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

Welcome to Atlanta.

We rolled into Atlanta on a steamy Thursday afternoon. According to the weather guy, the steaminess continues throughout the weekend, and much of the future and past of Atlanta. We picked up Brett's girlfriend TK at the airport, which, as far as I can tell, is the only reason we are here. If anybody has a better reason, let me know. We’re going skeet shooting on Monday. I really excited.

 

PTP + Guns = ???

 

xoxo

You Boys Ain't from Around Here, Is Ya?

I write from the campus of Duke University, where one student told us, "Here, 90% of the kids are pre-med, and the other half are engineers." I love that math. We are spending the day studying the apathy of the private university student. After this, we are going to UNC to holler at some folk. Actually, I don't know what that means, but it sounds southern.

 

I love how everything said in a southern accent sounds either sexual, or sickeningly sweet. Example: young girl talking about economics = totally sexual. Employees of the campus store giving their approval to Charlotte Church's new baby = sickening. It leaves me wonder, is there any way to get angry in a southern accent. We hope to not find out.

 

We spent the night at Jay's aunt and uncle's house in Virginia Beach last night. There, we received the exciting news that we (Jay, myself) will be returning to Tucson for 5 days to do a concert at the Beta Theta Pi house on Oct 6th. We will be in Tucson from Oct. 4th through the 9th. We're really excited as it is a decent paying gig. Make plans accordingly.

 

The first person I saw in North Carolina was a white man in a cutoff t-shirt that said 'Good Ol' Boy.' If that's not funny, I don't know what is. To those who 'ain't from around wherever you may be', we salute you.

 

xoxo

The War of Northern Aggression.

Driving from D.C. to Virginia I'm impressed with how easy it is to get lost.  C street turns to D street runs into a forbidding monument-esque building that seems to offer no direction, save a circle that leads back to nowhere. Also, Washington/Virginia/Maryland: there should never exist a six-lane  highway with a 35 mph speed limit.

 

Dean and Judy were incredibly welcoming to the PTP crew, providing everything we could possibly need. Honestly, I have no interest in leaving. Zach and I stayed in Virginia for most of the last four days, while Jay and Brett shacked up in DC with our friend Shurid Sen. I have eaten more real meals in the last 72 hours than in the last 6 years. The entire family forewent synagogue for a 3:45 showing of 3:10 to Yuma. I was happy about the decision. We then broke fast at 6:30, and went to DC for a night of barring.

 

Zach and I spent a considerable amount of time with a grown Anna Rose Pollock, who is wonderful. We also had a Sunday brunch with the Zweig family (Sherry, Max, Becca, Val, Brandy), to whom I believe myself vaguely related. It was really quite lovely, and we took some vague-family pictures. Zach and I returned to VA and Dean took us to play nine holes. It was a wonderful day.

 

We just finished driving through DC in the RV, taking plenty of cheesy video along the way. We now enter the south, first to Virginia Beach and then to North Carolina. I am feeling a bit regionalist, with a sever bias against the south and whatever it may have to offer. But as I've always said, there's no better way to get over severe prejudice than to see how the other half lives. Actually, I've never said anything like that, but it sounds nice. See you in Jena, Louisiana.

 

xoxo y'all… 

Good Afternoon, Class

Between Philadelphia and Delaware may lie some of the bumpiest freakin' roads in the history of roads. I doubt the Silk Road and the Oregon Trail to have been so uneven and pockmarked.

 

We stayed with Zach's great-aunt across the bridge from Philly, and his cousin Rich took us into Philadelphia, where we spent the evening entertained by Ms. Ivie and Ms. Lulu, owner and bartender of the upscale Italian eatery Sovalo, who also happen to be professional hula-hoopers (the proferred nomenclature is Hooper). 2 AM Wednesday morning, we were drinking gin and tonics, hula-hooping the night away. It was sweet.

 

We presented out (mis)adventures to a class of 55 entrepreneurship students at the University of Delaware. We stayed with Becca Zweig and her 4 sorority sisters near campus. Although there was no hula-hooping, there was good fun, and a reconnecting of long-lost 'cousins.' We broke the gutter of some establishment next to Becca's, and spent the morning 'fixing' it; the quotes are because we fixed nothing, only cosmetically solved the issue.

