tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-47431900272801351102024-02-18T23:00:46.306-08:00Book Meets RoadIt's more than just a book tour. It's one man's mission as he drives as far as it takes to sell this print run and gain momentum for the others. Watch your rearviews... See Jeff Stewart at www.rosecitypublishers.com. For more info on the story, check here at Book Meets Road for frequent updates.Book Meets Roadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15751274788020109646noreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4743190027280135110.post-43527169147410915232009-09-17T13:17:00.000-07:002009-09-19T09:43:55.458-07:00Chapter 18<span style="font-size:100%;">
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<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">The attic is cold and the bed is soft and my heart is on fire with sweat.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>She sleeps beneath me in a room in a bed with a frame and four posts and framed photographs of her family.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I’ve known her eleven years.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I sit up and feel for my dogs.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>They are on either side of me and outside it’s bright and I can smell the coffee downstairs.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I masturbate to a woman I saw in the bar last night.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>In my head I lift her dress over her hips and have her from behind while I kiss her ear, neck and shoulder.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Her hips are high and smooth in my hands and we move there in front of the mirror.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I finish and look above the window AC behind me.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>It’s upside down from where I see it and the room is perfectly lit for me, dark where it needs to be but not depressing.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I reach over and grab my phone and turn off the volume.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>It’s set to play Run to the Hills when I have a new email, but this morning I’m in the mood for something more refined, if that’s possible.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I tap the screen and read the message.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>It’s from a reader of mine asking me about this blog, about why I haven’t written anything personal or moving on here, why the writing doesn’t reflect the book or my actual work.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>The letter goes on to ask why I am writing a travel log with photos, and it accuses me of censoring the work for no good reason, that the novel was about a youth burning through the years toward 30 while working on the road and coping with a seriously shitty hand that was dealt to him, and here is the writer of the book years later, and the work on the blog just sits there and it’s really heart breaking for this reader to read it, as something’s changed in the work and so on.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>The letter goes on to say that they want to read about what it’s like NOW that I’m on the road again, 38 years old, only this time not going labor field to kitchen, warehouse to factory, city to town, insane situation to insane situation, in aimless capture of something permanently beautiful. <span style="font-size:0;"></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
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<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">At first I think horrible, disgusting things about the motherfucker who wrote the letter to the website.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I have never met this person and here is this letter coming over me after a nearly flawless morning. The work is the work, and the blog is not my work firing on all cylinders, but rather a quick summary of my trip. Yet on one end reader is not totally off the mark.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Without caring too much, I have been writing this blog photo heavy with words that really don’t have the impact, say, that a novel has. I think about the reader who took the time to write the rather lengthy letter of concern after buying the novel and reading it cover to cover in one afternoon, as the letter had pointed out in the last paragraph.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>He may not realize the weight of how brutalizing driving across the country can be on a writer who is pushing his own novel on a budget of zero and two dogs.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>The reader who wrote the fan letter of concern to the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 /><st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Rose</st1:placename> <st1:placename st="on">City</st1:placename></st1:place> site is not a huge concern of mine, though he tells his own truth to an artist of his liking. And on the other end he's totally off the mark, because I did awake with that feeling of cold fire down my arms, the urge to sit up and write first thing in the morning, which is something that has never been stripped from me, but only paused naturally considering my changing environment as of the last few years. I have ended the drive eastward in a town called Beacon, about an hour and 10 minutes by train north of New York City.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I used to visit Dawn and her camp out in the city and even lived there with them in the apartment on 34<sup>th </sup><span style="font-size:0;"></span>but that was years back, and I’m now on the West Coast, but the fact that I’m staying at her place in a town called Beacon is fitting for me. <span style="font-size:0;"></span>I walk downstairs.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>She’s in the kitchen drinking her coffee.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>She is still as beautiful as she ever was.
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Morning, Stewart. I see you’ve had your required 18 hours of sleep.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Ha.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Fuck off.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Good morning.” </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I pour some coffee. She opens the door to let the dogs out.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>They run around back past the garden and circle the yard.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I watch them then turn back to her,</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Great spot up there.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Cool, dark, foam memory mattress on the floor.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>It’s ruling.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">She laughs and sits next to me at the counter.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I’m madly in love with her and have been for over a decade.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Not the kind of love that I’m used to, but rather a hardcore and deeply protective family type of love for a seriously fucking hot woman.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>It’s strange to me.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I stare at her paintings on the floor and to her sketch book.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Can I borrow that?”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Sure.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Need a pen?”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Actually, I do.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;">
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<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I sit out back at the picnic table and write her a poem. It’s good to feel the pen on the page.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I sign it for her and date it.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>The coffee is good and the sun is high over the trees and garden.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I write a few about the past and now.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>She walks out with two bottles of beer.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“It’s good to have you here. I've missed you."</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">"Right back at you."
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">The dogs come in from the woods.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Willis the cat is a street person cat who was rescued by Dawn and her ex-husband.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Likened to a person, he would live in the 5<sup>th</sup> Ward in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Houston</st1:place></st1:city> with a gangster limp and an eye patch.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>He is her cat and her cat only.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>He hisses at anything that fucking moves.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I hear him hiss behind me on the sill of the window. I reach over and press my finger into the screen by his nose.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Willis.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Relax, you fucking rape victim.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">He swipes at me and runs off.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span></span></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaEp1gtdroLVGhMVe0rPn64pkTyNOiaE6ik_7iY3f88fy4KRazeiSFKmkcdLfGREne6CsJj23x8FEXAohpFevlcgXUv1AK1oCJ9ULo6XiovtKO0M1AI7Pl_aTF3w-dfpBO2wWFAq9SDPZ0/s1600-h/161.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 150px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5382550700792935378" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaEp1gtdroLVGhMVe0rPn64pkTyNOiaE6ik_7iY3f88fy4KRazeiSFKmkcdLfGREne6CsJj23x8FEXAohpFevlcgXUv1AK1oCJ9ULo6XiovtKO0M1AI7Pl_aTF3w-dfpBO2wWFAq9SDPZ0/s200/161.JPG" /></a> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
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<br />We talk about my book, about the girl on Melrose with fake tits. She asks me about my take on them.
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“I never got the allure of that," I say,<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>"I can see it if it’s a big problem, like a reduction for a better back or if they’re really droopy or really non-existent, or if it’s a cancer surviving deal, but just to make them bigger or more firm or more desirable, and also the fact that they aren’t real, but they’re always there, like a permanent wig.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I shrug at her,</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Fuck it. If they're happy, I’m happy.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Exactly.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Inside she shows me some of her sketches.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>She’s a lefty like I am, and her work is fucking inimitable.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>She’s a graphic designer now and getting back to the brush, a fully independent artist making a great living her way.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>She never folded, ultimately.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I look at her sketches and writing and it’s warm there and I am back in my element.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Her phone rings. She talks for a while and looks at me,</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“That was my friend, Peter.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>His brother owns a house up in Garrison.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Ever heard of Duncan Sheik?”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Nope.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“He's a singer. Want to go over there?”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Sure.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">We’re driving toward Garrison.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>The sun is setting and I’m watching the water off to my right before we go through the tunnel.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>She reaches for her phone,</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“You have to meet my friend, Joanne.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>She was the first model to ever be on the cover of Playboy and not actually be in Playboy.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>She’s fucking awesome.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">She talks to her and we’re heading over to pick her up.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>She lives in a house set off in the woods.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>She walks out of her house and my tongue almost hits the floor.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>She is fucking beautiful.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Jesus,” I gasp.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Dawn laughs.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I whisper,</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“She's something else.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Doesn’t she look amazing?”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Goddamn.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">She jumps in the backseat.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>She’s British.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>It occurs to me that I’m hanging out with two of the hottest women on the planet.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>We stop for wine and then we’re heading up some dark road past mansions and properties.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>We pull up and a guy in a samurai pony tail appears.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Hi.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I’m <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Duncan</st1:place></st1:city>.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">We shake hands and head inside.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>The place is giant and barren.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Guitars line the wall across from the table.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>His brother, Peter, is there and it’s a good night for us all.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span><span style="font-size:0;"></span>They have grilled hamburgers with a layer of duck fat over them.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Dawn and Joanne and I split the third one.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Peter makes a round of Old Fashions.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Good and strong.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>He’s a younger kid with a beard, leaned hard to the left politically, and good about it.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I walk to the back door and stare out over the dark field.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span><st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Duncan</st1:place></st1:city> walks in with his spatula. I nod to the guitars and we talk about them. I've been a fan of the guitar for years, and I acutally bought a guitar in Palo Alto a few years back. I'm terrrible at it, but that's fine, because the guitar is fucking hard to learn.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></p><span style="font-size:100%;">We’re hanging out at the table.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I’m buzzed.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>We’ve been talking about his music.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>He gets up and walks to the kitchen.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I say to him,</span> <p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“I feel bad.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I don’t know anything about your music.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>What’s it like?”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwBd8NAkvsfL6MFWmNZ8Jt0gXUwmv7a3jusRCeFhxQJ3Fs0XEKtAvfsq7k60bZwoN-nP5qgtA5IB9qEryc_2w' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">He sits down and plays a song on his acoustic. It's about a hotel room overseas. It's good, really good, and he has a good voice. He sets his guitar down. I ask him about the weird banjo hybrid sitting off in the corner. It's fretless and almost aluminum looking. He brings it over and plays it and the table talks a bit more and it's good to be here. <span style="font-size:0;">After a while </span></span><span style="font-size:100%;">Joanne and I talk. She's as brilliant as she is beautiful. Her humor is dead pan. She asks me about my tour.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“So, Dawn tells me that you’re on the road promoting your books?”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“I am promoting my book and a book by Kurt Eisenlohr.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“So what’s it like being published and on tour?”
<br />”It’s not like I’m published by a big company or have PR.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I’m on tour to try and save my ass.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I’m in debt, I live book sale to book sale.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>In all reality it’s pretty fucking frightening.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>But on a night like this it’s fucking fabulous.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">She raises her drink to her lips, “I understand you’re very good.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Her accent is killing me.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>We talk about the books and my life and her life and listen to the words around us and the night is rolling along smoothly and without pause.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>It’s <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Duncan</st1:place></st1:city>’s idea to walk drunk through the woods to see Russell Wright’s house, a</span><span style="font-size:100%;">nd it’s a bad idea.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Five drunks stumbling through the dark woods on a pathless walk up and down and under things.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Slips and falls and laughter can be heard all around us.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>We see the house, stop for exactly one minute and head back, where I sign a book for him, we slam a few more drinks and Joanne is dropped off and I’m back in the attic and for the first time since I left the West Coast I feel certain and sure about things.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
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<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">In the morning I’m hungover.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>No big surprise there.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I drank like a fish.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Downstairs Dawn and I have a beer.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>She starts on the wine and I drink a glass of whiskey, to bite the dog that has bitten me.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I flip open my laptop and turn it on.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Dawn sits across from me by the sink and pulls her hair back and we make lunch.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I write in the sketchbook and take the dogs to the water.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Her backyard sits just beyond the train tracks and stream, which become cliffs and a river.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I get to bed early.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I am taking the train into the city when I wake up.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Dawn has a shitload of work to do and I want to give her the space and time to work, Meg and <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Chico</st1:city></st1:place> are happy where she lives.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>When I get the chance to leave them somewhere worry-free it’s almost like being a parent away from the kids.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>It’s foreign to me to spend a day without them.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I lay in the dark and listen to the hum of the AC.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
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<br /></a><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_LSUYXj-UT-q5WIsLhMWYeboOKaPCiMtjPcvB7nEPDVCFReCnd44h7oFNYtgFAfdz0IhOSS1cBqd1xANUhVysA4R0u414NbpWxTSWASJGc7UVGGoTfNYoYQSxU2WZXOIRJk69gUmWhfxx/s1600-h/107.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 150px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5382559721314100274" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_LSUYXj-UT-q5WIsLhMWYeboOKaPCiMtjPcvB7nEPDVCFReCnd44h7oFNYtgFAfdz0IhOSS1cBqd1xANUhVysA4R0u414NbpWxTSWASJGc7UVGGoTfNYoYQSxU2WZXOIRJk69gUmWhfxx/s200/107.JPG" /></a><span style="font-size:100%;">Bright and hot out.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I sit next to a guy who is telling me about his life in <st1:state st="on">South Dakota</st1:state> or <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">South Carolina</st1:place></st1:state> or some fucking place.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I’m waiting for the train to take me into the city.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I am going to walk around and shoot photos all day.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I haven’t been to the city in 10 years.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I get out at the station and walk toward <st1:place st="on">SoHo</st1:place>.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>The energy is fucking incredible.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span><st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Manhattan</st1:place></st1:city> is the one place where I can watch strangers eat and not feel fucking sick to my stomach.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>They walk and avoid too much contact with each other, they eat and live on the run, but they all feel like they’re going someplace better than where I’m going.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>The women are so beautiful they are almost weird looking.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I walk and eat a hot dog and look around and for a good length of time, forget myself and all of my bullshit and worries.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>The city is full of everything.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I haven’t seen Delissa since Portland 2002, when she was playing drums on tour.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I walk into the bike shop and see her in the back on the computer.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>She’s easily one of my favorite New Yorkers, and easily one of the better photographers I have seen.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>She’s grown her hair out.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>She tells the main manager she’s taking a break.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>When we hit the street and start walking.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I laugh, “How’s it goin’, sis?”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Ah, fuck, man.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>You know how it is.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“I remember.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">We sit down outside of a café. I order a soda, she orders a bottle of bubbly water.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>She smiles at me,</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Well, let me fucking SEE it.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I hand her a book.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>She shakes her head, “This is so fucking cool.”<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I still have the manuscript of this thing.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>This is so fucking cool.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Thanks, babe.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">We talk about the years and people behind us, and about her photography.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>She's working a lot these days, and I remember those days, the fucking fluorescent lights or the lines of customers, looking over their shoulders to the outside which led to the street, which led to my place which led to my door which led to my typewriter on the other side of it.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>It creates hatred for strangers, in even the strongest of us.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I bitch about owing money or about the stress of no health care or about being broke and struggling until I figure out my method, but I have to understand that it’s the ebb and flow.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>My payoff for the worry I have is no more workforce.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>No more fucking faces or tension.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I was going to see Delissa this weekend anyway, as Dawn has booked us in for some motorcycle race in <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">New Jersey</st1:place></st1:state> and a hotel for the weekend.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I’ve never been to a motorcycle race.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>This is one where the riders lean over and scrape their knees on the track into the turns.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Dawn has been on and off with a guy who is a good rider.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>She regaled me with stories of him on the phone as I made my way eastward.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>It was funny.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Lots of comedy involving a maker of high art and an adrenaline junkie.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Delissa and I sit there and watch the people.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>A young Brazilian beauty walks by and gives me a half smile.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I turn and watch her ass.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Goddamn it.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Delissa smiles,</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“You picked a good day to come here.”<span style="font-size:0;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I walk her back to work and dial Ben from <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">Wisconsin</st1:place></st1:state>.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>He’s a strong inspiration for a character in March of Time and Skin.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>He’s answering phones now for an architecture firm off 42<sup>nd</sup> and Broadway.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>He’s off in a few hours and I’m going to meet up with him at a coffee shop on 40<sup>th</sup> and 8<sup>th</sup>, where we’ll head out and meet up with <st1:country-region st="on">Chad</st1:country-region>, a dude I used to roof houses with in <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">Minnesota</st1:place></st1:state> during one fateful summer.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I walk around and shoot photos, talk to a few interesting people who stop me and then I’m in walking back from <st1:place st="on">SoHo</st1:place> up to meet Ben.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I’m feeling streamlined and healthy from all the walking.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>You can walk 100 miles in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Manhattan</st1:place></st1:city> and not even know it.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
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<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">He walks in.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>He looks the same.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>He argues it and says he's going bald, spinning his head 180 degrees,</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Dude, look at this.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Losing it fast.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Oh, bullshit.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>It happens naturally to everyone.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>You’re fine, dude.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Who fuckin’ cares, anyway?” </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Good point.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“How’s life in <st1:place st="on">Brooklyn</st1:place>?”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“It’s great, man.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Lots of life out there, and here.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Glad to see you’re doing something with your writing.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>About fucking time.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Yeah.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">We walk out and grab some food, meet up with Chad and drink a few pitchers, and it’s a blur of Times Square and then I’m on the train back to Beacon, where I blast my ipod and text Dawn and a few others and ultimately miss my stop and end up taking a cab to my van from Cold Spring to Beacon.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I get in the cab.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“How much?”
