a married couple from Cobble Hill, Brooklyn who quit their jobs to walk the 2,000 mile Pacific Coast Trail this summer. Their trail nicknames were "Hustle" and "Flow." (I should've told them our trail names were Slim and Rusty). They told us the names also applied to their marriage. We asked them what they were doing in Springfield. They were coming back from out East after attending Ben's grandmother's funeral, stopping in Springfield on their back to Portland.

We finished our interviews out front of the Lincoln Presidential Museum. We were sort of hoping for a dismissal from museum property for dramatic purposes, but security staff was too accommodating. In fact, the on-site PR director, Dave, mercifully gave me an interview after watching me bake in the sun for nearly 30 minutes.

The best part about the Museum was watching the watchers. It seemed like a reverse fish-bowl effect. All the fish inside the museum gathered to watch the action outside the bowl. Security guards and curators sheepishly lurked in the lobby, kind of acting like they wanted to be asked to interview. And then we disrupted a few teachers' attempts to create straight lines to board the waiting yellow school buses. Once one kid saw the sign, EVERY kid had to read the sign, wave at us, wave at the camera (their real fixation), and yell, "Will this be on YOUTUBE?"

Until then.

The Continuing Story of the American Interview Project

First Day in Springfield, capital of illinois, the Land of Lincoln. We rented a car from Enterprise. They gave me a PT Cruiser. Exceptionally stylish vehicle.

Big plans today. Seeing Grandma Clarke after her doctor's appointment at 3:30 pm. In the meantime, we're continuing the American Interview Project, which is a pet side project of mine. Our location is downtown Springfield.

Until then.

PS Lincoln toiled as president while dealing with a host of physical and emotional ailments, including Marfan's Syndrome and Bi-polar anxiety disorder. Also his wife was insane. Some people have suggested Lincoln coped with his anxiety by developing a series of allegorical hand puppets based on the emotional spectrum.

PPS Bob is a loud cereal eater. And he mixes cereals. And he eats cereal in the Pink Bunny Hat. The sound of Bob slurping his Rice Krispies and Raisin Bran has driven me into a homicidal rage.

In the Windy City

The well-oiled machine of Bob and me made it out of Madison by 4:30 am this morning. We'd like to take this moment to thank 'Em and the Amundson Clan for their generosity. And hello to all the good folks of Chicago: Trish and Jim, Dan and Brighid, and Patrick.

We're in the Rogers Park branch of the Chicago public library. We arrived 9:30 am to the Union Station. So we're kind of wandering around for few hours before our train leaves at 5 pm.

Some pretty dramatic events have been taking place in the past 24 hours.

Let's start with Bob. We found out there are some pretty serious holes in Bob's armor last night. For instance when Bob's under the influence (of a single beverage), he likes to do handstands, even walk on those very same hands, and free-style rap. Bob rapped, "O-G" style, about going to the "club." And dancing in the club. And going to the club again. Then, today I noticed Bob seems to possess a kleptomaniac streak, as evidenced by the pen he took from the Viroqua Public Library and the New Age Hippy magazine he took from the Heartland Cafe. Compounding this string of thefts is the crime of vandalism. Bob snipped out an add for "Yoga Jesus" and taped into his ever-present notebook. Perhaps due the bad karma of these and other acts of malfeasance, Bob has been stricken with a sore back.

In other news, I talked Grandma Clarke for the first time in 7 years. That's what happens when you're a upwardly-mobile teacher making it big in New York City and your parents live in Iowa and your dad's mom lives in Springfield. Haven't been there in seven years. Plus, I can't show my face after infecting half the town with rickets, scurvy, and the shingles. But that's what Bob is for. (Or not. Quick side-story. Last night, when Bob and I had our beverage, there were a group of dudes dressed in menacing attire, smoking unfiltered Winstons, acting all rowdy, laughing aggressively, wearing cowboy hats, sporting mustaches, etc. And it was only 8 pm. I think they were making fun of Bob's Bunny Hat or my male-pattern baldness. Anyway, I told Bob he'd better get ready. He said, "Get ready for what?" I said, "Get ready to throw down!" and he nodded and said, "Okay, but I won't fight anyone. I practice non-violence to all living things." Buddhism is quite the scourge).