 

We awoke promptly at 11, ate bagels, and worked on the gutter and some Passion stuff. We ate again, buffalo chicken cheese steaks, and now drive towards Oakton, VA, home of the Dean Pollock Clan, where we will be imposing this weekend. Looking forward to photographing some monuments rarely photographed, in DC, such as that one to Lincoln, and whatnot.

 

xoxo from the Capital Beltway…

This is a strange panorama from the 17th floor of the Millennium Hilton, overlooking Ground Zero. Being there on 9/11 was weird, much like this picture.

xoxo

Gettin' Cultured and Stuff.

Benevolent brother Phil got the PTP boys complementary tickets to Spelling Bee, for which we are eternally and culturally grateful. We attempted, after the delightful matinee, to extend our cultural ambitions, to the Whitney's Psychedelic exhibit, but only made it as far as the line around the block. We then gave up, as any good group knows how to do, and strolled through Central Park.

 

I sit in Philip's apartment readying for dinner as Philip furiously mulls a spreadsheet. I think he is passionate about his job, or else he probably would have quit long ago. I know not one other person who works as much as he does. Furthermore, in the vein of our adventures, Philip is one of those people who fall off the PTP radar, because often people love their jobs and just don't want to talk about it in front of a camera. I respect that. I love my job and really don't feel the need to discuss it. Luckily, there is a countless multitude that is happy to brag of their happiness.

 

We went out in the east village last night, which reminded me that I never see any part of this city below 40th street. Not that I complain, but apparently there is an entirely separate world below the aforementioned thoroughfare. It was fun. I felt cool, which can be a feeling hard to come by in the city of hipsters. Perhaps, as noted in the previous post, I feel cool because I'm skinny, or lithe.

 

We learned today that Good Morning New York, on the highly rated yet continuingly despicable FOX Network, will be running a two-part PTP segment Monday and Tuesday morning. This is about as exciting as a root canal save the 24-hour RV parking we are getting by the FOX studios near Times Square. I love FOX. Rupert Murdoch is doing great things for the news, and America in general. Really, I'm not being sarcastic at all.

 

xoxo

Big Cities, Little Girls.

I want New York and California to have a battle between emaciated women who can barely support their own paltry body weight. The New Yorkers would definitely win, due to their ability to survive the cold winters in the gritty City. I just don't think LA, a possible future home of mine, has the necessary intensity.

 

I went to a play with Phillip and the Gallos. It was nice to be back on Broadway. Phil scored Spelling Bee tickets for the PTP boys for the Saturday matinee. I think it is right about the level of maturity necessary for the group. And it's short, so attention span, not our forte, shouldn't be a problem.

 

I find this city to be more appealing all the time. There is something about the anonymity offered by huge metropolitan messes that speaks to me. I saw a man with a pretty serious head wound walking down the street yesterday, and very few eyes found their way to the wound. But that would imply that New Yorkers are rude, which they are not. They just don't care about you until you make them. Everyone from whom I have asked directions obliges sincerely. They want to prove what they know.

 

I feel as though I haven't interviewed anyone in a while, which is strange. But the trip is alive and well, as our its cast of characters. I have been charged with giving a 50-minute presentation to an entrepreneurship class at the University of Delaware. I never really thought Delaware was a real place, but it apparently has a University and everything. 

The Light of My Life.

In the second installment of my ongoing series of swinging inanimate objects, I offer for your consideration the light above Jay and my bed. Much like the fan aswingin' so softly in the front right corner of the RV, this rebel of a light has dislodged itself from the ceiling, and now teeters on the brink of calamity directly above our oft sleeping heads.

 

            Two screws have fallen out entirely, and now the altitudinal fate of the lamp rests entirely on the final two screws, and either leverage or friction, depending on whose balderdash answer you care to trust. In any case, the light persists even during this, the twilight of its existence, although it luminescence has waned due to several layers of duct tape futilely applied to maintain the lamp's original posture. 

 

            Several layers of duct tape, I must admit, are an egregious understatement. I have applied nearly half a roll, yet each morning I arise and the lamp hangs again, seemingly in mock of my elaborate T-Pattern effort to provide the duct tape lateral support. As I write, the lamp defies what must now be four pounds of tape, and bounces happily along dilapidated roadways.