<br />”$25.00”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“You’re fucking kidding me.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>For 10 miles?”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“It’s a zoning issue.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>We’re crossing zones.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Yeah, the fuck me in the ass zone.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Am I taking you there or not?”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“No choice.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“That makes two of us, pal.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Yeah, yeah, yeah.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Just make sure you swing by an ATM.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“No problem.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“I’m sure.”</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVLwESZ_w4yCOthlj7d65A_cGjFUm07QpICQx4qQO8UcRN5zPefBFVuiu-TpQNeKBn-fRnOxk8X7enAnT7rNApc5c78uTTgHHT15oTCjb_6R-4yWXzhMkAov50FfxCe_Sg3lqdWWtZfU83/s1600-h/2.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 150px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5382556345222767602" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVLwESZ_w4yCOthlj7d65A_cGjFUm07QpICQx4qQO8UcRN5zPefBFVuiu-TpQNeKBn-fRnOxk8X7enAnT7rNApc5c78uTTgHHT15oTCjb_6R-4yWXzhMkAov50FfxCe_Sg3lqdWWtZfU83/s200/2.jpg" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMtCBWl0DRw6n75fZD0xPeLSTUVLrO9EfZbd9aexUvXFlvQJ5isGbNcZvfQnMcBIZ13KUZG4e3Obmtsko7xGdXINkb-80Diu5SNJ85jFK_zNNsNZwMDTRnPkiI8xWRX0HKzjP_gHp2QGv-/s1600-h/115.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 150px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5382555516151730354" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMtCBWl0DRw6n75fZD0xPeLSTUVLrO9EfZbd9aexUvXFlvQJ5isGbNcZvfQnMcBIZ13KUZG4e3Obmtsko7xGdXINkb-80Diu5SNJ85jFK_zNNsNZwMDTRnPkiI8xWRX0HKzjP_gHp2QGv-/s200/115.JPG" /></a></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMtCBWl0DRw6n75fZD0xPeLSTUVLrO9EfZbd9aexUvXFlvQJ5isGbNcZvfQnMcBIZ13KUZG4e3Obmtsko7xGdXINkb-80Diu5SNJ85jFK_zNNsNZwMDTRnPkiI8xWRX0HKzjP_gHp2QGv-/s1600-h/115.JPG"></a><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG1FgZWPHvaeK7TLWTbfCZpYKQEALEDrj5uCK2YC5-vv4Ta1s7VXFEzO5QzaOysuXZg_pKLCeMVN4xwiCo6hPn5PEG6pdNeq0GTBk9MkMqJzELiLuZdH1V8Huof7Y4ChHcdPzcSbQ_pnIh/s1600-h/110.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 150px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5382559124536426018" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG1FgZWPHvaeK7TLWTbfCZpYKQEALEDrj5uCK2YC5-vv4Ta1s7VXFEzO5QzaOysuXZg_pKLCeMVN4xwiCo6hPn5PEG6pdNeq0GTBk9MkMqJzELiLuZdH1V8Huof7Y4ChHcdPzcSbQ_pnIh/s200/110.JPG" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiGLxx431rATTYnwthMxh2XSM28FHrUuyhajr0YBf4DqyTOXMkigiTNEDZBNakc33aVkpERZ974YAXkbd8MQhdpk-dgrarLmg3TcvKMtSQ9VjFN6KGANjzVWpGGwbrruj-EvoXPcylhBc9/s1600-h/128.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 150px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5382553539751595618" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiGLxx431rATTYnwthMxh2XSM28FHrUuyhajr0YBf4DqyTOXMkigiTNEDZBNakc33aVkpERZ974YAXkbd8MQhdpk-dgrarLmg3TcvKMtSQ9VjFN6KGANjzVWpGGwbrruj-EvoXPcylhBc9/s200/128.JPG" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
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<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Dawn is still working when I get back.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>It’s almost 2 am and it’s nearly 4 am before we go to sleep.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>We’re picking up Joanne in the afternoon and heading over to the Colt 45 mansion, also in Garrison.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Dawn’s friends Daniel and Connie live there in a seriously lavish house on premises and they take care of the place.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Daniel races pigeons.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>It’s never fucking normal in my life.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Dawn looks at Joanne in the rearview,</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“You were in the city last night.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>When did you get back?”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“I took a late train.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>11 o’clock.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Jeff was on that train!<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Ha! I KNEW you two were on the same train.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I look back at her, “Which fucking cart were you on?”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“The one in the front.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>You?”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“The middle one.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Son of a bitch.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">They laugh.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Joanne smiles at me, “And I didn’t have your cell or you could have texted me.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I stare at the road, “What a gip.”</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixeY_mjDMbPEHoakTEwR0nPEN8AHjdFLlxWfc_ywNenN6H0WT6pH28AWApquA4rk9fflyDowNiRz0jO-HKBFU9QYnRKCHVgy6TWF9zwiXHukNt3oDDgTuKEoUII4XyZQepSIEQuln86Dm6/s1600-h/244.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 150px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5382541167323412850" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixeY_mjDMbPEHoakTEwR0nPEN8AHjdFLlxWfc_ywNenN6H0WT6pH28AWApquA4rk9fflyDowNiRz0jO-HKBFU9QYnRKCHVgy6TWF9zwiXHukNt3oDDgTuKEoUII4XyZQepSIEQuln86Dm6/s200/244.JPG" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHOyE_qSsnJ248S_i8puepi6PC2uFWfp-HEeHPhGEHAS_l2HzvZBedyb7UWb9uC3vP4dXXoIWlE4F_Xk4gamMirvrvLPrc3joMc0c_FpCd9bHJCAMccsPUFizNLgSQmTNYb5olzTFPdcco/s1600-h/253.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 150px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5382540254286632578" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHOyE_qSsnJ248S_i8puepi6PC2uFWfp-HEeHPhGEHAS_l2HzvZBedyb7UWb9uC3vP4dXXoIWlE4F_Xk4gamMirvrvLPrc3joMc0c_FpCd9bHJCAMccsPUFizNLgSQmTNYb5olzTFPdcco/s200/253.JPG" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieQQwo4teis3BNrI-7ep-TOstDe2zs0EgQJtxZHFWfbK-Q8iHzCwT0oIl9ZjO5zCiHm05OerUdzYUwmPKSbFD1shxTbRjSV1_j5cKfFzPqQ8QlLj-ypzOKNn5R68jtb3ugXAPK2Y671h1u/s1600-h/241.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5382541177628055682" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieQQwo4teis3BNrI-7ep-TOstDe2zs0EgQJtxZHFWfbK-Q8iHzCwT0oIl9ZjO5zCiHm05OerUdzYUwmPKSbFD1shxTbRjSV1_j5cKfFzPqQ8QlLj-ypzOKNn5R68jtb3ugXAPK2Y671h1u/s200/241.JPG" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
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<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivF1KM_Z4kGgOl3cBUe14tjsUqj2fB9TNh3Y0G-NeerlOxp_uhyphenhyphen6-zXIiO4RwL8i4MMs0tgsGOnc0oM5ymRTgjd08ZfkINRuXpDW8vl6CbmufNLUqLRqBKBAfLR8SXVMHIfJLz-24FEvRr/s1600-h/257.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5382540245344418450" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivF1KM_Z4kGgOl3cBUe14tjsUqj2fB9TNh3Y0G-NeerlOxp_uhyphenhyphen6-zXIiO4RwL8i4MMs0tgsGOnc0oM5ymRTgjd08ZfkINRuXpDW8vl6CbmufNLUqLRqBKBAfLR8SXVMHIfJLz-24FEvRr/s200/257.JPG" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Daniel and Connie have a fucking great life.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Their daughter, Micah, is so adorable I that can’t stand it.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Connie is every bit as gorgeous as the most beautiful woman alive.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I’m sitting here in the backyard of this estate drunk on wine, we all are, except for Connie. Daniel and I walk down to his racing pigeon center where he lets them out, they circle the field where we stand, then they fly back in.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>A drunken flash forward and we’re sitting in the back by the pool overlooking the woods and <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Bear Mountain</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Bridge</st1:placetype></st1:place>.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>We’re talking about life and women.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>It’s good to sit there with him.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>He’s had an interesting life growing up and surviving in the city.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Back at the table he tells us a story about how he was outside of a club and this woman is in his face and she won’t stop cutting him down and then she spat on him and he knocked her out.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Dude, I have NEVER hit a woman. And it was like a light, fast jab. <span style="font-size:0;"></span>But even her boyfriend didn’t get mad at me.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Nice.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">We sober up and head to Cold Springs where we get dinner across from the gas station where the cabby stopped for me to get his fare. My time in <st1:place st="on"><st1:state st="on">New York</st1:state></st1:place> is ending in a few days, and it saddens me in the moment, but the food arrives and another tall drink and the next day I’m riding in the parking lot in front of the courthouse.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>My new handlebars are high and mean.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I’m heavy and rusty due to an old knee injury.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>But I’m rolling around the lot and it’s warm out.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>A dude on a mountain bike with a basketball jersey, a mullet and a <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Newport</st1:city></st1:place> in his mouths rolls up and stops.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="times new roman"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Jesus, dude.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>How long you been doing that shit?”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="times new roman"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Since I was a kid.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="times new roman"><span style="font-size:100%;">“No shit?”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="times new roman"><span style="font-size:100%;">“No shit.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="times new roman"><span style="font-size:100%;">He pedals off.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Back at the house I do laundry and walk the woods with the dogs.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>That night Dawn and I see Inglorious Basterds after a couple of drinks.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>It’s so good we laugh nearly through the whole movie.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Been a while since I’ve seen movie that good. 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<br /></span></p><p style="FONT-FAMILY: times new roman" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Outside of the bike shop Delissa throws her bags in the van and we make it through the Holland Tunnel, get off the turnpike in <st1:place st="on">Jersey</st1:place> and get the room and find Rob’s place, which is right in the heart of Philly.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>We’re downstairs in his work space because his wife is passed out upstairs, and we’re stoned out of our fucking minds.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I snap pictures of everything around me.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>A blur of night and we’re eating at Pat’s, after an angry and toothless motherfucker threw us attitude about ordering a cheese steak sandwich.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>He called Dawn a tourist.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I wanted to say something to him, but a flash of his gums and the deep wrinkles under his sockets said it all.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>It’s a weird night there.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Driving down <st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on"><st1:place st="on">South St.</st1:place></st1:address></st1:street> was good and tense.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Also, there was some drunken homeless guy pulling a knife on three emo kids, who stood there the whole time we ate and talked about rushing the guy and beating him, but it was comical because the three pussies knew they wouldn’t put words into action.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Dawn looked at me,</span></p><p style="FONT-FAMILY: times new roman" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Dude, I should go over there and bum a smoke from one of them and say, what the fuck is wrong with you guys?<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>You’re gonna LET HIM get away with that shit?<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I thought you were MEN.”</span></p><p style="FONT-FAMILY: times new roman" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">We laugh and eat our food.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Rob is telling us stories about their apartment, how he gutted and built it and the Philly lifestyle mag did a piece on it.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>It was good to be there with him.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>He’s paid some heavy dues with his talent.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>We go into downtown and sit on the 19<sup>th</sup> floor of a hotel in the lounge and drink a few.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Rob sits next to me, where I’m across from the girls looking over their heads at the skyline.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>He hands me a strong Jack & Coke. Turns out that in the course of the decade we haven’t seen each other, both of us have pink chrysanthemums tattooed into the scheme of work on our arms.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>
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<br /></span></p><p style="FONT-FAMILY: times new roman" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">We drop Rob off.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>It’s Friday night.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Saturday and Sunday is the race.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Rob’s sitting Saturday out due to prior commitments.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>We’re in the hotel room and we’re baked, and the girls have fallen desperately in love with <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Chico</st1:place></st1:city>, and he’s milking every second of it.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>He jumps on their bed, stretches, yawns, and hams it up.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>He sleeps between them.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I’m stoned in the dark there, Meg is curled up on the corner of the bed facing the door, and it’s almost light out. <span style="font-size:0;"></span>I quietly masturbate and fall asleep.</span></p><p style="FONT-FAMILY: times new roman" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="FONT-FAMILY: times new roman" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">The girls were up early petting <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Chico</st1:place></st1:city> a few hours later.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I’m so fucking tired I can’t handle the thought of getting up, but I have to.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>They accuse me of snoring.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span></span></p><p style="FONT-FAMILY: times new roman" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Delissa shakes her head at me, “Dude, it’s like sleeping in a fucking bear cave.”</span></p><p style="FONT-FAMILY: times new roman" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Bullshit.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I don’t snore.”</span></p><p style="FONT-FAMILY: times new roman" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Bullshit.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="times new roman"><span style="font-size:100%;">Dawn looks out from under the covers,</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="times new roman"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Yes you do, motherfucker.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="times new roman"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Well, then I must have been stuffed up or tired.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="times new roman"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Bullshit.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="times new roman"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="times new roman"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="times new roman"><span style="font-size:100%;">We’re at the race.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>The track is new and with low visibility. You can see corners here and there.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I stick it out with them.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I like the speed of the bikes, the linear art of the sport.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>If I had seen more I could say more, but that night we’re stoned again in the hotel, we go out to eat at Uno’s, and back in bed I am half dreaming that I see the dark figure of Dawn slapping me on the chest.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>The figure lays back down and it’s light out.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I turn over and they’re staring at me.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>They are tired to shit.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Dawn nods,</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="times new roman"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Dude.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Did you not fucking feel me trying to wake you up last night?”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="times new roman"><span style="font-size:100%;">“I was just wondering about that.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="times new roman"><span style="font-size:100%;">They start giving me shit over it.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="times new roman"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Let’s just get some goddamned coffee and go,” I say.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="times new roman"><span style="font-size:100%;">We drive into <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Philadelphia</st1:place></st1:city> and check out Rob’s place.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>It’s fucking amazing.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I walk around and snap photos of the metal bowl basins below the faucets and twin shower heads and spiral staircase and all of the custom shit he’s done in there.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>It’s literally the nicest apartment I have ever seen.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Out back Dawn jumps in with Rob to catch up.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="times new roman"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="times new roman"><span style="font-size:100%;">I drop Delissa off at the track because I don’t want to leave the dogs tied up anywhere and also because I want to check out the <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Jersey</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Shore</st1:placetype></st1:place>.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>We’ve checked out of the hotel already so the dogs are on my shoulders, which is fine.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>It’s good to be with them, driving across <st1:place st="on">Jersey</st1:place>.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I didn’t know there were so many farms in <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">New Jersey</st1:place></st1:state>.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>It’s exactly like the <st1:place st="on">Midwest</st1:place> with cornfields and lush green scenery.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>We drive through Cape May and then up through <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Atlantic City</st1:place></st1:city>, where I’m stuck in traffic for an hour, which means I’ll be an hour late getting back. <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Atlantic City</st1:place></st1:city> is grey and disappointing like it always is.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Back at the track I pick up the girls.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Rob is long gone, had to get back to Philly for some reason or another.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>It’s dark when we leave the track.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>We fill the tank and head merge onto the 55.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>A few miles up there is a fast and sickening hiss, and I’m riding the left from rim on the freeway.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I get out.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>The fucking tire is destroyed.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>The girls are beat from no sleep and another hot day at the track.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I get out and scope the situation.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I have to reverse on my rim to keep the exit clear.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>The donut is nearly flat.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>The jack I have is too high for the frame.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I’m trying to figure it out.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I lay on my back and stare up to the sky while the freeway traffic speeds by the top of my skull.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I think back to the letter in the attic, <i>what’s it like NOW?</i><span style="font-size:0;"> </span>It’s the same as it ever was.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Nearly four decades old, less hair on top and more on the stomach, a bum knee and over a million unpublished words. A bad relationship with money.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Only difference now is I can’t afford a tow at 39 instead of 23.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Here’s how it is.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I’m completely fucked and trying to learn how to change it. A cop car rolls up.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I stand and face them.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>One nods to me,</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="times new roman"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Hello, sir.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="times new roman"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Hey fellas.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="times new roman"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Flat tire, eh?”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="times new roman"><span style="font-size:100%;">I stare at them.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>The tall one speaks,</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="times new roman"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Need a hand?”
