The Fork in the Road

I wrote this for our newsletter. It's a bit more serious than normal, but I feel it deserves a look...

xoxo

            Although our journey across the nation comes to an end, in Tucson in 5 days, our most difficult journey has only just begun. In collecting the information we have collected, in experiencing what we have experienced, we learned to take things for what they are. In examining the trees throughout the forest, and minding not the forest itself, we learned to leave over-analysis behind.

            It was not always so. Pursue the Passion set out to find what makes people passionate. Perhaps youthful arrogance led us to believe ourselves capable of distilling conversations to their passionate roots. The first leg of the trip, through mid-August, we faithfully executed our original plan. As we continued, our insecurity in the project's simplicity grew. In retrospect, to believe that we could meet someone for an hour, cut their passion into a two-minute video, then progress to our next meeting, was a serious overestimation of our own abilities.   

            Dreaming big is always an overestimation. As feelings of doubt in the project mounted, we surveyed more honestly both the task before us, and our own abilities. It was difficult to come to grips with, watching our initial ideal exposed as somewhat frivolous, but we found comfort in several things. We found camaraderie, on the trip, with each other and those we met along the way. We received emails from readers who found genuine inspiration in what we offered. We found an incredible life experience being lived everyday. 

            What we have found is broken monotony. We departed as overly serious, business minded adventurers, and return humbled by our experiences. As a group, we have grown to support and nurture each other in a way none of us have ever known. What we have to offer is an honest interpretation of our travels, without presumptions of conclusions, which can help to avoid, or break, the mundane working existence. There is no singular, universal passion. Rather, there is an open-mindedness, fortitude and confidence shared among all we have found that is passionate. 

Ant Bites.

            It has been a few days sans blogging. Honestly, there has been very little to report. We had the tamest New Orleans experience in the history of New Orleans experiences. We went to Bourbon Street Friday, and Le Bon Temps Saturday. Bourbon Street was gross, an amalgam of dimly lit bars and neon lit strip clubs. I hate party streets and this one no less.

 

            We went to the lower ninth ward on Thursday to interview volunteers from Common Ground, a national volunteer organization. It was horrifically depressing to see the futile effort of a few volunteers; they essentially mowed lawns in the name of avoiding $100 city penalties for the owners. We cleared a lot with some law students from Washington University in St. Louis, and Zach won the contest for most ant bites about the ankles and wrists.

 

            New Orleans itself is a grimy town. Even the nicest parts are gross, and reflective of considerable neglect at both the personal and municipal level. There are beautiful mansions on St. Charles Street that look as though they may come crashing down at any moment. We stayed with a friend of an interviewee named Ben, a law student at Tulane, and his roommate Christy, a fifth and sixth grade science teacher at a local elementary school. They were both hospitable, if not busy as hell, and we were able to get them out until four in the morning Saturday night.

 

            We left today for Houston and are currently driving through some armpit of Texas. We made a gas stop in Sulfur, Louisiana, which may be the single most unremarkable place in the history of unremarkable places. We ate, just moments ago, at the venerable institution that is Taco Bell, in Winnie, Texas, a lovely little town, I'm sure. Now on to Houston and back under the watchful gaze of our dear 'sugardaddies' Jobing.com. We are interviewing the president of the Houston Rockets and possibly some players as well.

 

            Home again in 9 days. I need a job.

 

xoxo

This is from the beach in Biloxi, Mississippi. We had a lovely afternoon and evening there, but the place is still really messed up. It's tough to imagine any place recovering from a disaster so slowly, but there that is what I found. Anyway. The beach is still lovely.

xoxo

Panorama of a Missouri sunset.

xoxo

Accents

            We stopped at a gas station in Mississippi, and my whole world has been turned around. I heard an accent that could have been so many adjectives, both positive and negative, that I think I have developed some sort of linguistic crush. I suspect however, that linguistic crush may be a little bit sleazy, like the first time a man falls in love with an exotic dancer. I went in the station to go to the bathroom, then bought a water for no reason, then proceeded to buy ice cream, which I really don't even like. That's how much I wanted to hear these women talk to each other.

            We left the women, and my heart, at the station, found ourselves back on the road. Now would be a good time to note the vital role of NPR on this trip. Talk of the Nation, All Things Considered, and Marketplace (hosted by Kai Rysdal, my favorite name in the business) provide, for mainly Zach and I, a constant media source when the New York Times is unavailable, which seems the case more often in the south. Even where Verizon cannot carry us, NPR stands fast, with anchors ethnically named, and accents as vague as a recorded ransom note.

            I think about this as the Mississippi Public Broadcasting donation drive is under way. Back to the linguistics. If NPR's accent, so soothing and mysteriously rooted, is a 0, on a scale of 0-5, the guy reading the news is a 1, the guy leading the pledge drive is a 2, and the women reading her personal confession of passionate love for NPR, in hopes of springing donations, is definitely a 4.