In other dramatic news, my Bruce Springsteen tickets did not sell on ebay. For the third listing. So far I've spent 75 dollars not selling them. But we're getting close. And the new album, "Magic," was released today. I'm hoping publicity will generate more interest for my fourth listing. Bob seems to think I should wait until 10 days before the concert (Oct 18th at the garden), to sell them. He also told me I should not have a reserve price. Perhaps it was tad optimistic to refuse to sell my tickets to anyone for less than 1,200 dollars.

Finally, Bob and I are scheming for new and better ways to get ourselves from point A to point B. I'm thinking of plopping down some coin for a used automobile. I'm a little apprehensive for the following reasons:

1) I haven't had a license for 7 years.

2) My license was suspended for points. Too many speeding tickets. Maybe a fender bender here and there. Maybe I failed to heed the flashing red lights of a stopped School Bus that was unloading elementary aged children while I was driving a taxicab.

3) I'm not positive, but I seem to recall insurance rates vary according to a complex array of criteria based on sex, driving record, years driving, etc. I'm not positive, but I believe I may have to pay 6,000 dollars per week for insurance.

So that's where Bob and I stand. We're leaving Union Station at 5 pm. That is, if I can find the ticket. It's not in my pocket. Could be in the rented locker, but I don't want to lose twelve dollars to find out. Also, I'm fairly sure I lost the ticket for the locker.

Until then.

A Smattering of Photos From Our Time in the Driftless

Sorry for the formatting. I don't know what I'm doing.


Bob and I are in Madison. It's Sunday night, 10:23 pm. Bob is watching a cable show called Ninja Warrior, which looks and feel like American Gladiators with a little Double Dare thrown into it. What's really annoying to me is that Bob would totally rag on the show if it was American, but because his girlfriend is Japanese he's all for it. Claims the show improves the moral character of the today's youth. Makes your hair grow back. He keeps trying to sell me on the virtues of a show about shirtless Japanese men running through a timed obstacle course even though I'm clearly not paying attention, typing with my back to the TV, and I have headphones on.

Since we have another day before we head down to Springfield, Illinois, I thought I'd include a smattering of photos from our Travels. So far our travels have gone nothing as originally planned which is exactly as we intended. My friend Praveen told all about this phenomenon.

The pictures are jumbled up and do not really appear in a coherent order. You see Ms. Christiane's 8th grade class from the Pleasant Ridge Waldorf School. We interviewed them. They were bright and open and generous. It really pissed me off. I felt like they had skipped a few too many levels on the human food chain. One kid, Erik Shepard, later asked me if I liked the bands Tool and Dream Theater. Tool? TOOL? At least I could make fun of the names of the kids. Summer. Evergreen. My favorite: Lichen. Lichen isn't even a thing. It's a relationship between fungus and regular plants. Ha. Lichen. Now I can feel good about myself.

There's a cluster of photos of the Dreamtime Village, where the Wild Things Are. Yeah, I know, it's a cliche: visit an Anarchist Commune and immediately pick up a copy of the Anarchist Cookbook and ask, "Hey, why can't I find that recipe for the mushroom risotto?"

There's Chris with the dreads, and another of Chris and his girlfriend Bonnie practically having intercourse in public. Who knew Anarchists were so damn frisky? I liked Chris and Bonnie. Chris works at the Heartland Cafe. If Bob and I make it to Chicago, or if I make it to Chicago without Bob, we'll eat there. Bonnie is an anarchist fashion designer who makes politically evocative haute couture from reconstituted WW II military garb, like boots and dynamite. Bonnie and Chris spent a lot of time in the garden.

and there's Micaela, the Irish lass from LA who's living in Dreamtime for the second time in 8 years, this time with her son Thurman who is funny and looks like a four foot Eric Idle. I thoroughly enjoyed stomping Thurman and Bob in a spelling contest. I found out Bob can't spell, to wit, : Ostrich, Necessary, February, and Privilege. I almost spit up my organic squash and lentil soup laughing at Bob's attempt at Ostrich: Austarach. I also beat Thurman at several games based on the Pythagorean Theorem.