<br />”Got a scissor jack?”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="times new roman"><span style="font-size:100%;">They come back with one.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I jack the van up and put the spare on.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>They escort us to a station, where I inflate the donut, do 60 miles an hour back to the city to drop Delissa off, then Dawn and I make it back to Beacon, where we get good and stoned, pour another drink and decide that I’ll stay until Tuesday, because tomorrow is Labor Day and I don’t want to deal with the traffic, and I’m not sure if a tire shop is open on the holiday, or if it is, then how busy it will be.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I hit the attic and pass out cold.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="times new roman"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="times new roman"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="times new roman"><span style="font-size:100%;">Monday goes by like no time.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>We have coffee and hang around the house, deal with our heads, and Tuesday morning I’m in line at Sears getting a tire mounted.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Back at Dawn’s I have the trailer hitched and she’s outside halting traffic for me.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I get on the street and drive a block up the road and pull over.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>She runs over and I give her a hug.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I will know her until the bitter end.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="times new roman"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="times new roman"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="times new roman"><span style="font-size:100%;">I check the rearview and head up to the freeway. I’ve gone east as far as I’ve wanted to and I’m heading across the inner <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">U.S.</st1:place></st1:country-region> As we cross the border we hit a small shower that turns into a pitch black sky and raindrops the size of cue balls, and it’s raining horizontally into the grill and windshield. The trailer starts to fishtail as we go into a small hydro-plane but we come out clean. The rain is picking up harder and I take a hand off the wheel to turn on the radio. Zeppelin’s Immigrant Song begins and we are bucking and blazing toward a sun that we escaped one season ago, or maybe we were never there, but we drive into it: <i>On we sweep with threshing oar, Our only goal will be the western shore.</i><span style="font-size:0;"> </span><span style="font-size:0;"></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="times new roman"><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>
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<br />Book Meets Roadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15751274788020109646noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4743190027280135110.post-41588939876368490902009-08-28T14:24:00.000-07:002009-08-28T17:40:43.113-07:00Chapter 17<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji2zQIjsf-RYd41ue4CyzmOn2kN0fZM69W2xCzChFO_2WoaktsF8kHWtyy13i09PU4YFXv619Nt_b8vmrQKk3NZc65Nb9IH_votNEqxb-IyLHKWDVujL-k2dFCoqJ4zii2zOLq6dAuAjPU/s1600-h/066.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji2zQIjsf-RYd41ue4CyzmOn2kN0fZM69W2xCzChFO_2WoaktsF8kHWtyy13i09PU4YFXv619Nt_b8vmrQKk3NZc65Nb9IH_votNEqxb-IyLHKWDVujL-k2dFCoqJ4zii2zOLq6dAuAjPU/s200/066.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375136284877806546" border="0" /></a>Fucking humid again. I haven't quite adapted to the weather on the East Coast, but it's awful. The West Coast spoils a person, it stays hot but dry, yet the people on the East Coast are a bit more flesh and blood to me. There's something stronger about them. If it has something to do with the elements it would make sense, because here people don't float as easy as they do where I live. The downside to that is there's a hardness I've noticed in certain strangers, but when you're away from your city you notice strangers easier. I hadn't been to Washington DC because it never crossed my mind in the last 20 years of driving and working. I was having breakfast on 36<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">th</span> in Baltimore and it occurred to me that DC was the only main place in the states that I hadn't seen. Jules was off from her shift at the ER and we drove into New <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp-X6Z3xh-FFZtmhLB7dDrpxuaeDNR_m7AK8BSZzNHHSJVT7hVs7zB_yNxocIWQpH_rlPxdjcsGehOAPXOtWlP6-nhNmTjbIS73fT8cnLFspyT0XJ_qGrAMDEaBNBQ9dTvdNs6w2MK98jx/s1600-h/142.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp-X6Z3xh-FFZtmhLB7dDrpxuaeDNR_m7AK8BSZzNHHSJVT7hVs7zB_yNxocIWQpH_rlPxdjcsGehOAPXOtWlP6-nhNmTjbIS73fT8cnLFspyT0XJ_qGrAMDEaBNBQ9dTvdNs6w2MK98jx/s200/142.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375129465324431970" border="0" /></a><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Carrollton</span>, where we took the train into DC, and get out around one in the afternoon. Right when you walk up from the subway, you hit the sidewalk and see DC. I wanted to be swept up and shocked by a wave of begrudging patriotism, but I wasn't. The architecture is beautiful, though, and the city is certainly beautiful. I wonder how many times a day your photograph is taken here. It's not only humid, but it's hot and like a fucking idiot, I wear jeans and a black shirt. Jules is pointing out which directions are what, what we pass to get to this place, this museum, that museum. I think if the place was less crowded, I'd have a better time with it. Jules tells me that this is a slow day in DC. I look around at the families and the foreigners, and they are excited to be here. I'm also excited to be here, but I'm mostly excited that it maybe completes my checklist of America, if I had one.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR3SDM0JgcVh2kyfD_F-OJfGhFr5inkaWCe1GErlFrm_pVBSsJtpGjNDSRt6MM4M5NaGya0_RxyiREGjeXjNzuJaQpqn56-ILgLm4gFe3944TOyI_zkKXujAst9EI1q6t1E7sK7vmc3F2w/s1600-h/141.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR3SDM0JgcVh2kyfD_F-OJfGhFr5inkaWCe1GErlFrm_pVBSsJtpGjNDSRt6MM4M5NaGya0_RxyiREGjeXjNzuJaQpqn56-ILgLm4gFe3944TOyI_zkKXujAst9EI1q6t1E7sK7vmc3F2w/s200/141.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375140499129267618" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Not to say here that it's not breath taking to see the nation's capitol. It is. It's one of the most impressive things I've seen that's been made by man. The history of centuries is here, in the air, the soil. It's a proud scene if you see it from where I see it. I have a special bond with this country because I chose it as a home, literally, the road and the cities and towns are where I grew up. And in the process, I had to avoid the fucking hippies, avoid any type of typecast a traveler gets: nomad, gypsy, "on the road" -all of that bullshit.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_mwt76PIAVIItqI0z38EfXYqbfq53QSHpG3z_iMZxFYlvS50gZKhZKK-23c4MCbKvLmmTSDXBuRSQN6kFMXQJvsLOXlbBtG1xXlGE7UftsbwUJmOrmopX2wBmxMCpjf3ueaWxmroOFdJY/s1600-h/064.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_mwt76PIAVIItqI0z38EfXYqbfq53QSHpG3z_iMZxFYlvS50gZKhZKK-23c4MCbKvLmmTSDXBuRSQN6kFMXQJvsLOXlbBtG1xXlGE7UftsbwUJmOrmopX2wBmxMCpjf3ueaWxmroOFdJY/s200/064.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375133144350186162" border="0" /></a><br />Thing is, in a place like America, you can fucking do ANYTHING. You can lose and be comfortable, you can win and be comfortable. You can tell your boss to fuck off if you choose to do so. You can succeed by merely being attractive, with no talent. If you simply <span style="font-style: italic;">know </span>someone, you can make it. Hell, if you have enough money you can even get away with murder or beat a fatal disease. There is mercy and no mercy, there is a ton of corruption and special interest, and millions of people stupid enough to spend money on shitty music or bad television. That being said, I'm all for this country. I could be a cynical writer spouting off about how fucked up the system is, how bad the poor get it up the ass and so on, but walking around DC I think about how a black dude sits in office and I laugh because it still blows me away, even now. I remark to Jules about how if he hadn't of won, I'd be really fuck<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1awA7CQE337Zj-YqbI4GE9Z2EeeuVho86yggt6U_U18sYfhnGoeDYhC3hjg3m35bcRNfex22vYxFruG3wSswpnGODgXCSQDtkacEB4jh8xXdgj-HitXrAbhVvu0fE_oefSBhg2iqCrfwr/s1600-h/105.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1awA7CQE337Zj-YqbI4GE9Z2EeeuVho86yggt6U_U18sYfhnGoeDYhC3hjg3m35bcRNfex22vYxFruG3wSswpnGODgXCSQDtkacEB4jh8xXdgj-HitXrAbhVvu0fE_oefSBhg2iqCrfwr/s200/105.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375140492367524690" border="0" /></a><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">ing</span> embarrassed. But mostly I'm for this country because anyone, and I mean anyone, can make it well here, and too many people focus on what's <span style="font-style: italic;">wrong</span> with the scene, and too many people beat themselves down when others elsewhere wipe their asses with their hands and live in dirt fields.<br /><br />We leave the Lincoln Monument and see the Korean War Memorial, the Vietnam Memorial, and then we're sitting on a ledge facing the Washington Monument. We've just spent three dollars on water. It's like an outdoor movie theater, these prices. I stare across the field at the White House. I'm sweating like a whore in church. We walk DC and I shoot photos and look at the statues and columns and design and history and gawk at the place like everyone else.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdVoPYyv_0HNy8cnyP8u2JJVG3EGO4gRNPxkmsRk-cyIS1LanHYET5Srlgkkhe-7v83Klh9boRvYdVR3Syf4VUe0WpI2j4n8tA4DOcEntAPb-QBivjt0EJOeWswXDNPHzXdE1X-a3aao-B/s1600-h/070.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdVoPYyv_0HNy8cnyP8u2JJVG3EGO4gRNPxkmsRk-cyIS1LanHYET5Srlgkkhe-7v83Klh9boRvYdVR3Syf4VUe0WpI2j4n8tA4DOcEntAPb-QBivjt0EJOeWswXDNPHzXdE1X-a3aao-B/s200/070.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375129435359477106" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSgFixAAwSw-o8w7a1UYPqLBellTEY-aqMoa0LD0OdTNeQIptfFdEBGTTCRlGqQ64P3M9HsIb0WVvr98XUY7NMO1v0m-3QbkR3QHWBdLykoMw-06I1Okf50ze2HXow3AWUyI1YV68TAVD3/s1600-h/blg3.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSgFixAAwSw-o8w7a1UYPqLBellTEY-aqMoa0LD0OdTNeQIptfFdEBGTTCRlGqQ64P3M9HsIb0WVvr98XUY7NMO1v0m-3QbkR3QHWBdLykoMw-06I1Okf50ze2HXow3AWUyI1YV68TAVD3/s200/blg3.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375137698524522610" border="0" /></a><br />We're in the National Archives Museum and I'm staring at The <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Magna</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Carta</span>. It's the first thing to really hit me in the gut since I've been here. This was written in the 13<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">th</span> century. The Constitution and the Declaration Of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Independence</span> were one thing, but here sits the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Magna</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Carta</span>. I'm <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">eyelocked</span> on the document. Jules and I are looking at the print, the beauty of it, and then we're walking toward the Capitol Building. Jules and I are talking about her family, her job as a doctor. I try to imagine having a job like that. We pass some tour group<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF4l0shz46NA30_GAkBisHE-s0Ie3lnXahM4N5ZYQ30-N3xe5NSZAhV7rInMc1vMerpMlXcwSt7L5-VauwFdCDqPWg3yMzw2NsBy8Stqfk5G4OnsNnfil4DB5L5uXxn7a6DlnBDqH9ZuWO/s1600-h/183.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF4l0shz46NA30_GAkBisHE-s0Ie3lnXahM4N5ZYQ30-N3xe5NSZAhV7rInMc1vMerpMlXcwSt7L5-VauwFdCDqPWg3yMzw2NsBy8Stqfk5G4OnsNnfil4DB5L5uXxn7a6DlnBDqH9ZuWO/s200/183.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375136262359188194" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj0yH3WypW2lpRFZEfkw2PgWRn4p3CgQ-2dLIq2flYHERebNutncMH5soZ65r7aU2h3x5458-ZTJbRY7YX8Kt581TjGhCkvpilKuQ6VeSN9Z3GyPtgJ9ZJbQVg_SaTRvBExM_lc8OOgoHO/s1600-h/148.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj0yH3WypW2lpRFZEfkw2PgWRn4p3CgQ-2dLIq2flYHERebNutncMH5soZ65r7aU2h3x5458-ZTJbRY7YX8Kt581TjGhCkvpilKuQ6VeSN9Z3GyPtgJ9ZJbQVg_SaTRvBExM_lc8OOgoHO/s200/148.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375137205034740306" border="0" /></a>and she says, "On Book Meets Road, why did you mention the boring stories about the ER?"<br />"What are you talking about?"<br />"Well, I mean the flashlight up the guy's ass was alright, but you didn't mention the guy who cut off his penis. Twice. Remember that story? He cut if off again after it was sewn back on."<br />"Now I remember. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Goddamnit</span>. I'll mention it for chapter 17. I promise."<br />She laughs, "Good."<br />A guy coasts past us on a cheap mountain bike with a cooler hanging off it. He does a small skid and looks at us, "Y'all want some ice cold water?"<br />I looked at the cooler, "How much?"<br />"Two dollars."<br />"Fuck it. W<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJmGe2Q-PYw4DePv2_K_VmtPxYk1M0JYeePYEdzAjOD1ZBmWL1ig7-hRNmMMmNOf2l-BcNKKz1FUhdFxcK-WR2kj_9W6jTTptLPds2IAqlOsXxmBjQYlVKmp-PUq7AFSUsJLV-a9ylMuhR/s1600-h/181.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJmGe2Q-PYw4DePv2_K_VmtPxYk1M0JYeePYEdzAjOD1ZBmWL1ig7-hRNmMMmNOf2l-BcNKKz1FUhdFxcK-WR2kj_9W6jTTptLPds2IAqlOsXxmBjQYlVKmp-PUq7AFSUsJLV-a9ylMuhR/s200/181.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375131941037083058" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA30qBvArgiXt5VY3kvxCL6WqxzqOWygNaFPpjwWmfXCElggKkaR1N8W9yym9Lr0Tt0LMUOL-OFmS6aAZkc8A03jv7NGdrQJ2RF4LEPvRxXAaOCm_7XfAGNWUUTd9h7uGGh3CYINOGUmVn/s1600-h/182.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA30qBvArgiXt5VY3kvxCL6WqxzqOWygNaFPpjwWmfXCElggKkaR1N8W9yym9Lr0Tt0LMUOL-OFmS6aAZkc8A03jv7NGdrQJ2RF4LEPvRxXAaOCm_7XfAGNWUUTd9h7uGGh3CYINOGUmVn/s200/182.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375134750669193234" border="0" /></a>e'll take one."<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I give Jules the first hit. She drinks, hands it over and I slam half of it. I've been eating terribly on the road. The water hits my system like freezing rain. We walk, stop, cool off, walk into a museum, walk up to the Capitol Building, walk into more museums, the Sculpture Gardens. I can't stop staring <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgaUHOOoD2mPGN0-SscYtikximEb7BP4E3k5ZVN55wzk9eSRsrxnmDKH_m4UZurnxHCnlfcfvK-Rnxc3wdTMO9DDPNT_kj8_r2VnGTl1F_fWk5MTxsVzyJ9XKCWfw0yqC9UFJ0IugGR4Ai/s1600-h/184.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgaUHOOoD2mPGN0-SscYtikximEb7BP4E3k5ZVN55wzk9eSRsrxnmDKH_m4UZurnxHCnlfcfvK-Rnxc3wdTMO9DDPNT_kj8_r2VnGTl1F_fWk5MTxsVzyJ9XKCWfw0yqC9UFJ0IugGR4Ai/s200/184.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375137697519797362" border="0" /></a>off at the skylines. It's time for me to leave this part of the country, that old feeling of economy sinks in. Not financially, but the economy of motion, of time. The sun is finally setting and our skin is red. My knee is talking back from an injury well over a year old. We're walking back to toward the subway. We've walked 4 or 5 miles, according to Jules. I argue 10 miles and she laughs at me. We make a stop into the Air And Space Museum and I touch a piece of the moon.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn07Enco9Iy3bXs1VO-2GxF5rdXFMT9hCnThUQ7gTkzoJKen52Rwb2Eo-w1qJwBmCzUkSw4f1Cx7bkPkxC5jK2hUZXdzUBmbD5zLNOFu6SckZ1PTiKdtJsH8B533dG-Xw8EnCD5vzoLxvx/s1600-h/124.