            So: Let the essential 'foreigners' read the international and political stuff, but let a slightly more regional man read the regional news, cause who would trust the yanks to report local Mississippi happenings. The guy asking for money has to be charming, cue the accent, and the women giving her personal plea has to be a woman of the people, so, cue the heavier accent. I question most the disparity between the pledge drive guy and the reading lady. Why not use the same schmaltz for the leader and the lady? I don't know what any of this means, but I took note.

Where Does the Time Go?

 

            As I write, we drive from Memphis to Mobile, AL. Memphis was an interesting stop. After leaving the comfort of my old friend Daniel Roberts' home in St. Louis, we found ourselves our first city without any friends. It took all of 12 hours to make some, and we gladly used their shower. Thanks goes out to Kelli Gross and Carley Wright, who do great things for my personal opinion of Christian Brothers University in Memphis.

 

            Jay's father was kind enough to fund a night out on Beale Street, which after Katrina became the busiest street in the southern US. The place was a mess. Needless to say we had a good night. Zach rode a bull. It was really all that could be asked for.

 

            Working backwards, St. Louis was extremely kind to the PTP crew. We frequented a piano bar called Jive N' Wail, and also hit up some local college haunts. Daniel Roberts, who stayed with me some years ago as a member of the St. Louis Macabi contingent, was kind enough to allow us to extend our stay an extra day, which we used as another opportunity to go out. The Arch, by the way, is one of very few national landmarks that truly live up to whatever you may expect of it. It's huge. And shiny.

 

            So off to Mobile we go, down I-55 on an overcast day. We're not sure what to do in Mobile. We met a guy from there and even he couldn't give us more than two suggestions, and one was a coffee shop and the other a pub. If anyone has any advice, let me/us know. 

Where Does the Time Go?

 

            As I write, we drive from Memphis to Mobile, AL. Memphis was an interesting stop. After leaving the comfort of my old friend Daniel Roberts' home in St. Louis, we found ourselves our first city without any friends. It took all of 12 hours to make some, and we gladly used their shower. Thanks goes out to Kelli Gross and Carley Wright, who do great things for my personal opinion of Christian Brothers University in Memphis.

 

            Jay's father was kind enough to fund a night out on Beale Street, which after Katrina became the busiest street in the southern US. The place was a mess. Needless to say we had a good night. Zach rode a bull. It was really all that could be asked for.

 

            Working backwards, St. Louis was extremely kind to the PTP crew. We frequented a piano bar called Jive N' Wail, and also hit up some local college haunts. Daniel Roberts, who stayed with me some years ago as a member of the St. Louis Macabi contingent, was kind enough to allow us to extend our stay an extra day, which we used as another opportunity to go out. The Arch, by the way, is one of very few national landmarks that truly live up to whatever you may expect of it. It's huge. And shiny.

 

            So off to Mobile we go, down I-55 on an overcast day. We're not sure what to do in Mobile. We met a guy from there and even he couldn't give us more than two suggestions, and one was a coffee shop and the other a pub. If anyone has any advice, let me/us know. 

Home, and then Home, Again.

            On the road, our Verizon Aircards allow us Internet addiction even at 70 mph on the freeway. It is an incredible way to feel connected to all that which you care to be connected. I check Facebook nine times a day, and the New York Times at least 12 times. Without the mobile Internet, I fear I would have gone crazy two months ago.

 

            While home for the past few days, I have been away from the Internet more then in the last three months. I did not think this would be a problem, until after 36 hours sans-Internet, I began to get a bit shaky. I didn't know why. I assumed, in terms of the trip, that I had become so addicted to the Internet because it allowed me to stay connected with Tucson, and all the people there that I hold so dear. What I found during my homecoming was a bit more interesting than that,

 

            In Tucson, I: Had a wonderful Beyond Bread experience with Bridget Radcliff, my English advisor, and Charlie Bertsch, my favorite English professor ever. Watched 21 kids get arrested at the hands of the Tucson Police Department, just so they could see us perform 30 minutes before the aforementioned cops showed up. I saw every one of my beautiful friends, too many to name, and it was glorious. I ate La Parilla Suiza with my grandparents, mother, and brother. Essentially, it was the perfect trip home.

 

            Yet why was I 'fiending' for the Internet, so? Seemingly awash with everything and everyone for whom/which I truly care, I figured the Internet would be as useless as (some metaphor of uselessness, ice to an Eskimo perhaps). But it was not so, and I realize now the answer is simple, and rather profound.

 

            I have found a home in Marcus Garvey, our dutiful RV. I have found familial and friendly companionship with my traveling mates. I wanted so badly to get on the Internet and see what they were doing, in Nashville, while Jay and I hung in Tucson. I was so excited to come home, I skipped the prospect that perhaps I would miss this crazy life of ours, and I did. I missed Brett suggesting I do work, fulfilling all of his fatherly duties. I missed the Puppy and his youthful exuberance. I missed sleeping through states, and waking up in new ones. I missed my life, a thing which is easily taken for granted.