There's the ornery goose, Margarita. He has his own huge pen because of his penchant for biting and hitting, especially women. A misogynistic water fowl. Forget about it.

There's the fireworks. We had what amounted to a professional fireworks show two Saturdays ago to celebrate the church consecration at St. Isaac's. Fr. Simeon used to be the fire-chief of the volunteer fire department of the small town in Oklahoma where he began his life as a monk. He volunteered the monastery for fire duty. It was on 20/20 about 20 years ago. Or maybe it was Real People. It was Real People. It's difficult to maintain total recall after dealing with all the head trauma I suffered as a child actor on the set of the Incredible Hulk. I'm kidding. My parents beat me.

So we had fireworks. It was hilarious to watch to monks in full regalia lighting Class A fireworks, meant for South Dakota-esque State Fairs, with firework names like "Warrior Master," and for the benefit of just under 20 people, mostly nuns and whatnot. Needless to say the deafening explosions brought back horrible memories of the Tet Offensive so I instinctively cut Bob's throat, and ran to the hills to escape my Charlie Company Captors and ate bugs and drank my own urine to survive.

Speaking of Fr. Simeon, there he his, whitebeard and all, with his childhood friend Stan. 60 years ago they were just two normal Jewish kids growing up in Chicago. They put their pants on one hour at time just like you and me. And now, here they are. Sharing a moment on the consecration day. Check out Sister Elizabeth. She might've been my favorite. I knew I could open up to her on a personal level after she called Mother Teresa, "overrated." This is a nun after my heart. Sister Elizabeth was actually in Mother Teresa's order, so she met the women. I always suspected Mother Teresa was largely a media creation, publicity stunt. And yeah, I know she died in a plane on the way to Diana's funeral. And yeah, I know Elton John sang Candle in the Wind at Diana's funeral. And yeah, I know Elton John is gay. Wait, Elton John is gay? Does that make all of his songs gay? Crap. Bob and I were singing a duet of Rocket Man yesterday. Bob told me he likes to sing space-themed songs from the 70s, one after another. He said it makes him woebegone to realize space travel isn't that great. So we sang Ground Control to Major Tom. And Rocket Man. Bob knew almost all the lyrics, which was helpful because I knew only the chorus.

There's Bob with his Pink Hat and backpack. That was taken the day we left Mark Shepard's permaculture farm off of highway 56. Mark is the guy with the white shirt and baseball cap. He's like a botanical Thomas Edison. He's a former Dreamtimer who worked with Miekal, the jolly, lumbering founder of the place. Miekal is like Old Major from Animal Farm. I guess that makes Mark Snowball. What trips me out, is how Lenin and Marx based all their ideas on Orwell's quaint fable. Smart dudes.

Tomorrow Bob and I head off for Springfield, Illinois, my official birthplace. We're going to profile Springfield as our model for the "Grid." Plus, I gots to see Gramma Clarke. She's 92 and raised me for basically the first two years of my life since my mom couldn't do it. Mom was busy getting herself off the junk. She grew up on the streets of Baltimore with a needle in her arm but gold in her heart. By the time she had me, Mom was nearly far gone. I knew it was either get a scholarship for basketball and move onto the NBA or we would go hungry. Or is that the plot to Hoop Dreams? Is Hoop Dreams the one with Leonardo DiCaprio as heroin addict? Be honest with me right now: we all know it was totally immoral for Leo to portray the mentally retarded kid, right? but secretly you got off on it, didn't you? Check your conscience pal.

Anyway, Bob and I getting ready to leave Tuesday. I'm a little concerned how Bob will go over with my Uncle Mike. The pink bunny hat. The glasses. The slight physical stature. The constant desire to discuss Japanese culture and robots. The indifference to football. We're going to have to answer a lot of difficult questions.

Until then.