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn07Enco9Iy3bXs1VO-2GxF5rdXFMT9hCnThUQ7gTkzoJKen52Rwb2Eo-w1qJwBmCzUkSw4f1Cx7bkPkxC5jK2hUZXdzUBmbD5zLNOFu6SckZ1PTiKdtJsH8B533dG-Xw8EnCD5vzoLxvx/s200/124.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375131274544451746" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmFOuxjiIphKuBOkntxCcQ46ggGCD95PApcup-D9GFx_7H1In3UGLC74Jz5Psz6s90VRHp67DHnX7dmK45c6o3Icyr0qxYYX4TYJsH-Twomv_D3kCPTvsBVL4u3mOv39hdTY6r2uS-_jOF/s1600-h/135.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; 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float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAeHQLrkICshisC3gYF3VoM4CU3Dg4gjlr03nRsKvOHMgv6kZACTzUEPj-e1Ja6ZDvBkWwMKbBXJ_nfzclAizCKb6KzvuXA0s8WtpuZPGHBNlrbAWqWVZ7aW7KQvW9on-0bUYGcvQZvThB/s200/121.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375129455306544418" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPmeL5aHoZA2AIfD2D-cmnlnQMb_FvMfdjQuAze4GA3ltf0DaS7fiz2sXkl4PZzFxqGQA448fzZZYiG8rZ6XwJSSUVauaG4hhZQ_HQN3h8DSTsjf8AdtWw0nHeoOxBbgMZxiTF2AhyphenhyphenSqGP/s1600-h/103.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPmeL5aHoZA2AIfD2D-cmnlnQMb_FvMfdjQuAze4GA3ltf0DaS7fiz2sXkl4PZzFxqGQA448fzZZYiG8rZ6XwJSSUVauaG4hhZQ_HQN3h8DSTsjf8AdtWw0nHeoOxBbgMZxiTF2AhyphenhyphenSqGP/s200/103.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375129444712527282" border="0" /></a>Book Meets Roadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15751274788020109646noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4743190027280135110.post-32149375980587859572009-08-20T09:40:00.000-07:002009-08-23T09:36:50.754-07:00Chapter 16<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL0xlCBXYTdUswPoD9eT1tpJkVKNJ3mL-rts44IL3d3Ms3qjyJOdyYPTzKX180YIZvoUWo1AiGSl-sa75Xzo3Yj8v_QRnCaVLTM9gASx8hGZRux68Njn8P9qzet5HX8d6NHsBdGGurcufM/s1600-h/1427.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL0xlCBXYTdUswPoD9eT1tpJkVKNJ3mL-rts44IL3d3Ms3qjyJOdyYPTzKX180YIZvoUWo1AiGSl-sa75Xzo3Yj8v_QRnCaVLTM9gASx8hGZRux68Njn8P9qzet5HX8d6NHsBdGGurcufM/s200/1427.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372452210340483698" border="0" /></a>One person out of every ten is a junkie in Baltimore. This has to be a truism, because I hear it here constantly, but I am staying up in the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Hampden</span> neighborhood by 36<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">th</span> Street where <a href="http://atomicbooks.com/">Atomic Books</a> sits diagonal on Falls Rd. You see a glimpse of the wreckage here, but I get the feeling it is becoming what NW 23rd became in Portland, a shopping nightmare. At the moment one could liken 36<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">th</span> to Portland's Alberta St or Mississippi. But even North Mississippi, back in its day is like a fucking <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">candyland</span> compared to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Wilkens</span> in Baltimore, where I was lucky enough to wind up when I first <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqFgJhDrIoSGMNOhe8McNHJPHo2yBLrILUxyDn54qP0-U4eyFHqSDVavl2KB9np3INvSoomHZX3NCA9uCMsWFqgakRXvyU0VBc3l-rAYZoJmZkDpBHoUjlk4K4RFcDv9s0GaRCaVZPkdcx/s1600-h/1473.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqFgJhDrIoSGMNOhe8McNHJPHo2yBLrILUxyDn54qP0-U4eyFHqSDVavl2KB9np3INvSoomHZX3NCA9uCMsWFqgakRXvyU0VBc3l-rAYZoJmZkDpBHoUjlk4K4RFcDv9s0GaRCaVZPkdcx/s200/1473.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372454732168770242" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-c6Ww7OdHqjpAa_8LhIg9THbDt3CFQXM5ZrRRXzf5rVoEwsPckrE_im0ewdK40dcMJXtFqI7j9qszAtXSpLJVbiG06bjZjyjW6PBCIGIicSBkF46AdGftUC1ZmCL-PLQfOnHgs1l38ki_/s1600-h/1424.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-c6Ww7OdHqjpAa_8LhIg9THbDt3CFQXM5ZrRRXzf5rVoEwsPckrE_im0ewdK40dcMJXtFqI7j9qszAtXSpLJVbiG06bjZjyjW6PBCIGIicSBkF46AdGftUC1ZmCL-PLQfOnHgs1l38ki_/s200/1424.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372451667725509682" border="0" /></a>pulled into town at 11 pm. Half naked babies running around in the streets, trash and laundry scattered, blue theft lights flashing on the walls of corner buildings, block long housing developments partitioned only by lighter or darker coats of paint, or no paint at all. I am hauling an old trailer behind the mini van. One look into my ride, they catch a glimpse of me and my dogs and they know I'm not only safe to drive past them, but also worth nothing if they robbed me. I spend time in Fells Point quite a bit. I stopped into the tattoo museum, fell greatly disappointed and took a drive around the city, where I drove down <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Balti</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBhI_uZNke5bi-jqqi6RwEHxVg4dVthwFjeiKjOBxO4NDz6b45InknbuVrqGWOvjFWfyJuBHcwiUCAhLG7T_5tfOvUF3UAEhfdvr_JDahVIXNYz3mgq4sXKXEWOpxH5b7A0ch9yvN6wNvu/s1600-h/1463.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBhI_uZNke5bi-jqqi6RwEHxVg4dVthwFjeiKjOBxO4NDz6b45InknbuVrqGWOvjFWfyJuBHcwiUCAhLG7T_5tfOvUF3UAEhfdvr_JDahVIXNYz3mgq4sXKXEWOpxH5b7A0ch9yvN6wNvu/s200/1463.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372454160415423810" border="0" /></a>more, where the strip of sex clubs and such rest above the old and beaten street, <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKupErZiuYXRA79mzcriVHoVYiFYsxKPKjcg_fwG4K-MOMGyUZlgSg-3NL1BW8d0BXOIrQRHs8bUMuQYeh23iU6qi-poFtl4uDeiWTwsUHrJAHn8x3e96NTgZs1RBIOk92nnlMpKvoLAOB/s1600-h/1402.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKupErZiuYXRA79mzcriVHoVYiFYsxKPKjcg_fwG4K-MOMGyUZlgSg-3NL1BW8d0BXOIrQRHs8bUMuQYeh23iU6qi-poFtl4uDeiWTwsUHrJAHn8x3e96NTgZs1RBIOk92nnlMpKvoLAOB/s200/1402.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372450253729294946" border="0" /></a>the drifting by of addicts, of fiends.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I am staying with my friend, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Bex</span>, here in Baltimore. She has a nice place and a great dog named Sasha. I get to meet Jules, her ER doctor friend, and I find myself at her house where I meet her husband, Leslie, and another friend of theirs, Lisa, and her boyfriend, Bob. It's good to be outside with them. It's humid and hellish but it's good to be there. The kids are in bed and Jules is showing me how to crack and eat a crab. Peel the penis/tab back, break the shell off, clear out the lungs and parts and mustard, get the legs, all of it. We're sitting around breaking and eating crabs and listening to Jules tell stories about her job at the ER in Johns Hopkins. It's good. One involves a flashlight up a guy's ass. Another is about a lonely freak who has tied a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">tourniquet</span> around his thigh for attention. And more come about the prostitutes and misanthropes, but also some heart breaking tragedy. Yet she remains upbeat and sensitive. I sit there and look around the table. Baltimore. Two months into the tour now and I feel like something big is still upon me. It's the air or the pulse or something, but there is something big moving toward me. I can't tell if it's the big finale or a big break or something bad or good or great. But something is out there and it has me locked in.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFrxgjOD2qbpSavCcXVCU0RyHRZjc-t9aw6Syg34Y3Nj13pNawwr2AZGNEOP1XCvF-ki1sieZCryM_YncPNgdFIrW8ASbNV88lZdopdGQVyeYkuixDroO3Lu8zb757atjSJcOfhCwuAX4q/s1600-h/1357.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFrxgjOD2qbpSavCcXVCU0RyHRZjc-t9aw6Syg34Y3Nj13pNawwr2AZGNEOP1XCvF-ki1sieZCryM_YncPNgdFIrW8ASbNV88lZdopdGQVyeYkuixDroO3Lu8zb757atjSJcOfhCwuAX4q/s200/1357.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372448271290098978" border="0" /></a>I walked around Fells Point the next day and shot photos. It's like a huge version of Chinatown in Portland. I draw a lot of similarities to the two cities, but mostly I like it here because it reminds me of how Portland used to be, the edge it once had, and I walk around and drink my coffee and watch the birds circle the water out there over the harbor. It's the death of man, I think to myself, the darkening of life through missing things that have no meaning today. My mind is on an ex-girlfriend, my childhood dog, Sugar, my dead parents and a whole different heap of bad shit. The water does that to me, it flushes out depression, and it reminds me that I'm <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFFPy5V_ap7PWk5bQrjofCJp7Kb_yZtJ4wEbmRNyMFCbN52I2fAGyeHCaiu9Elcw2Xwn86q08bMmyZlcXmZ-OgPAb0V2fEWgnuQnzZtHK-8BE1SUQSspMWapO18_LVsMNVFaliXlWx1Q9T/s1600-h/1474.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFFPy5V_ap7PWk5bQrjofCJp7Kb_yZtJ4wEbmRNyMFCbN52I2fAGyeHCaiu9Elcw2Xwn86q08bMmyZlcXmZ-OgPAb0V2fEWgnuQnzZtHK-8BE1SUQSspMWapO18_LVsMNVFaliXlWx1Q9T/s200/1474.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372454738790897586" border="0" /></a>older now, that I walk the stones of cities and every year the ground gets older. I walk to the edge of the water and sit. It's humid today, blood boiling humid. I get another coffee at The Daily Grind on Thames. I'm down to three cups a day now. I get in the van and check out Little Italy and then the Inner Harbor. There's something about Baltimore I can't quite explain in detail. It's a feeling here, not the feeling of freedom that Portland still kind of has, but the vibe here is like a cross between Brooklyn and Vegas, but better than both.<br /><br />On 36<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">th</span> in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Hampden</span> you will see some pretty impressive shops and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">transgenders</span>. Johns Hopkins was the first in the country to perform sex changes, and they do a pretty fucking good job. They're not like Santa Monica cross dressing hookers who look good from a distance, they are the real deal. I met a girl at Common Ground and the only thing that gave her away was my instinct. She had no tells saving her height. Not that it matters, but I don't think I could ever be with a woman who was once a man, but that's me. I'm old school. Or an asshole. Either way. But I thought about her later when I was drinking a tea outside of 7 eleven. To be trapped in a body that wasn't meant for you has to be a living hell. I also thought about the level of courage it takes to permanently change your body's sex, regardless of anything. I decided that I would've done the same thing if I had been her.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHcTicqsSwbNn7AzEF7bm4WSfe-FYxH1_IJRZDIQtjomn0sHQNjF92I1HUaSUiZbHHPE4l-3F_gRXpgG481wavy7Wt0JbfFp2rpjjk_QW0KYq35CcAtsmbTXdjkdgOkkvoO19285zL45aY/s1600-h/1466.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHcTicqsSwbNn7AzEF7bm4WSfe-FYxH1_IJRZDIQtjomn0sHQNjF92I1HUaSUiZbHHPE4l-3F_gRXpgG481wavy7Wt0JbfFp2rpjjk_QW0KYq35CcAtsmbTXdjkdgOkkvoO19285zL45aY/s200/1466.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372454188233992914" border="0" /></a><br />It's not so much the oddity of Baltimore for me as it is the oddity of life right now. Everything is waxed together into a long line of waiting, a long and jagged spine whose edges has been sharpened by decades of listlessness, by hours of await, by wind and fire within us. I have traveled this country for well over twenty years, constantly avoiding traps. I drive now with my dogs and with an arsenal of books from which to grow the <a href="http://rosecitypublishers.com/">company</a>. I see a rotting and changing world upon us, grinning at our feet and we just stand there and<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj6ModcsRWv7KEHFcHDWilmOAizXYLQrZ6_gXwvjX9hLqBgoQC0fVxlTB-NLJVcn47gj0q8U-RLw5VsSYvKA2gFNcqi_crt8oz3xOCTSRxd6MFy5PDoRdNEtHwbjnQvzKtuu8STpntjxt3/s1600-h/1388.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj6ModcsRWv7KEHFcHDWilmOAizXYLQrZ6_gXwvjX9hLqBgoQC0fVxlTB-NLJVcn47gj0q8U-RLw5VsSYvKA2gFNcqi_crt8oz3xOCTSRxd6MFy5PDoRdNEtHwbjnQvzKtuu8STpntjxt3/s200/1388.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372448985491579698" border="0" /></a> fucking take it. The end of the flower doesn't matter, the wren that falls to death, the coyote that hits the dust for the last time, none of it matters because none of it has to do with our lives or what we long for. I drive and count the hours, I get to a town and I stay for a while and sell some books and meet some very good people, but there's something eating at me and I can't place it.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Ogz5-rhJ5fiywGCFBH-WrH-qouPtOnFlBpku88jTuKnqJtdKjEfXypOclxKwGhZ9m7YmoBM8jizoqGPnN1Meyt1_InPMG7x4R0j_7VUZmanu2ZXkHarWh2d9kUns2XgCfTn-FJVXS8DY/s1600-h/1387.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Ogz5-rhJ5fiywGCFBH-WrH-qouPtOnFlBpku88jTuKnqJtdKjEfXypOclxKwGhZ9m7YmoBM8jizoqGPnN1Meyt1_InPMG7x4R0j_7VUZmanu2ZXkHarWh2d9kUns2XgCfTn-FJVXS8DY/s200/1387.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372448978892937874" border="0" /></a><br />Last night I laid in bed and read my own novel, cover to cover. It's the first time I have read it without a break. Then I put a DVD in my laptop, a two-disc feature on the lives of serial killers. I found it in a 5 dollar bin in Peoria. I turned off the light and closed the laptop until it hit my glasses, so the DVD wouldn't shut off but the light from the screen was minimized to a soft glow. I closed my eyes and listened to experts break down serial killers, whether or not they can be rehabilitated.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisFIYN4PAlzMb1dw1u0pqEqM8q9oP1_IgDg3Yeh8ECXUcmKru7aKh1rEAteIfrFtGth4xnY-MR7DIdi4fLuFkrM_8RRWbOpkIzvuz8D7civb2lK46R2vqTe_2ussGdC7czA1jAr8RXi6mS/s1600-h/1386.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisFIYN4PAlzMb1dw1u0pqEqM8q9oP1_IgDg3Yeh8ECXUcmKru7aKh1rEAteIfrFtGth4xnY-MR7DIdi4fLuFkrM_8RRWbOpkIzvuz8D7civb2lK46R2vqTe_2ussGdC7czA1jAr8RXi6mS/s200/1386.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372448970419001058" border="0" /></a>"They need to just kill the fuckers," I hear a voice say next to me.<br />I nod at the road, "I know. The minute one of those motherfuckers puts his thoughts into action, they need to be snuffed out. I mean how the fuck do you saw a human in half, let alone a child?"<br />I look over at the guy. I don't know him, but he's cool as fuck, dark black hair combed back, chiseled features, black suit and emitting charisma. He lights a smoke and smiles at me, and his eyes are electric with hatred. He offers me a smoke.<br />"Quit years back," I tell him. He shrugs and puts the pack in his<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5wU0YDhvqySjf2MZdMpEVvTm4EJwlvd3hPVR9SYK6h4v0WMkYg26FB5Z2m0Pm9j5PXPGftS4L_LRAXSW5C6SchAiIc1nCTFp5Rhi0dir5VtuK8hdP7_pJsB-9ivVYb-erlykplTnVYkPO/s1600-h/1395.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5wU0YDhvqySjf2MZdMpEVvTm4EJwlvd3hPVR9SYK6h4v0WMkYg26FB5Z2m0Pm9j5PXPGftS4L_LRAXSW5C6SchAiIc1nCTFp5Rhi0dir5VtuK8hdP7_pJsB-9ivVYb-erlykplTnVYkPO/s200/1395.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372448989298389858" border="0" /></a>suit pocket. He blows the smoke through the glass of my passenger window, and it travels through the glass in the shape of a worm, and it circles through the red and orange sky around us, which confirms that I'm dreaming, and it also confirms that the devil is good to look at. He smiles at me, "I don't give a fuck about the child, the man, the men or the fucking numbers, I just think they need to kill the fuckers because then I get to actually have some fun."<br />I look over at him. He shrugs and stares ahead, "It's my job, man. It gets fucking boring what I do."<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcgneYIWduGiQ_RKz2c0l4uDUU46BIKod4ydVfQ1qRsfveHBVscDLk-Abt9xboR-3sWVXHjmjA_uJafDS4EbEfW0qv2oTnOF7MFiKO0-Uv17fnDr-k-1OdI1yY5B75K8yv5JyNKQnbyBoo/s1600-h/1439.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcgneYIWduGiQ_RKz2c0l4uDUU46BIKod4ydVfQ1qRsfveHBVscDLk-Abt9xboR-3sWVXHjmjA_uJafDS4EbEfW0qv2oTnOF7MFiKO0-Uv17fnDr-k-1OdI1yY5B75K8yv5JyNKQnbyBoo/s200/1439.