 

            Perhaps the lamp is unhappy. It's a pretty weird device of illumination. With three settings, the two-bulb device can be: off, half-on, full-on. Perhaps the lamp, much like the fan, was simply unhappy with its station in life. Perhaps it dreams of a more fulfilling mission, and hopes to be considered for chandelier-ship.

 

Whatever the case, I'm pretty sure the little bastard is going to hit me in the head while I'm sleeping one night, soon. When that happens, I will dispense with attempts at humor, and throw it in the Hudson.

 

See you in the NYC.

 

xoxo

Cape Cod Panorama.

View from the 3rd floor balcony. Cape Cod. Click the picture to get the full grandeur...

xoxo

Lobster Omelettes.

            Summering on the Cape has never been my thing. I'm more of a Coronado, Greece kind of guy. Even with this bias in mind, I agreed to a two-day stay at BJ and Eric's summer home on Cape Cod. BJ and Eric are friends of Brett's from Tucson, and, as it turns out, friends of mine as well. Tucson, some say, is a small world.

 

            Their three-story house overlooking what I presume to be the Atlantic Ocean is magnificent. We spent the afternoon playing football on the beach, and spent the night eating lobster, steak, chicken, clam chowder and corn. I abstained from the lobster because it was looking at me funny. Well, he got his, in the form of omelettes this morning, of which I still did not partake.

 

            We went to a local candy shop(pe) last night, and then to some local haunt to take with the natives. They call anyone who has lived on the cape less than three generations 'wash ashores.' What does that make three guys in an RV? Dinner? I spoke to a girl outside the bar who was a UMASS English graduate student. She took offense when asked how she studies the classics while unable to pronounce large chunks of the alphabet.

 

            Back to Boston this evening, where I may be seeing my mother who has made a rare departure from her zip code. I got really excited when I found out our schedules coincide. So any mother that may read this, know your kids are really excited to see you. I miss my family. I miss sarcasm. I miss Bibi & Papa, although I have this nagging suspicion they are sitting where I think they are. On the road everything is lovely. We are awash in positive attention is not money and dignity.

 

xoxo

'Lidneatitus.'

1. Niagara Falls is everything it is supposed to be, and far more misty than I had (never) imagined. We stayed with Jay's grandparents on Grand Island,10 minutes from the falls. Buffalo, a true workin' man's city. The word grimy comes to mind, and grimy I respect. The whole time I was there I had this nagging voice in my head telling me to forget my dreams and get a job down at the mill like pop. Then I remembered the mill moved to Brazil.

 

2. Canada,

 

            What's up with the Space Needle rip-off? That's all you got? Build a huge statue of Paul Bunyon to solidify your unoriginality. And build more strip clubs as you obviously need more of those.

 

Cheers,

Noah

 

3. New York towns are hilarious. I will not disrespectfully make some up here, but they are great. Reminiscent of, and a shining tribute to, whatever happy populations of natives, later decimated by the new Americans, that once roamed these fine lands.

 

4. We are large front-page news in Syracuse's daily and the tri-weekly University of Buffalo Spectrum. Take that how you will, but remember we're at war.

 

5. Syracuse was good to us. The RV broke. With the serpentine belt goes the power steering and power breaks. I have a few questions about this, as my father did not teach me how to raise the hood of an automobile. Who the hell is using a pulley system with one belt to run multiple, vital components of the car? That's like replacing your lungs, kidneys and pancreas with some sort of super-organ that functions in all their stead. This organ will be called the 'Lidneas.' Or the 'Pungy.' Isn't there an applicable saying about eggs and baskets?

 

After a night at a bar where you flip a coin with the bartender to possibly win a drink, the PTP crew and some of the sisters of Alpha Chi Omega took a scenic walk through the Syracuse campus. We got back to Mark's Service Center at 3:30 AM, and I woke to the sounds of pit row at 7:30. Imagine waking up in a auto-shop. Mark, of Mark's, was incredibly hospitable, allowing us working space and even cooking lunch. We had the newspaper come there. He also hooked us up on four hours of labor, so, that was real nice.