 

            Home was beautiful, as it is and always has been. Yet when the RV picked us up at the St. Louis airport, I felt like I was home, again, a complement to the character and necessity of the people and things awaiting any homecoming.

 

xoxo

The 3:10 to Tucson

Currently we travel at 32,000 feet, somewhere between Nashville and Houston. There is a couple seated behind me who either just fell in love, or a constantly sickeningly lovey towards one another. I don't really care about what might be true, but I do know that I hate them. "You send the cutest text messages." "No, you send the cutest text messages." "No, you send the cutest text messages." I'm in no condition to deal with this.

 

Our host in Nashville is the voice of CMT Radio. She calls 140 different country music stations every morning to read some news stuff, direct from Country Music Television. Emilee Warner. And she is/was wonderful. She took us to a hotel party for the International Bluegrass Music Awards (IBMA) last night. We rapped over banjos and mandolins. It was awesome. There is something very endearing about a community of musicians that don't shoot and stab each other.

 

Had great BBQ at Jack's on Broadway in Nashville. It ranked second on our Unofficial Survey of the Finest Pulled Pork in the Land, narrowly losing to Philip's in Crenshaw. Some might ask, how do you come to these decisions. Well, I'm glad you asked that.

 

Philip's offers nothing but food. You give them money, they hand you a sandwich in foil. In my opinion, they bear the brunt of whether or not you like the sandwich, as they have chosen to involve the consumer so minimally in the process. At Jack's, the user must apply his/her own BBQ sauce, after choosing from a variety of sauces. This is the key. I see the self-sauce-service as involving the customer in the process, and thereby relinquishing some of the credit as to the goodness of the sandwich.

 

A special happy birthday, by the way, to our fearless leader Brett "Capt. Sprinkle-Pants" Farmiloe. He is 23 years young today, and celebrating in Nashville with the puppy, and the voice of CMT. I think it's going to be alright for those two. Some of us will be in Tucson in 3 hours or so.

 

xoxo

So, it is one of the hardest parts of this trip to actually keep the day organized. The only way to do it is to look at my iPhoto, with 2500 chronologically placed photos which truly offer, well, a chronology of everything we have done. Otherwise, you write a post and flagrantly omit attendance to the largest aquarium in the world, the Georgia Aquarium. Also, we ate incredible BBQ at Fat Matt's, where the manager happily fed some wary travelers, gratis. Prettty sweet deal all and all. Judy is helping me shoot, and Zach is in front of the Tropical fish viewing window. There are far better pictures, but this one is pretty cool. 

forgetfully, xoxo

I Really Want a Cigarette.

When in the course of human events, we find ourselves brought to a point where shooting guns is necessary, we shoot guns. And do it well. I don't know where that last sentence came from, but I know that I shot the hell out of some skeet, and it was fantastic. Skeet, unlike trap, is really hard. There's targets coming from every which way. It's awesome.

 

Within five minutes at the range, we had two shotguns and 100 rounds in hand. By no means were we offered any sort of training, other than what came in the form of stern criticism from Judy, the lady who hits the button when you say "pull." Basically, she took us to school, and by the end, I hit 16-25 shots, and Zach hit 12-25 shots. Brett brought up the rear with 3-25, shielding the rest of us from Judy's wrath for the rest of the Afternoon.

 

Shooting shit is hilarious. It's loud, it hurts your shoulder, it smells like black powder, the people look funny, it's expensive, but I will freely admit that I can't wait to go again.

 

We have spent the last six days in Dawsonville, GA, about 35 minutes from midtown Atlanta. Dawsonville is the home of TK's brother, big Will, who quickly became one of my favorite people in the world. We laughed, we cried, we offended some people. It was beautiful.

 

Due to an impending concert, and what I am beginning to see as "chronic bronchitis," I have stopped smoking cigarettes. Supposedly, this is a good thing. I hate everybody. I hate Jay, I hate Zach, and I certainly hate Brett. I hate myself. I haven't smoked in 18 hours. I do, however, feel considerably better than normal.

 

It's an overcast day as we head from Georgia to Tennessee (which for some reason, much like Mississippi, I will always remember how to spell). I will be in Tucson in about 24 hours. I'm excited.

 

xoxo, and see you soon.

 

Not so Hotlanta.

It's cold down here. Not really, but my sheet and blanket in the RV hardly make up for the 50 degree temperatures. Last night I though I was dying.

 

We changed the name of the RV. He was formerly referred to as Arvydis, after the late, great Lithuanian superstar Arvydis Sabonis. He is now called Marcus, after the late, great African American champion Marcus Garvey. Not really the most pertinent information, but hey, it's what I got.

 

We sit on some street in downtown Atlanta, after having an interview at eight (Eastern), waiting to go shooting at one. I'm getting a bit twitchy, like Martin Sheen at the beginning of Apocalypse Now.

 

Jay and I return to Tucson in 3 days, which I am pretty excited about. I'm looking forward to La Parrilla Suiza. Tortilla soup,

 

xoxo