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372452823425742818" border="0" /></a>I stare over the road ahead of me, and the road is lava but it's also laughable. I don't know where I'm going. I know that Freud would have a fucking field day with me right now. I hear a chain dragging behind the van and it gets louder with each line in the road, each second it grows louder and it's coming up behind me. I reach back to grab it and I'm sitting up in bed. Chico is scratching at his neck and his collar and tag are loud as fuck. I look around the dark and restart the DVD for white noise. I lay back and rest my hand on his head. He's a good dog. Being with Meg and I on the road has been good for him. It has to be hard for him to play second string to Meg, but that's the way it is. And he's fine with it. I used to regret rescuing him, like the last thing I needed was another dog, but when I saw his face there on the sidewalk in West Phoenix, I knew I had to do it, I had to get him out of there. He saw me coming a mile away, that's for damn sure, but now it's been almost 4 years and he's family.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEGp9hklgDCFQr2JFvxcOOzkXLkX21A3nhCmCZJCEbVVTl6n4vZ3ysRzOLND4QJDmifqeZhxp1GJ8ZVduQhHIfIkDGd4R1ax1JLBNNJmJgQm6x17KHXOTObmN3wopn6GskpyfUmigHfGz5/s1600-h/1425.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEGp9hklgDCFQr2JFvxcOOzkXLkX21A3nhCmCZJCEbVVTl6n4vZ3ysRzOLND4QJDmifqeZhxp1GJ8ZVduQhHIfIkDGd4R1ax1JLBNNJmJgQm6x17KHXOTObmN3wopn6GskpyfUmigHfGz5/s200/1425.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372452201419860466" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />I once lived in York, PA for four months back at the end of 2004. I lived there because I had a chance to ride with Kevin Jones, who is the best flatland <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">BMX</span> rider on earth. No matter how much the sport progresses, and no matter how much better some rider might get than him, Jones will always be the best out there because he laid the groundwork for flatland. Without him the art would be years behind itself. I've made the drive to York almost every day this last week to ride with him, as he is there visiting his parents. He and his wife, Nikki have a son now, Reese, and they are in York until Monday, so I drive the 40 minutes gladly to ride there at the old spot, with Kev, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Diggy</span>, Ivan and Mike Tittle. Newcomers hit and leave the scene, but they remain columns in the York legend. It's good to be on the bike again. I hyper-extended my right knee over a year ago and it still isn't right. So I can ride about 50 percent as hard as I used to ride and about 30 percent as long. The days of 6 hours sessions are over until I can fucking afford surgery or therapy. I haven't even seen a doctor about it, and insurance is out of the question. Yet I pay taxes and do the right things. Go America.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0TdYboDBKnH8xy3UPrLw_i3mDUU_-doZxb7m_o0Op-h9nqkJ_MuEmVFXnPhAcHtHwxAvCS4GVGWnTJKTw5nu9CPP4vb-wybg-aF3TlQXnGcR1biYdfCVUdWupNRpYl6rdzrdTBbCY_VhJ/s1600-h/1428.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0TdYboDBKnH8xy3UPrLw_i3mDUU_-doZxb7m_o0Op-h9nqkJ_MuEmVFXnPhAcHtHwxAvCS4GVGWnTJKTw5nu9CPP4vb-wybg-aF3TlQXnGcR1biYdfCVUdWupNRpYl6rdzrdTBbCY_VhJ/s200/1428.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372452218876501618" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpQtALSnRwIzpDTUb-s4QqC_AUB-PP6oHy603_VkfKqQfRIF8vPeVDF5hJt4nq7dD4EoTX_UqDEvs5keMdi-CE0WsoWHGPNMrHsWiMQQdnw6gOetsRWWMv0DjIXEepXNZQ11Yk0HHotvu3/s1600-h/1279.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpQtALSnRwIzpDTUb-s4QqC_AUB-PP6oHy603_VkfKqQfRIF8vPeVDF5hJt4nq7dD4EoTX_UqDEvs5keMdi-CE0WsoWHGPNMrHsWiMQQdnw6gOetsRWWMv0DjIXEepXNZQ11Yk0HHotvu3/s200/1279.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372474622398058258" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOrPXlcr6OHGYfnQqfWjF08ZSa0p7HocH8Ky7ypQWraKrDVpUGVwlSKuA-v4zeqP6Qg1TzNXd-0hDgClUuUnhEms9a0oQaLTwaJPPvKaCcBuJE41MTD9HAzNEZH4ZAb8VB1H_BtoaL7bkp/s1600-h/1381.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOrPXlcr6OHGYfnQqfWjF08ZSa0p7HocH8Ky7ypQWraKrDVpUGVwlSKuA-v4zeqP6Qg1TzNXd-0hDgClUuUnhEms9a0oQaLTwaJPPvKaCcBuJE41MTD9HAzNEZH4ZAb8VB1H_BtoaL7bkp/s200/1381.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372448966131345266" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeqluay4JSRSxXlA4ghNW2AA5wIAxooy89bccZff2HRE1t964rYL3JiMYJm3luWB8cuqA-xAzWtt3rwfjkpRmGHaLt5mVSUN8isV1Q7GOAMW1N4ho0jSZzTMvnJmF4suWfjXwpWg5f9TGa/s1600-h/rat.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeqluay4JSRSxXlA4ghNW2AA5wIAxooy89bccZff2HRE1t964rYL3JiMYJm3luWB8cuqA-xAzWtt3rwfjkpRmGHaLt5mVSUN8isV1Q7GOAMW1N4ho0jSZzTMvnJmF4suWfjXwpWg5f9TGa/s200/rat.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372457286822692722" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-J0PsRoxoNUPzhXEJqX-yzhH6WRNYuDjDsVJHqqVRCszfcIpwuYKoGVDTdMZKdBlbpblqgqAR0kim6Cry90SFY1MHVhSlwu2TW86p3yQoZMWXNPUxm3ZbtUv_Kbo0Qj6oc0bjbNFNpi0n/s1600-h/1278.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-J0PsRoxoNUPzhXEJqX-yzhH6WRNYuDjDsVJHqqVRCszfcIpwuYKoGVDTdMZKdBlbpblqgqAR0kim6Cry90SFY1MHVhSlwu2TW86p3yQoZMWXNPUxm3ZbtUv_Kbo0Qj6oc0bjbNFNpi0n/s200/1278.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372474616233260178" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghRv3SBtLLRW3oME5U13tctbG3QsfsXbF2kmkNkuCioSFajr4Kt08yd9cGK10uAy3fQuMEXsNJgkjtgCVU9GF16fbSVb6VE06qqDRXJat1lg-z42_cOqewag7Q1Hoo4COhuICevSp7Qa4b/s1600-h/1486.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghRv3SBtLLRW3oME5U13tctbG3QsfsXbF2kmkNkuCioSFajr4Kt08yd9cGK10uAy3fQuMEXsNJgkjtgCVU9GF16fbSVb6VE06qqDRXJat1lg-z42_cOqewag7Q1Hoo4COhuICevSp7Qa4b/s200/1486.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372454744451711874" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />So far, Baltimore has felt like the most familiar spot on this tour. Mostly because the people here are friendly, even the junkies. Today I was driving around downtown and this homeless lady spots me from across the street from a stoop and walks in front of the van, waves and walks around. I roll the window down. She smiles at me,<br />"You got a cigarette?"<br />"Don't smoke, baby."<br />"Well then how about a dollar or some change?"<br />"Don't work, either."<br />She leans her head back and laughs, "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Shiiiit</span>. You gotta do something."<br />"I'm a writer."<br />"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Oohhh</span>. Gotcha, honey. Have a good one."<br />I watch her walk back to the stoop and sit down. She says something to her friend and they both wave at me. I wave back. It's too funny for laughter. A horn honks behind me and I weave around downtown, get on 83 North and head back to the house. New York City sits nicely on the horizon.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxfpJbSSOCk_tbV0op4K5MgeHk-GDmaq3lKnQhSCXF7PvWUIOHUKXvTSvZ-ziE2BAPXzLXiVhqMXYYfooW-lHpAEZEzp3FBEPxQKea2sHF7zIDFZKSEKmLGXmcqBrkO9g5XlZ4G6Szvsgh/s1600-h/1366.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxfpJbSSOCk_tbV0op4K5MgeHk-GDmaq3lKnQhSCXF7PvWUIOHUKXvTSvZ-ziE2BAPXzLXiVhqMXYYfooW-lHpAEZEzp3FBEPxQKea2sHF7zIDFZKSEKmLGXmcqBrkO9g5XlZ4G6Szvsgh/s200/1366.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372448283314235314" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtucgTwWpCUk8Iwo9Par5wdiffEzushKVBAyS_DZNX6YOp7V549bKeBEARuplPFECIKOKRBiFe8qxhzo_AT-a8efXx2ehpicZOc5LZKOVb-4oGUbOR6suwinyELUN3OQIR3tqUylQOEIhA/s1600-h/1434.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtucgTwWpCUk8Iwo9Par5wdiffEzushKVBAyS_DZNX6YOp7V549bKeBEARuplPFECIKOKRBiFe8qxhzo_AT-a8efXx2ehpicZOc5LZKOVb-4oGUbOR6suwinyELUN3OQIR3tqUylQOEIhA/s200/1434.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372452799572408354" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdr8cCVaTW9bbwDq7lBoVahXqXYreBVjVfCvsheZ5viwLgljP4nphINQ5-mTPQVFmZS8jIYuUw0iGx6EYbCnCtCnkiO4fsOuRQ0fU7Q3LikfaIDpumQGzsiuWtHTXxUwGszeDcX2rZIqEe/s1600-h/1430.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdr8cCVaTW9bbwDq7lBoVahXqXYreBVjVfCvsheZ5viwLgljP4nphINQ5-mTPQVFmZS8jIYuUw0iGx6EYbCnCtCnkiO4fsOuRQ0fU7Q3LikfaIDpumQGzsiuWtHTXxUwGszeDcX2rZIqEe/s200/1430.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372452229934044162" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWBrdZV-TUPpmLE9Se44zRSyt02REWOe1HJiMEdXsYQw2va024blDk2qZPNt4ut-GQeT3U4nLao63Pl4_x0RHXe7WQ1cQotDiGJiiKtpy9PHzRo0po6b6Boe4h1Z3eMBG8uXRAe5bOSNKr/s1600-h/1436.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; 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float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGlQMKzXw_BPG1EJXx80D0MqLOAshUOMEWnjwc_Xydmx7k4rBtg2g6w1WlOLy8BJzIw-hUiXq3PloIxhhygkX0WiGuZqXQFXPp13fez2cswsOXK1ipr1GhyphenhyphenfY0AkiaMbfAKB01q2NZYOKW/s200/1295.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372448258786562258" border="0" /></a>Book Meets Roadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15751274788020109646noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4743190027280135110.post-35918071820224986712009-07-29T21:30:00.000-07:002009-08-06T12:53:51.864-07:00Chapter 15<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO0uN8QRc4damuUTLZS_L9Ms8LYT0fQyWUyf5Lp9uxer5I6KPUdHxMpFC2fIFXOZ9re6qta1d-hDqRp7onLMIR2N7RdvmDPGCo_N5ufQEcnK8tRyiT6u9TWQXk5qncGKfdUm5Po6u6P2mm/s1600-h/052.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO0uN8QRc4damuUTLZS_L9Ms8LYT0fQyWUyf5Lp9uxer5I6KPUdHxMpFC2fIFXOZ9re6qta1d-hDqRp7onLMIR2N7RdvmDPGCo_N5ufQEcnK8tRyiT6u9TWQXk5qncGKfdUm5Po6u6P2mm/s200/052.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364107838053466706" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPBFG-jsSha7AX6Hlu4Y4eheU9IzdzEMHQHIVKb2Jcn7VtCFZFHC24Eshzxi23F9Bp123m75PpFAfovDjcaqqVgv_neJWrHYjT56BW2k-sFbjGO5spFtdRyHG9vc05l1tLQxHNTZvGQm-w/s1600-h/051.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPBFG-jsSha7AX6Hlu4Y4eheU9IzdzEMHQHIVKb2Jcn7VtCFZFHC24Eshzxi23F9Bp123m75PpFAfovDjcaqqVgv_neJWrHYjT56BW2k-sFbjGO5spFtdRyHG9vc05l1tLQxHNTZvGQm-w/s200/051.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364107842255851538" border="0" /></a>"So he ends up getting a hand job without even kissing her. "<br />"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">How'd</span> he pull that off?"<br />He looks over at me and shrugs, "I don't know, they were on J date and they hooked up. Didn't even make out. She gave him a hand job then made him banana bread."<br />"Hell, that was nice of her."<br />Joelle and Chris are in front of us and they break up laughing. They'd just taken me to my first professional baseball game, and my first professional <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDiYQ5IkYXxzVcJGlw-sEelWi-zUBwEmCI9GnLzskO_Kk05hAirdnSEepPkV64ip4FfN0zsQJ-QMTK8mKECGkqtlnH3PR8243DlBU4nk3IUHz0kw5HVz6FCQ7kBqucSbGd-ncYxYvxpGd4/s1600-h/021.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDiYQ5IkYXxzVcJGlw-sEelWi-zUBwEmCI9GnLzskO_Kk05hAirdnSEepPkV64ip4FfN0zsQJ-QMTK8mKECGkqtlnH3PR8243DlBU4nk3IUHz0kw5HVz6FCQ7kBqucSbGd-ncYxYvxpGd4/s200/021.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364108224377759282" border="0" /></a>organized sports event, period. The Cubs against the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Astros</span>. The game was tied early at one run, and it went into overtime. They stopped selling beer after the 7<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">th</span> inning, Joelle's whiskey flask is long emptied, and we we're walking up Sheridan to have some drinks and check out the game in the bar. We cross the street and I shoot an apartment building, change my camera setting to night scene. I talk into the camera, "What the fuck is J date?"<br />He looks at me and nods,<br />"It's a <a href="http://jdate.com/">Jewish dating site</a>."<br />"Jesus."<br />Chris looks over his shoulder,<br />"Wait, she made him banana bread?"<br />Rich laughs, "Oh, fuck yes. Banana bread and a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">hand job</span>."<br />"In reverse." I say.<br />"Right."<br />We're in the bar now and Joelle looks across to Rich,<br />"So who cleaned up?"<br />"More importantly," I say, "Was there lube involved or was it old school?"<br />"I'll just text him."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjky8VgLtVxx9UKx5lg4MCWjNK_xoy6ySY2129HmqNBXFDX1qxOaN-yCHwkMqzTqji5XC4ricLg9nojxLTG85AMweIUHBH22crcW-FLNzbL0rs050xrnXZ12FiwXKhjhUJMTrN3eCU1qPdt/s1600-h/125.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjky8VgLtVxx9UKx5lg4MCWjNK_xoy6ySY2129HmqNBXFDX1qxOaN-yCHwkMqzTqji5XC4ricLg9nojxLTG85AMweIUHBH22crcW-FLNzbL0rs050xrnXZ12FiwXKhjhUJMTrN3eCU1qPdt/s200/125.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364106669481251938" border="0" /></a>He picks up his phone and texts the guy. Rich reminds me of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">smartass</span> best friend in the 80s movies. He's a funny fucker, and cool as shit. I liked him right off. I've been in Chicago for a few hours. I'd spent the day before doing a signing at <a href="http://oneworld-cafe.com/">One World Cafe</a> in Peoria, where I sold some books and met some readers and ended up pounding coffee until midnight, so getting to sleep was a bitch, but I found myself in Chicago on time, at Joelle's place.<br />She and her husband, <a href="http://gentnerfabrication.com/">Chris</a>, live there with their two kids, Lily and Sam, and Sirius t<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglXkXQdbFc5FGhMdRkMrYcAZkdt_gkvkLcR9WbsypeCuyGXgypZCPZEOre6nUG7Id4GblZ7bijp4d3M3ZWLYUZ470MW5SzGlt1i7T5ZzLB97IvedXsvcXxf4IEDB0isHdvXRTVjsfE43dG/s1600-h/114.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglXkXQdbFc5FGhMdRkMrYcAZkdt_gkvkLcR9WbsypeCuyGXgypZCPZEOre6nUG7Id4GblZ7bijp4d3M3ZWLYUZ470MW5SzGlt1i7T5ZzLB97IvedXsvcXxf4IEDB0isHdvXRTVjsfE43dG/s200/114.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364109871470302738" border="0" /></a>he dog in the Albany Park neighborhood. Joelle's off for the summer from her teaching job, Sam's at camp and Lily's staying with a friend until the night after tomorrow, and I am drunk with them in the bar while Rich's text alert rings. He looks over at us,<br />"He said it was New Jersey style. No lube, no spit, nothing."<br />I look across the table to Chris,<br />"Nice."<br />Rich nods to Joelle, "And he said there was no clean up. He said his boxers took care of it."<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyy-smSIN6oZXIEq9eQZYYFM5kPfrkh2qS9u1NRHjPujFEuQ2AgtmJhO4YP7YfdsYrfKJTG16NEtrBl3twwfO_aL_qk2EdzfhTBmi-_2EJhzZ8fqiuP6n7eQj6xcqgHVBn-Nmwf4pGF7Ec/s1600-h/104.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyy-smSIN6oZXIEq9eQZYYFM5kPfrkh2qS9u1NRHjPujFEuQ2AgtmJhO4YP7YfdsYrfKJTG16NEtrBl3twwfO_aL_qk2EdzfhTBmi-_2EJhzZ8fqiuP6n7eQj6xcqgHVBn-Nmwf4pGF7Ec/s200/104.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364109863517517570" border="0" /></a>She cringes, "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Ahhh</span>, fuck."<br />Rich tilts his beer toward us,<br />"It gets better. After she gets him off she says,'<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Woooooow</span></span>, you did a <span style="font-weight: bold;">good</span> job.'"<br />"Come on."<br />"I'm totally fucking serious, dude."<br />He imitated her again, and again it's a perfect, nasal sounding, nagging Jewish woman accent. It's an expert imitation. Chris shakes his head into his beer, "So I take it he's not going to see her again."<br />"Oh, no. He's seeing her again this weekend. She's coming back over."<br />I look around the bar and outside. It's good to be here. I've never hung around this part of Chicago. I noticed that almost everybody I've seen in this city is good looking. And it feels good to be in a big city again. The game is on the tube and into the 13<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">th</span> or 14<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">th</span> inning. I was glad we'd left the stadium, but it was nice to be in the stadium, and I can safely say watching a baseball game in person is better than watching it on the screen. There was a good energy to it sitting there in the seats looking out over the diamond and watching the seagulls fly around the lights and waiting for the batter to hit one out. We hear a loud roar from down the street then look over to the screen to see that the Cubs had hit a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">grand slam</span>. The whole street cheered. We order a few more and drop Rich off. Back at the house I pass out almost instantly.