 

Last night Class Project did something. I'm not sure the word concert applies unless there are more than 15 people there, which is meant as no disrespect to the 10, who Jenna brought (Jenna: One of many highly motivated coworkers from the venerable institution that is Club Rancho Sahuarita, who hosted us with her sassy and oft-humorous roommate Julia). Not a concert? A listening? The recital was fun, and if that is a bad as it gets, I love this business. Jenna's friends, plus the two random dudes who kept buying shots, were vary supportive.

 

Check your pulleys, maybe even those of a friend, and drive safe out there, And don't flip coins for beers because, for some reason, you start to get really mad when you actually have to pay for the beer you ordered. And stay off the grass in front of the Hall of Languages, which I think is Modern Language with way cooler people.

 

Off to Boston, which yesterday I learned I cannot place accurately on a map. xoxo

 

Shut Up and Listen.

For a pre-codger, humbling experiences can be a bit off-putting. I do not presume to know everything, but arrogance I have been accused of more than once in my life. When something hits me like a ton of bricks, it really feels like 10 tons, because I never expected the first. Stephen Hopson was those bricks. At 47, Stephen is the first deaf instrument rated (can fly in 0 visibility) pilot in the world. Deaf from birth, Stephen gave up a top-spot at Merrill Lynch in NYC, as a stockbroker, to travel the world as a motivational speaker. Last night, he took us into his Akron, OH home.

 

            I don't know what to say. The man reads lips. You never think about what you're saying to someone until you are keeping direct eye contact constantly. All of the sudden, words become more carefully selected. The guy is a better listener than most. Irony? How about not hearing tone? Wouldn't we all do better if only to take at face value the words that people say? Stephen was more than happy to answer my prying linguistics questions. The group sat around talking for 4 hours.

 

            I'm a sensitive guy. I cry three times during the Shawshank Redemption: when 'institutionalized' Brooks holds the other inmate at knife point, when Brooks hangs himself, and the final cathartic moment, between Andy and Red, on the white-sands beach. But as moved as I can be by good media, Broadway included, I harden myself against the New York Times and Argentina's Clarîn, both of which I peruse daily. Hundreds die here and there, and man am I hungry for some Taco Bell. I often lack perspective and sentimentality in the real world.

 

            Stephen is a reminder to get over myself. I think I am so damned smart, when I really know almost nothing, especially of adversity. As not poetic as this paragraph is, it is not easy for me to write. I get wrapped up in this defensive layer of arrogance wit that often inhibits my ability to just shut up, listen, and maybe even learn something. I going to learn something today, and maybe you could too. Just listen, don't struggle to be right, or even to be heard, and just listen. You might find something you didn't already know.

 

xoxo, and on to Buffalo. 

Once in a Lifetime.

trounce |trouns| v. [ trans. ]  defeat heavily in a contest : the Knicks trounced the Rockets on Sunday. 

There is nothing like a once in a lifetime experience. They are those situations so mired in expectation that disappointment is nearly inevitable (see: senior prom, your first job, weddings and children). So was the case with opening day at Notre Dame. 33-3 Georgia Tech over the Irish. Charlie Weis spent the entire post-game press conference claiming responsibility for his impossibly inept squad. It was like watching St. Gregory play Salpointe in a summer league game: pitifully close in the first half, followed by an ass kicking that reminds you to go to college.

            The best part was the press box, where free hot dogs, chicken, soup and beverages were complemented perfectly by air conditioning. One of the most baffling aspects were the Georgia Tech tailgaters. Something about guys dressed for a debutante ball, 'shotgunning' beers and vomiting all over the place. Some things are just not masked well by seersucker pants, yellow tie, and a blazer. The Irish fans on the other hand were much more like UA tailgaters; shirtless, beer swilling drunkards, yelling, nay, slurring cheers at the top of their lungs. Good old Catholic university.

 

            We stayed in South Bend with Dave Matthews, who Jay found on couchsurfing.com, a fascinating global community of people willing to take in wayward travelers for a few days at a time. He was one of the nicest people I have met on this trip, and his friend were more than willing to make sure we were the drunkest people in the Notre Dame press box since John Madden was covering college games in the 70's. On Friday night, shortly after we arrived, we were led to Corby's were the real life Rudy was getting wasted, basking in lackluster fame and semi-legendary status. Best t-shirr seen in south bend: Georgia Tech fan: "Rudy Was Offsides."