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0elOlD9CULZyoDjkQuLhgzHuiU1dOf5llAYnfS8N0HKioa1Adgnyh6sjicK3d_T0rWPV586BFMZPDXcpr8WrJrP32y4feead4n7il-p3PBKifoY4SPcBxYO10vGZznyr8RYe8yibPnSk4/s1600-h/050.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0elOlD9CULZyoDjkQuLhgzHuiU1dOf5llAYnfS8N0HKioa1Adgnyh6sjicK3d_T0rWPV586BFMZPDXcpr8WrJrP32y4feead4n7il-p3PBKifoY4SPcBxYO10vGZznyr8RYe8yibPnSk4/s200/050.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364108210104745186" border="0" /></a><br />In the morning, Joelle and I are walking through the North Park Campus on the way to get breakfast at her favorite neighborhood cafe. She tells me the hash is incredible there. We order an extra side with our eggs and toast. She's right, it's fucking incredible. We eat and drink coffee and talk about the drug of traveling. It's a beautiful day in Chicago. The sun is high and warm but not hot, and the food is perfect. Something about the neighborhood is good, also. It's busy and diverse and it pulses along easily. I watch a bird walk across the concrete by where we sit. I go to toss it a crumb but it sees something else and takes off.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKnO7TNpREoph-HD5EkIuUERRaEde0Q6uZp6IEK1gW9gUi9JRYX-1K8BjgywC3ih0k4caNo68ZNkNCKojhrpRZ6qOvM0Hiood56fnjkcv2xTjy7ehfiNPMuf9MjG7Yx4iesd5uS6FEGtvi/s1600-h/057.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKnO7TNpREoph-HD5EkIuUERRaEde0Q6uZp6IEK1gW9gUi9JRYX-1K8BjgywC3ih0k4caNo68ZNkNCKojhrpRZ6qOvM0Hiood56fnjkcv2xTjy7ehfiNPMuf9MjG7Yx4iesd5uS6FEGtvi/s200/057.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364111591619524290" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSdSaAb8IxvnxzN9houwEA9MO2kiAUF27PzSXFn_KbR-P2DDR0_9kszYZXjz0-5k1RQpcBgna94VMswaUmglc1jg0bhc8bG7XwGesBy9B3h6CkK3Q7fL9gkq8wyoKg7VfnM9aGnjBP_4Uy/s1600-h/058.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSdSaAb8IxvnxzN9houwEA9MO2kiAUF27PzSXFn_KbR-P2DDR0_9kszYZXjz0-5k1RQpcBgna94VMswaUmglc1jg0bhc8bG7XwGesBy9B3h6CkK3Q7fL9gkq8wyoKg7VfnM9aGnjBP_4Uy/s200/058.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364111599683471746" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />I hadn't seen my sister, Denise, or the kids since 2004. My nieces, Quinn and Jessica had grown tall since I'd last seen them. Quinn is already writing a book. She and I had started writing a story together via email, but I got swept away with work and stress and other such bullshit. Doug and I sat on the porch and drank beer and coffee then he made some burgers, which were fucking awesome. We hung out for a few hours, caught up and I had to get back to Chicago as I couldn't stay the night because of Rufus, who is without a doubt one of the funnest dogs alive, a light-yellowish French Bulldog, so he's small and compact and lovable as they get, but introduce a dog into his environment and he's pure hell. Joelle and Chris had Meg and Chico back at their house, and I was supposed to meet up with them and hang out on the deck with Rich and the famous receiver of the New Jersey Hand Job. It had been on my mind that day. Not the hand job, but the fact that he got one without any type of foreplay.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0aIJSd7BbT6-P44eo9z-4zODM_4f35SldD1yPSv7FYb-kDqIyZKvOggvKQUs_MwJ-TNUewUtkUPlv6sZ8yORPo6rruuceLcXI68yMOqc1xDxXDxcaYuBqC3WK6c_DcrvY7FwsaJdTx-wG/s1600-h/056.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0aIJSd7BbT6-P44eo9z-4zODM_4f35SldD1yPSv7FYb-kDqIyZKvOggvKQUs_MwJ-TNUewUtkUPlv6sZ8yORPo6rruuceLcXI68yMOqc1xDxXDxcaYuBqC3WK6c_DcrvY7FwsaJdTx-wG/s200/056.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364107834389213666" border="0" /></a><br />Rich was already tired when I got back. Traffic in Chicago is almost always a fucker, and tonight was no exception. Except Rich's buddy isn't going to make it. Chris opens the garage and we stare at his '68 MG on blocks. It's become his project/part-time obsession. Three of Lily's friends show up, and the night becomes a crash course on the Jonas Brothers. It's a good night there, a good time and the kids are still alright. Rich cuts out and the kids go home and I'm again in the guest room passed out. I'm dreaming about my father. He's dead as Dillinger, but in my dream he and I are sitting at a table drinking tea while he smokes his <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Marbs</span> and talks about being dead, makes jokes about the people he knows now. I hear Suspicious Minds playing on the radio sitting on top of the refrigerator behind him, and I realize that I'm 8 years old again, and he's smoking at the table getting ready to go to work, to roof houses in Phoenix. I look out the window over our pool and I see the sky is clear blue and and it's moving off beat with the radio. Behind me is the old living room, and beyond that is the Arizona Canal, and beyond that and splayed out in reflective blood are 30 years forward. The old man nods over my shoulder. I turn around and I'm awake in the bed, Sirius is out in the living room barking at something, and I sit up and let my dogs out. Joelle makes a mean cup of coffee that brings me back from the edge of the dream. It's on the tip of my tongue to tell her about it at the table, but it leaves my mind. We coffee and talk about what we're doing with the rest of the summer. Driving back to Peoria, it <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">occurs</span> to me that I've totally lost all concept of seasons and vacations and work weeks. My whole life now revolves around books and writing, which is fine with me. I have to get back to Peoria, pack up and get some sleep and start toward the East Coast in the morning.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibV75rzG3sbRMkBjEgACKVocu25e685VdUwnAmBk_jM96zWEGiHnVWM7s8BJf25YST_34KUzXyLRpp3Poir5yMPwSMkQ6P28P_LzfsLaSNOHOAsrZVtLCoF-6zJ-XB_KGEH8A6-5ay4lkG/s1600-h/066.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibV75rzG3sbRMkBjEgACKVocu25e685VdUwnAmBk_jM96zWEGiHnVWM7s8BJf25YST_34KUzXyLRpp3Poir5yMPwSMkQ6P28P_LzfsLaSNOHOAsrZVtLCoF-6zJ-XB_KGEH8A6-5ay4lkG/s200/066.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364107469070665298" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8V247DZjtWd82ccUBd32R2PiH11nc1IiIs9-7b8mSsabqVRrqQC27FDHWSw8g12EWqxY2N60DOujGo6gxclAgzJp9hJZRbIJZBHyQsd4AwQIx5bYOQGwnlDi2vM-PCkJa8MDYrTB3NeTB/s1600-h/079.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; 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float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXhYB07F1N3KD78BXb3xWnxrNlh8QaZiGVZcyYl_19UlYGXcnhzWcokAftcDxSlClIRTnSV86-jXERQje44XScjpQ3Sr4N9Lpw-PpIdlA1oRHOSgvlyaFf2FL0rJlqLtBCZcCUL205OOlI/s200/115.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364107073520621490" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBgP5Dl0xLA5kQQafV_2jq6W6_PssAzsJqT_xb_3R2khypx-fGHw3XWTmYBGvwrTkJuZVuL5xKqgms5aHBE6kdSkCU8oMmEFhO2OHzzJ_aoVT6K1cM2u8pBwcVqOefocHZZTx1zNB0ue5q/s1600-h/112.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBgP5Dl0xLA5kQQafV_2jq6W6_PssAzsJqT_xb_3R2khypx-fGHw3XWTmYBGvwrTkJuZVuL5xKqgms5aHBE6kdSkCU8oMmEFhO2OHzzJ_aoVT6K1cM2u8pBwcVqOefocHZZTx1zNB0ue5q/s200/112.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364107093373475202" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj21oxVTGNmuJqc_KoMIq_IF4NThLwKK9zsjSEfpY1D6iepuwHO3y32B4ueeKSNZLKbJ7tOvRrxqzJowD0pZ9CD7yqjrgLX-t5P8tMndVWNwwX4q9f3mEI1pQtAAP362shkOxh1iK4PNyF/s1600-h/136.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj21oxVTGNmuJqc_KoMIq_IF4NThLwKK9zsjSEfpY1D6iepuwHO3y32B4ueeKSNZLKbJ7tOvRrxqzJowD0pZ9CD7yqjrgLX-t5P8tMndVWNwwX4q9f3mEI1pQtAAP362shkOxh1iK4PNyF/s200/136.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364106653865467954" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigQ_UApW2vC_EMyyV9JCRoTOTP6ky7guT6QpT3w0gUtSvC6PAx3OCiEt_orFQwH6a0BtMnTgmxiJHpbdnIxWkUFp5sZ7o3RBSIxPK_puvc0opnkKVrHeNdZcIJTbsp4kBUAw7kjLxio8_p/s1600-h/135.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigQ_UApW2vC_EMyyV9JCRoTOTP6ky7guT6QpT3w0gUtSvC6PAx3OCiEt_orFQwH6a0BtMnTgmxiJHpbdnIxWkUFp5sZ7o3RBSIxPK_puvc0opnkKVrHeNdZcIJTbsp4kBUAw7kjLxio8_p/s200/135.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364106657339116690" border="0" /></a>Book Meets Roadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15751274788020109646noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4743190027280135110.post-63717123859047664902009-07-21T13:02:00.000-07:002009-07-21T22:26:14.119-07:00Chapter 14<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwVNzdr82uQwhxId-89pj89ZaxAl6wo_AA1jSficXveUv9nuNecsrsP3K4kaZX3komM9YcKqMzprHeSZi7QshGyyXTXr1SydhwzIFJ2k-xp6JaM4UPvtuNYy_QQVxa1r4AJADPFCJNtaUY/s1600-h/049.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwVNzdr82uQwhxId-89pj89ZaxAl6wo_AA1jSficXveUv9nuNecsrsP3K4kaZX3komM9YcKqMzprHeSZi7QshGyyXTXr1SydhwzIFJ2k-xp6JaM4UPvtuNYy_QQVxa1r4AJADPFCJNtaUY/s200/049.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361013101296040146" border="0" /></a>"I don't know, these covers and from what I've read in these books, they're kind of well, controversial, if you will."<br />I look around her bookstore. The place could have potential, if she wasn't such an uptight piece of shit. Her whole demeanor was laughable. She smelled like cigarettes, and she had this near British annunciation to her words. It wasn't her resistance that got to me, though. If you have a piece of work that pleases everyone, the work is not remarkable. If it pleases no one, it's not clear enough or refined or it's just plain bad. If it pleases most people who are intelligent to reasonably intelligent to at least human, then you probably have something pretty damn good. I can't complain about her not buying the books, because everything in life comes down to <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLeUBbyzOXvkbWMp9SPi4xRJSpb0Mx8FZPYGp73aG4mlZ7bt_LQAN7siQCuxQR5hIBtEDhg0QimrGTHRRWWMa3abMDsxA9Bv3aqwh516AZIdpP5M_I7Ky9wP2M6MUIoJYROsuVaH37QkWp/s1600-h/128.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLeUBbyzOXvkbWMp9SPi4xRJSpb0Mx8FZPYGp73aG4mlZ7bt_LQAN7siQCuxQR5hIBtEDhg0QimrGTHRRWWMa3abMDsxA9Bv3aqwh516AZIdpP5M_I7Ky9wP2M6MUIoJYROsuVaH37QkWp/s200/128.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361013078424932786" border="0" /></a>numbers and balance. But there was something extra about her that got to me.<br />"My bookstore, it caters to a different crowd, if you will. I just don't see work this graphic selling here."<br />"What about Henry Miller? Surely you stock him here."<br />"Who?"<br />"Have a good one."<br />I walked out to the van and looked over to the entrance. It was hot outside, humid and grey.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqrlt5mJT376IAHinuPwS_6apdR6OhF3K2wK93M5bpkWKubpQcnq5OaBU8fxcwyFiWeV4E8QubEg0GT_8v4ovnzWLFEjK7xHSWmQIY2wrehhDWueoDklCithR0c8iXfVeijdHML60twzDu/s1600-h/199.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqrlt5mJT376IAHinuPwS_6apdR6OhF3K2wK93M5bpkWKubpQcnq5OaBU8fxcwyFiWeV4E8QubEg0GT_8v4ovnzWLFEjK7xHSWmQIY2wrehhDWueoDklCithR0c8iXfVeijdHML60twzDu/s200/199.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361013085270100034" border="0" /></a>I should have just stayed back at the house and written today, or read or watched TV or anything. Lots of bad shit on my mind. I haven't felt like this in a while. Sometimes the road glazes over your reality. I have to sell these books, I have to keep heading onward. I think back to Hamsun's <span style="font-style: italic;">Hunger</span>, when a cop stops him and insults him, and the character stops himself from going after the cop by reminding himself over and over, "He doesn't know any better."<br />I go back to the house and watch a movie with my family. In bed I watch the ceiling and think about my life from age 17 forward.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtUPzbw30Bojsdgsw1COxYuT7B7VGqxwXfmphOiPbU2o08P2rw5iiPtF36mzVV_b9U0y-XJc-CSnu6oct_anF61bmBIHeYU7O77qFIYKZdcoQWvuM6Ue4VoOB6eKezu40sj2b7zE1JYg-D/s1600-h/009.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtUPzbw30Bojsdgsw1COxYuT7B7VGqxwXfmphOiPbU2o08P2rw5iiPtF36mzVV_b9U0y-XJc-CSnu6oct_anF61bmBIHeYU7O77qFIYKZdcoQWvuM6Ue4VoOB6eKezu40sj2b7zE1JYg-D/s200/009.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361011353978651458" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh09gZz7oen_NfFfX5fJ-DwJVtfdUqppWVHttZPFJXUBYml_hmc7n38m78UzZAPlQ1O8YUfqo0ut02iOcBqs_xQYtJA159F2UMj-112aLgSiJHFB2V_6XcIbBIUMpgqw1_csJrRrbHDmdfr/s1600-h/012.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh09gZz7oen_NfFfX5fJ-DwJVtfdUqppWVHttZPFJXUBYml_hmc7n38m78UzZAPlQ1O8YUfqo0ut02iOcBqs_xQYtJA159F2UMj-112aLgSiJHFB2V_6XcIbBIUMpgqw1_csJrRrbHDmdfr/s200/012.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361011364492881506" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I set up my fold-out table and some books at the Riverfront Market. Twenty bucks gets you a booth. It's hot outside, and everyone has umbrellas and signage, shade for the people walking the market to stand under while they look at their wares. I set up a pathetic display, along with the dirty fold-out lawn chair from the back yard. An hour passes and the other vendors are looking at me like I'm <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeiuT8ndyck6SGbwbroWKEkIGgCdVgNtGRK1EFE4lIADsMiCCT8y0F8Nf2snMC-pxea6Jmpjk5KX4qjcPNyjIN9cKh0G4EJbkKHpuCKozhp2V1G5UjYGmmzPMDWJf-92f0jh55D9qCHImV/s1600-h/011.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeiuT8ndyck6SGbwbroWKEkIGgCdVgNtGRK1EFE4lIADsMiCCT8y0F8Nf2snMC-pxea6Jmpjk5KX4qjcPNyjIN9cKh0G4EJbkKHpuCKozhp2V1G5UjYGmmzPMDWJf-92f0jh55D9qCHImV/s200/011.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361011367826858994" border="0" /></a>insane. Maybe they're right, or maybe I just haven't figured out a formula for success with being an independent writer and publisher. Or maybe I'm just being a giant pussy. I fold the chair up and stand, and start talking to people as they walk past me. I say shit like,<br />"You like to read?" or "Are you a reader?"<br />Here and there, people walk over and check out the books, they flip through, read a few lines and buy. An hour and a half later, I have a few books sold. Not a ton of them, but at least I made some sales. I pack up after noon and go back to the house. There's a market in Bloomington the next morning at 7 am, and it goes for 9 hours. I call the lady and set up the space. It's 75 dollars for an outside spot but I don't care. Only problem is that it's my niece's 35th birthday party tonight. I'm not a big drinker, never have been, but tonight I will probably have a few. I have to be awake at 5 am to get showered and feed the dogs, load the van and get fuel, coffee, and be Bloomington, 3o miles east, by 6:30 to sign in. Piece of fucking cake.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWU-mw9ayEH-kHE4xw2C9bYPf2FEB9MAH7uOBtZe9sRic-QSgXfEwAF0Fj_gTqcNoUzwGZfvocZhm7yIzZ5V0dA-zRXcPkXdqbNPiG9D4WPI6jAFWYq1O2RQqnJd1siBU5VaAxz41iQJT6/s1600-h/027.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWU-mw9ayEH-kHE4xw2C9bYPf2FEB9MAH7uOBtZe9sRic-QSgXfEwAF0Fj_gTqcNoUzwGZfvocZhm7yIzZ5V0dA-zRXcPkXdqbNPiG9D4WPI6jAFWYq1O2RQqnJd1siBU5VaAxz41iQJT6/s200/027.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361011376292753042" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I hadn't seen my cousin Brad since the summer of 1993. He's six foot five now, a father, and sells gas stations for a living, and does really well for himself and his family. We start off at The Eagle's Club, where there's karaoke and Miller Lite flowing mercilessly, so Brad buys me Jack and Cokes and we drink and kind of trip out on each other. My brother Bob is there, in all his white, crisply feathered hair glory, and the bar is lined with small buckets of miniature bottles of beer, which we drink from en masse, between the whiskey and soda. We wind up at a bar called The Dormitory, where I am now liquid. I am angry at myself because tomorrow will suck ass, hungover in the sun for 10 hours. But I have to do it. It could be a thousand dollar weekend. But the important part is that I'm here for her 35th, that I'm buzzed with family and that right now what really matters is the night at hand, which has now bled into 2 am, then 4 am at the house, then 5 am, where I turn off the alarm and shower, feed the dogs and sit in the van while it starts up.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ5y4wSqzb0mshrQJ3BgdpHnQkEgF-0PNeXMNb8rjVfbEcNMvftISQTrVS5LiakBn3IDpfb2JCUidhf5cefHMtGJuSQEkr8tLMrHetWYnwuNnujo_ddK1G_ftO4kFLP7diZ8wQxTyRA1ux/s1600-h/033.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ5y4wSqzb0mshrQJ3BgdpHnQkEgF-0PNeXMNb8rjVfbEcNMvftISQTrVS5LiakBn3IDpfb2JCUidhf5cefHMtGJuSQEkr8tLMrHetWYnwuNnujo_ddK1G_ftO4kFLP7diZ8wQxTyRA1ux/s200/033.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361016342218005410" border="0" /></a>Back in bed 20 minutes later, I stare at the ceiling again in bitter hatred for myself. Never again. Never again before I have to work. I had put the van in drive and then back in park and then pulled the keys. I'm still drunk. I'm already sweating and feeling sick. The sky is overcast but already hot. I can't in good conscience drive like this, and I can't make myself sick for a chance to sell some books. I danced with the devil, and the music hadn't stopped, so I had to get out of the van and go back inside. I had slept maybe half an hour. I admit to myself that I'm too old to pull this off today, and I walk back upstairs and lay down. Fuck it.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguOJwKX3TAHgrRdoFJyeFaas4HjW7fSCnf5AODNu6oSvXONvdbj_mTjAllQzYfzGqLqtcVrOtB_s_wTTjsn3YZ1dDpn0fCB_DuYRYNw6v2o8eQxJvPZe2_C_s7pRnnpExrp33ws-L2nat7/s1600-h/146.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguOJwKX3TAHgrRdoFJyeFaas4HjW7fSCnf5AODNu6oSvXONvdbj_mTjAllQzYfzGqLqtcVrOtB_s_wTTjsn3YZ1dDpn0fCB_DuYRYNw6v2o8eQxJvPZe2_C_s7pRnnpExrp33ws-L2nat7/s200/146.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361028407424170242" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMsk6_Ihnyk9O24U_SNPpZc-TOkJVtwe9UkgHKXTYpAHcdeQl_Y9xMuqZlY_gSfH6ffgfU-Oj9xcrk4CY4osUxrId-P0_K7FstzPgYbJ3YkapfSFmO8jB3WxC1IoZPehDhGeZUhIExBMxW/s1600-h/133.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMsk6_Ihnyk9O24U_SNPpZc-TOkJVtwe9UkgHKXTYpAHcdeQl_Y9xMuqZlY_gSfH6ffgfU-Oj9xcrk4CY4osUxrId-P0_K7FstzPgYbJ3YkapfSFmO8jB3WxC1IoZPehDhGeZUhIExBMxW/s200/133.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361013096272870658" border="0" /></a>Andrew's friend Wally owns a boat. I've known Wally all of a week<br />and every night he's been raging like a fucking maniac, in between mornings of dealing with bad renters with drug and hygiene problems and living out his two week vacation from his life as an engineer. He's hard not to like, in spite of his obsession with sports. They have a friend named Brian, also known as Cowboy, for some reason. Brian is a good guy who can say a lot really fast at one time. He's animated and hyper. Aunie tells me we're going out on the boat, that it'll make me feel better for skipping the Market and sleeping until 1.<br /><br />Out on the water it's beautiful. Peoria looks like a real city from there. We fuel up, head out into the river and boat south. We toss chips in the water and watch the seagulls and ducks battle. The sun is on and off. I look over the city and the industry off the river's shore.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhALD780GP1p1vA6VumDSeD_2xNv23os3KKepEXDFWXSuw9bnrXxKKhu7_0ACkfZ7C4a0Ka9LDVtp1KlbndQDs_D6VBewNve8b9eEeuNmhpWtjqYtue1tugIwnz7IKetd-neojmiVd2kPf/s1600-h/132.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhALD780GP1p1vA6VumDSeD_2xNv23os3KKepEXDFWXSuw9bnrXxKKhu7_0ACkfZ7C4a0Ka9LDVtp1KlbndQDs_D6VBewNve8b9eEeuNmhpWtjqYtue1tugIwnz7IKetd-neojmiVd2kPf/s200/132.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361028413683749042" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFlexUhbZeBggYhLrvUcEotp7_QmTDeHHNrNGkupu5LWyh5p6sZdf7Q_ANCS3izCnRs1xljPKsSF10LbJAoiD_pZ9GrDh8JzTydVu28850ZFBoQOPXMS6HYHsYiUAU6mmsT1-j1HKfG4hu/s1600-h/112.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFlexUhbZeBggYhLrvUcEotp7_QmTDeHHNrNGkupu5LWyh5p6sZdf7Q_ANCS3izCnRs1xljPKsSF10LbJAoiD_pZ9GrDh8JzTydVu28850ZFBoQOPXMS6HYHsYiUAU6mmsT1-j1HKfG4hu/s200/112.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361028408903486178" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9J6ZTPeA9iOTztwCoj7cULSVKK9BLKrPvh_hH65MfhanfeRpyJuF90Vk-INLPCQ4fU40uBq-8aJhZujxNyzogfmDeasKAORHIo3pv7UOHAFAi5DQLZ2IiitVBsn2nkNluY_NxalzFo_df/s1600-h/095.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9J6ZTPeA9iOTztwCoj7cULSVKK9BLKrPvh_hH65MfhanfeRpyJuF90Vk-INLPCQ4fU40uBq-8aJhZujxNyzogfmDeasKAORHIo3pv7UOHAFAi5DQLZ2IiitVBsn2nkNluY_NxalzFo_df/s200/095.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361026960907494370" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I'm feeling better now. We're anchored in the middle of the river and I'm staring at Peoria and we're somehow drinking canned beer, or I'm somehow drinking canned beer. The rest of them are seasoned, and it made me feel lucky but also a bit green.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX65cfuCS2ZMuSpsDKMKu9XKssv0mFsdF5vBYh3Q6XOoXC44RwR5tLSaBHzwaLNiz4u4hK0-z0uhIarD4Uj_6aNg87z3ySKHn49-s9idhH7sIb-N8rj4Aqmc8LzpU_dBebD-NEK2NeNly2/s1600-h/096.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX65cfuCS2ZMuSpsDKMKu9XKssv0mFsdF5vBYh3Q6XOoXC44RwR5tLSaBHzwaLNiz4u4hK0-z0uhIarD4Uj_6aNg87z3ySKHn49-s9idhH7sIb-N8rj4Aqmc8LzpU_dBebD-NEK2NeNly2/s200/096.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361026967236346994" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXbDUUBQ8SpAZ6LVay1PGqOjbNFhSzZHvXMyDriVcz_NXsX-YGYF5xjFMnPRfOfjBlX21LOMid3NN7AdrX1tt1I9bGz2pPoDDzy0gXzlnpqqma9zmPsEQ9u5cByKnp14iY06hqMYPmmGtJ/s1600-h/160.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXbDUUBQ8SpAZ6LVay1PGqOjbNFhSzZHvXMyDriVcz_NXsX-YGYF5xjFMnPRfOfjBlX21LOMid3NN7AdrX1tt1I9bGz2pPoDDzy0gXzlnpqqma9zmPsEQ9u5cByKnp14iY06hqMYPmmGtJ/s200/160.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361019450570906034" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxnQqebR85xvlgirAIC14xxrxz_4Jw3Ev91FqxFvslDL09jkNKNMkTvw1GY6EjrhazQqWJkrlin6FEco2UoOu7XxSM6yM4SCSucPEUUIW2AwCfWIfb2P2x35qb-A4KVxleHjXigITaTqTr/s1600-h/079.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxnQqebR85xvlgirAIC14xxrxz_4Jw3Ev91FqxFvslDL09jkNKNMkTvw1GY6EjrhazQqWJkrlin6FEco2UoOu7XxSM6yM4SCSucPEUUIW2AwCfWIfb2P2x35qb-A4KVxleHjXigITaTqTr/s200/079.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361025398265164722" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />We pull anchor and tie off at some docks by the city. Upstairs we order pizza and joke around. It's been a good day. The food is good and we're back outside, back in the summer air, then back on the boat, where we get off track in the dark, and wind up with the propeller grinding out a muddy wake in the shallow water. It causes Andrew to lose his Captain status, and from behind the wheel Wally yells at us to get ourselves down into the cabin, to weight the front end so we don't get stuck in the mud. It's almost 10 at night and the boat curses and spits and bucks. There's a brief moment of total immobility, then the boat breaks free and we're headed back to the right part of the river, where we dock, tie off and fasten the covers.<br /><br />I take the wheel of the truck and we drive back across the bridge. Sunday, 10pm. We're heading to Walmart to rent <span style="font-style: italic;">Deliverance</span>.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKjCCl1EZp6SILWsTRIYRg_rcB20t_f8flUZn96j_No3C4Y8gPNe1MTg1KcOIYroQ9KfjPM1nGRXif_AungaSfIbLPhMwsMaH6nWbN_ioinRUSZ5WJ6-ra3vvrsw-OUkogvpARJe09QmaH/s1600-h/152.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKjCCl1EZp6SILWsTRIYRg_rcB20t_f8flUZn96j_No3C4Y8gPNe1MTg1KcOIYroQ9KfjPM1nGRXif_AungaSfIbLPhMwsMaH6nWbN_ioinRUSZ5WJ6-ra3vvrsw-OUkogvpARJe09QmaH/s200/152.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361028424254530754" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlUU2UKftyNjfWm-7yx5k4rkc27zLPjXLuZZLIAV07nrbAs2UE-oaTOhTbHMGU7t74ST0xsPvByxZ9zrssseezgONEe9GwbQrNAZLaJwNQAs4yuTzsBFLbFup6EnGVcU8ZcGCuNAWKQtqc/s1600-h/162.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; 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float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh07keoNdJnim-WuCUxMuOhizG9ViXAAde-oHztc-6h8MPou9oujmCpBPzA1zrwqbfrEUnZJPTlqnVIaWq9d-otrUPWvJW452nn2qOOrxN80kYYoNQPBBfpqBOb3MTp46YJ-7KXCRxyMwYp/s200/170.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361019454721406482" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHtrVMp7pbGiZksFkToRhsZu5jv1ehh8Osmba-92pCaQoHTxLFlpQ3e0_VKnIzep2_qmD8nnWHU87-w0Yd675e_NQDQAdBOpwOB9BhrUkXKFl-gS7W4hybuFe3vsP5lWeEfAZoInBgciRT/s1600-h/188.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHtrVMp7pbGiZksFkToRhsZu5jv1ehh8Osmba-92pCaQoHTxLFlpQ3e0_VKnIzep2_qmD8nnWHU87-w0Yd675e_NQDQAdBOpwOB9BhrUkXKFl-gS7W4hybuFe3vsP5lWeEfAZoInBgciRT/s200/188.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361019441014691154" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS-XBbUUd8nik7cOd742kZ6YDp4hUaM2uoL1rz0UIlrtBRAQ5L1JBxr6T8B75wXRqanxEGNPDEAklF33tp_x-wAamREppMshQUX0malWT913M-ZKiXeSaMhsF8Iimbv7PM4aWAt1zNigFE/s1600-h/032.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS-XBbUUd8nik7cOd742kZ6YDp4hUaM2uoL1rz0UIlrtBRAQ5L1JBxr6T8B75wXRqanxEGNPDEAklF33tp_x-wAamREppMshQUX0malWT913M-ZKiXeSaMhsF8Iimbv7PM4aWAt1zNigFE/s200/032.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361011382191978706" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8VarEEgBJgO-Q8ePNcmxCdyPXHFp3yoEzmXSjNLhkdshQ-_p1FcTQBKRjwAQrpOH5t8S_RjW_gZhdY40g-ZWUbMGS4yfyGe0neD4t9ykKpgh9Sa8awoOy8QGXdpTWQ5hQ2aZC6cjSaNK7/s1600-h/076.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8VarEEgBJgO-Q8ePNcmxCdyPXHFp3yoEzmXSjNLhkdshQ-_p1FcTQBKRjwAQrpOH5t8S_RjW_gZhdY40g-ZWUbMGS4yfyGe0neD4t9ykKpgh9Sa8awoOy8QGXdpTWQ5hQ2aZC6cjSaNK7/s200/076.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361019428751984690" border="0" /></a>Book Meets Roadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15751274788020109646noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4743190027280135110.post-32420844554249813852009-07-15T16:27:00.000-07:002009-07-16T12:16:57.377-07:00Chapter 13<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjigurFo33aNebflRkHBRW93BZPb76UxyD0fKuXOzV-OzNuVLQzRO_UZTRvB6cJAOWHmAVfnqzsKyPM9iEM4MwrAUtSSj_wxqPAEuMT_hgwMyIMn383SKyvrgoBLpIm0CvLiRnqsxESMnq2/s1600-h/939.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjigurFo33aNebflRkHBRW93BZPb76UxyD0fKuXOzV-OzNuVLQzRO_UZTRvB6cJAOWHmAVfnqzsKyPM9iEM4MwrAUtSSj_wxqPAEuMT_hgwMyIMn383SKyvrgoBLpIm0CvLiRnqsxESMnq2/s200/939.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358833455216443570" border="0" /></a></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIslwrYTtj8KdaVWR3Kj4nSJO_wjNQ-AnwwBy3foLsG3_NzMLTqGMffYUa3TU4cEDi3hr_l9zonROYbyZo39AR9ETI5ognxBwLgLJCD_VAKb45yuE_dbmHoCVtBasvL216jTPI-wyJVj11/s1600-h/789.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIslwrYTtj8KdaVWR3Kj4nSJO_wjNQ-AnwwBy3foLsG3_NzMLTqGMffYUa3TU4cEDi3hr_l9zonROYbyZo39AR9ETI5ognxBwLgLJCD_VAKb45yuE_dbmHoCVtBasvL216jTPI-wyJVj11/s200/789.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358833471304475762" border="0" /></a></p> <span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="Street"></o:smarttagtype><br /></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style=""><br /><br /></span></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" ><br /><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" ><br />I drove around and checked out the neighborhood. Memories photographed by childhood take on a strong bond when you come back home.</span></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" > The tire lady statue on </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" ><st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on">Washington St.</st1:address></st1:street></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" > is one of them.</span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" > </span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >In the winter they throw a dress on her.</span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" > </span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >When summer hits, the dress comes off to show a bikini.</span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" > </span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >I noted it’s a new suit this time around.</span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" > </span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >There’s the </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" ><st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Cedar</st1:placename> <st1:placename st="on">Street</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Bridge</st1:placetype></st1:place></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" > for a view of industry or a mechanism for sure-fire suicide.</span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" > </span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >There’s Harrison Homes, a place you <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">wouldn</span>’t pay me enough money to walk through at night fully armed and wired.</span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" > </span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >They’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">ve</span> been tearing it down building by building.</span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" > </span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">ve</span> had some close calls riding my bike along the street across the field from that place to get home.</span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" > </span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >Going by there I’m reminded of the newlywed couple that wrapped their car around a telephone pole driving past the Homes on the way from their reception.</span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" > </span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >They died instantly.</span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" > </span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >Within 2 minutes after impact, the car was stripped bare, the corpses were stripped bare, and the bride’s corpse was raped. </span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw84b8uxuRR6gWm5dT9d_io_bGhyKQA-Az_5GOBvh5ZW3TAmdIHZa8URpXm5WTVICJjhZMMuTvpGWUhlc7miyXxgrXtJDcGsMoRzlDG2wWfphRAC-khYqGPcMJ5HtpyUJjPawBSwojdiBn/s1600-h/920.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw84b8uxuRR6gWm5dT9d_io_bGhyKQA-Az_5GOBvh5ZW3TAmdIHZa8URpXm5WTVICJjhZMMuTvpGWUhlc7miyXxgrXtJDcGsMoRzlDG2wWfphRAC-khYqGPcMJ5HtpyUJjPawBSwojdiBn/s200/920.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358834260220083890" border="0" /></a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-CmsyNw9HJhs7ug7G7OT2ryZRtqG4yvYYJ07EtddapOYPZ0YshX7sVUjcjEf4JarW0U1i5MFcnh8h2SocUCiNjVNbEwm5CZk-0SbtmthBkHaaGKhEpQugwqR0uHxz-r6SNHog1wKkwjH4/s1600-h/hh.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-CmsyNw9HJhs7ug7G7OT2ryZRtqG4yvYYJ07EtddapOYPZ0YshX7sVUjcjEf4JarW0U1i5MFcnh8h2SocUCiNjVNbEwm5CZk-0SbtmthBkHaaGKhEpQugwqR0uHxz-r6SNHog1wKkwjH4/s200/hh.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358841779373700626" border="0" /></a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcSGv18A6f4brY2pybhLoaYmTTKPx5Kb1DQVYxCS7dWcjtfcFQDHyZ0Do-SBYvfZ6tLl-ftq3rcM7IjRdw59KTV8DwbAn79TRuU88baFa0LtsHDYwpzN2ffaix_zLha4ZbzT5fLKSUXh9T/s1600-h/845.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcSGv18A6f4brY2pybhLoaYmTTKPx5Kb1DQVYxCS7dWcjtfcFQDHyZ0Do-SBYvfZ6tLl-ftq3rcM7IjRdw59KTV8DwbAn79TRuU88baFa0LtsHDYwpzN2ffaix_zLha4ZbzT5fLKSUXh9T/s200/845.