 

            We are hurling down I-90, an interstate we are all to familiar with, on the way to Akron, OH, then to Buffalo, NY. Actually, we just crossed into Ohio, so I will say without fear of retribution that UA has a far more prolific offense than Notre Dame. Take that Touchdown Jesus.

 

xoxo.

No Excuse.

            I have very little excuse for not blogging. I have been waking up every morning in a bedroom overlooking Chicago, from 38 stories up. It is truly a sight to be seen. Hank Weber, cousin of Daniel, has been kind enough to let us crash at his father's city dwelling. Not too bad.

 

            I went out with Allyson Gundee and Alan Weed last evening. Good wholesome night of fun lasting until three AM. I'm going to find my shirt, then go to an interview in 20 minutes…

 

xoxo

Sophomore Year.

          There is nothing like moving into you first unsupervised place. It provide opportunities for degeneracy unfathomed while under the lock and key of the RA. Needless to say, sharing in Aaron Pollock's first week in his apartment has been a true honor, fervently reminding me of how happy I am to be done with college. I've slept face down on a mattress, in a loft, with a coach pillow for three days. It was beautiful.

 

            There has not been much pursuing of passion, but we have sampled nearly every eatery in a 12 block radius. I suggest Ian's pizza on the corner of Francis and University. It kicks the crap out of Anchovie's buffalo chicken pizza. We went to the farmer's market, in the shadow of the nation's second largest capitol building, and ate fresh Wisconsin cheddar cheese curds. They were disturbingly fresh and delicious.

 

            Off to Chicago, and whatever that entails…

 

xoxo

Minnesota Magic

When asked for four press passes to the season opener at South Bend, the Notre Dame University press man told us "that would be a tall order for the New York Times." Today, we received four press passes to the season opener at South Bend. Amazing what haranguing a press guy can get you.

 

We took in the Minnesota Twins' 8-4 victory over the Mariners in the Metrodome yesterday. Who, you might ask, actually attends baseball games at noon on a Wednesday? Tons of little kids, in fluorescent matching t-shirts, bused in from summer camps around the city. We sat between pink and electric blue, and my head still hurts today.

 

We interviewed a man named Bill who has been a boxing trainer in Minneapolis for 66 years. He works at Uppercuts Gym, the only female owned boxing gym in the country. The guy was fascinating, and seems to have a genuine love for helping others get the crap beat out of them. Really a very nice man.

 

We have been staying with Christian, a third year law student and friend of a friend from Jobing. He works in the public defenders office, and is a genuinely brilliant guy. He got us an interview with one of the lawyers in his office, which was scheduled at 8 am. After returning from the bar on the corner, with Christian and Zach, at 2 AM, I did not make it to the interview; neither did the lawyer. All was not lost, however, as Brett and Zach interviewed a janitor (who spoke minimal English, but seemed to appreciate, if not love, his job very much) and another lawyer (who, low-and-behold, was boring).

 

This morning we interviewed a man named Keith who started Electric Fetus, a record store, in 1968. The place is pretty incredible, specializing in rock and jazz, but also a little bit of everything else. Asked how he has dealt with the rise in popularity of online music sales, he pointed us to the now-larger 'gift' section of the shop, which mostly consists of what legally need to be referred to as 'water pipes.'

 

We head to Madison in a hour, where we will be imposing upon my nephew, who apparently in old enough to be in college.

 

 

xoxo

Sioux Somewhere.

We camped in Sioux Falls last night, which is not to be confused with a whole other slew of Siouxs in Iowa and South Dakota. South Dakota, as I have just learned, does not believe in cell phones, wireless internet, or bug spray. The front of the RV looks like a graveyard.

 

            We are on our way to Minneapolis where we will do our best to avoid all bridges and public works, although the plausibility of that scheme does not seem good. I-90 across South Dakota, by the way, is one of the most inhumanely boring stretches of road in the world; there are paternity suits that are more exciting to be a part of. Our only detour was into Badlands national park, which looks like the set of Armageddon.

 

Hopefully something fun will happen in Minneapolis. I'm looking for something fun.

 

xoxo