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358833467199650338" border="0" /></a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">It's hard to capture <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Peoria</st1:place></st1:city>’s south side.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Not because there <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">aren</span>’t images of desperation and beauty to be taken, because there are.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">But to accurately capture the feeling of the south end is to capture the people who live here, and I can’t shoot them without being some kind of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">exploitative</span> asshole who lives 2 thousand miles away in a city of sophisticates.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Not trying to say that the south end is a bad place.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">It is a bad place. But like m<span style="font-size:100%;">y niece’s boyfriend said, <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">P</st1:place></st1:city><st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">eoria</span></st1:place></st1:city> has pockets.</span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">They live in the college neighborhood, where I’m staying.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Here it’s just as beautiful as <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Portland</st1:place></st1:city>’s NE or NW.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">But just down the hill, where <st1:place st="on">Main</st1:place> becomes Western, it’s a totally different fucking story.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I see so many characters walking around, sitting on porches, staring into my van coldly or pissed off.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I can’t really take their photos on the sly, because I can’t hide the camera while I drive, and I don’t want to approach them and ask them for a photo, because there’s something demeaning about it, for them and for me, because there is no other reason I would ask to shoot them besides the fact that I’m further stressing their impoverished lives.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">And with my camera I can’t really capture the heaviness of certain parts of town, along with the fact that I’m a novice shooter, but not novice enough to where I want to risk literally getting shot by asking someone to shoot them, and I would undoubtedly come off as a racist prick.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbJKWBApWGnPkcPxUGuU-rzSl6SMtTCxAmMXjm4LwisYQZuFrEOd89UKPNZhXnGwCg9WVj6Rqhoe86Ze5lIfhyphenhyphencUQ8dJrameRD_fEQShKA2wOAPL_bRVO4nJ-Jm6Gaul2ArkXJ273hI_Rg/s1600-h/933.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbJKWBApWGnPkcPxUGuU-rzSl6SMtTCxAmMXjm4LwisYQZuFrEOd89UKPNZhXnGwCg9WVj6Rqhoe86Ze5lIfhyphenhyphencUQ8dJrameRD_fEQShKA2wOAPL_bRVO4nJ-Jm6Gaul2ArkXJ273hI_Rg/s200/933.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358848378091273810" border="0" /></a></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuLnHsJclNmaKiEcApPoDpvZ28wd_dNeFaU9bb37YPmwoXviWAnmSvHf8vrMxAm2yI65Za2yC46KjwGXZGine7cITN9zojg-KHGPSoXFRJE7jVR8hTuUFWS0-1aArDQjyO-pjKtW8ViVf6/s1600-h/797.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuLnHsJclNmaKiEcApPoDpvZ28wd_dNeFaU9bb37YPmwoXviWAnmSvHf8vrMxAm2yI65Za2yC46KjwGXZGine7cITN9zojg-KHGPSoXFRJE7jVR8hTuUFWS0-1aArDQjyO-pjKtW8ViVf6/s200/797.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358836384324256786" border="0" /></a></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I was born in this town in 1970.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">In 1976 we moved to <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">Arizona</st1:place></st1:state>.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I spent quite a bit of time here, though.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Summers to ride my bike after I was gone from home, or the times back in childhood when we’d pack up and move here for half a year or so in between other places back in Phoenix.<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPtGDsfciy-mLv0YqMDHhOHTIfmkggIbmoyRMl4tAP4RiY31Lcg4GXUmTEFgvqlLyYw_CGJZMapfG6fmQvNHPwip19FmyB6cQFPn4tB8RiRLkVhI8hw1uUTCCBoRuTPACEbVCLWVXBwwHe/s1600-h/926.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPtGDsfciy-mLv0YqMDHhOHTIfmkggIbmoyRMl4tAP4RiY31Lcg4GXUmTEFgvqlLyYw_CGJZMapfG6fmQvNHPwip19FmyB6cQFPn4tB8RiRLkVhI8hw1uUTCCBoRuTPACEbVCLWVXBwwHe/s200/926.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358840802736857570" border="0" /></a></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">My brother, Bob, 57, has lived here his whole life.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">A dedicated bar fighter, drinker and meticulous home owner whose frosty, near mullet, perfectly set hair has been a source of humor, mystery and mild consternation for me, Bob has stayed in the south end while the rest of us scattered.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">He’s turned his home into what is easily the best place in the south end. Pool, deck, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">tiki</span> torches and shit.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">My second oldest brother lives down the street in a half- way house, bitterly called The Mansion.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">He fell off a ladder at work and shattered his lower leg, which awaits amputation.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">That and other habits have forced him and many others into the recesses of pockets here. </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I roll into town once every 5 fucking years, get a taste of Peoria and I take off, so I really can’t say a lot about a lot that goes on in town, except that the older I get the more I like coming here and hanging out with the family.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">There’s a peace to it now.<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgce5-lFn6J7JNi2XGazDBnZVwsk4y5cCW4tsQdcRDnI5GYGlyROYsPb4wFBzLBKdFaqLRJ9MJeFkdq29zzj0YAJ1krf3yOYlQHLvOOP-0Q-Pq4r3_413vYr6lN__P_J_2nqr7quX1ekS8s/s1600-h/777.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgce5-lFn6J7JNi2XGazDBnZVwsk4y5cCW4tsQdcRDnI5GYGlyROYsPb4wFBzLBKdFaqLRJ9MJeFkdq29zzj0YAJ1krf3yOYlQHLvOOP-0Q-Pq4r3_413vYr6lN__P_J_2nqr7quX1ekS8s/s200/777.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358835029653874370" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9lFtu4rppwFlEiLzyE7BVsdQ-jIArQeyPRZYRdA5ARnfwIEWFPLMg_epN4PPZ2HHJSMBB74WK-xQwDFwvg8p2Nm4UHGWWDjDq0rEfMyEx53W5Alc-FMokeLnle85LxfKsuhgiEND3Ejmn/s1600-h/801.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9lFtu4rppwFlEiLzyE7BVsdQ-jIArQeyPRZYRdA5ARnfwIEWFPLMg_epN4PPZ2HHJSMBB74WK-xQwDFwvg8p2Nm4UHGWWDjDq0rEfMyEx53W5Alc-FMokeLnle85LxfKsuhgiEND3Ejmn/s200/801.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358833491224624498" border="0" /></a></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdH4rNN2tqsrR_nceZzXRbnRy8H3RbGNEbIx0hIUD5JocNKeRvFSFFyjDtRjYO7QzwtlzROWMHgugN0I3qISO5UF-NEFkAMxgRhMAlaPbRT7xdsBgkeYzGleF9korQ81u5Sfl64YPMrUXD/s1600-h/838.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdH4rNN2tqsrR_nceZzXRbnRy8H3RbGNEbIx0hIUD5JocNKeRvFSFFyjDtRjYO7QzwtlzROWMHgugN0I3qISO5UF-NEFkAMxgRhMAlaPbRT7xdsBgkeYzGleF9korQ81u5Sfl64YPMrUXD/s200/838.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358840042366238818" border="0" /></a></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">There was a birthday party for Bob at The Eagle’s Club.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Ages 1-91 hang out there.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">It’s been part of my visits in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Peoria</st1:place></st1:city> since the mid 90s.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I spent the third night in town drunk off my ass, and Sunday I was useless, so I laid around and drank water.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I spend my days here checking out old haunts, old haunts in stories I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">ve</span> heard, driving by old houses like the one where I was born.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">A gas station where I saw Bob walk out of with a freshly blackened eye will pop up in the corner of my eye line when I drive the hill up around <st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on">Main St</st1:address></st1:street>.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I hear his slurred and gravelly voice: “I’m gonna find the cocksucker who slipped me this mickey.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Total fucking sucker punch!”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Last night I sat in the backyard over there, next to an ex-sister-in-law.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">hadn</span>’t seen in over a decade.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">She had read my book back in November.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I sat next to her.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Hey, Joy.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Hi, Jeff.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Well, you’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">ve</span> gained weight. But that’s okay, you’re almost 40.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Awesome.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">How you been?”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Good.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I read your book, all in one day.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I had to get it back to Bobby.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">didn</span>’t know that.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">A long and uncomfortable silence followed us.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I looked over at my second oldest brother’s wife, an alcoholic in the first stages of dementia. She’s about to set herself on fire with her cigarette as she fades into a sitting sleep.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I go to move toward her but the cigarette falls and she snaps awake, reaches down and picks it back up.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I look at Bob and shake my head.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">He looks at her and smiles off into space.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Joy clears her throat.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I give in to the game and ask her,</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Did you like the book?”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">She looks off and kind of winces.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I’m trying not to laugh.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I know what she’s going to say before she says it.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">She says,</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“I thought it was great.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I mean, I know it’s partly fictional, or I hope it is, but is all of that sex in there really necessary?</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I mean, what’s the reader really supposed get out of that?”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“I never really gave the matter much thought.” I said.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">My niece called me over to the table.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I squeezed Joy’s shoulder and sat next to Andrew and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Aunie</span>.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Last night we’d hit the town and Andrew shot me riding flatland.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">It was humid and I was sore there in the backyard.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">It had been the first time I’d ridden in a month or so.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Pathetic.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">My youngest niece from <st1:state st="on">Arizona</st1:state> was there with the <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">Arizona</st1:place></st1:state> family, and she had shot up like a weed since I'd last seen her.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">She jumped in my lap onto my bad knee.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Hurt like shit.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Get down, sweetie.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">You uncle’s hurting.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I left with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Aunie</span> and Andrew and we sat in Jimmy Earp’s, one of the many neighborhood taverns.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I drank water and listened to the one-man band.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiGaZJh5PMkQz2GeHbwJiqyZmlt9N46mHtnsYUa53zeh3ZiN2J2D1uaj-GLMKd0ZMa9gUp22nwNf7mE6y3yOrUtCXQ0Z2esyDS5PKlKCk3aRU8BFf0ot3n_WnWmVX8A5CaifNxF2LrUwuy/s1600-h/942.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; 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float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqMJcZObm0RatvwEefa1PO7PSiWPlP7BkwHStOqIOb64O-5IfZrqM2-u378ogSijs6F2EaFyi4eIpG8F6maq20P1bzHCjNkBcHdV7pq5a67IzpkPeeRU3NhOvPL_wZBQhD7OyHgxJ0GbJv/s200/802.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358834245091748706" border="0" /></a></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" face="georgia"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbJKWBApWGnPkcPxUGuU-rzSl6SMtTCxAmMXjm4LwisYQZuFrEOd89UKPNZhXnGwCg9WVj6Rqhoe86Ze5lIfhyphenhyphencUQ8dJrameRD_fEQShKA2wOAPL_bRVO4nJ-Jm6Gaul2ArkXJ273hI_Rg/s1600-h/933.JPG"><br /></a></span><p class="MsoNormal" face="georgia"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" face="georgia"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" face="georgia"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="georgia"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCpnQA3PNDa1c5emWg0pwqITz8VdGHHZDoeaRQNoKujel0ST9AR5OPoSy-bWzMu7C98HVPtMHDC05-3Dk8snWEG9AUyegcciIOKNsbcFHbEGDwHL_nrPMkzf2Q7fAByL3DWBnyc966x0bI/s1600-h/798.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCpnQA3PNDa1c5emWg0pwqITz8VdGHHZDoeaRQNoKujel0ST9AR5OPoSy-bWzMu7C98HVPtMHDC05-3Dk8snWEG9AUyegcciIOKNsbcFHbEGDwHL_nrPMkzf2Q7fAByL3DWBnyc966x0bI/s200/798.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358836386187074850" border="0" /></a></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p face="georgia" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p face="georgia" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p face="georgia" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p face="georgia" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p face="georgia" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p face="georgia" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p face="georgia" class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span></p>Book Meets Roadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15751274788020109646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4743190027280135110.post-4632131323811323822009-07-09T09:42:00.000-07:002009-07-10T10:13:47.540-07:00Chapter 12<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipgOCBqdF26_YKK_vMVpukANIOXv-YR0vE29qJ5XcoXwKe2FmDmbc0dl1pT-asSREhG_s2oGgzJudkfgeYKtoxteC4UsNtCJeo4CLs38n41Fv313b8hclp-CnBdQQzzkO-dwlH_lDk_hwD/s1600-h/001+%282%29.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipgOCBqdF26_YKK_vMVpukANIOXv-YR0vE29qJ5XcoXwKe2FmDmbc0dl1pT-asSREhG_s2oGgzJudkfgeYKtoxteC4UsNtCJeo4CLs38n41Fv313b8hclp-CnBdQQzzkO-dwlH_lDk_hwD/s320/001+%282%29.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356516598419237090" border="0" /></a> I walked down the street because the gas station is the only place in town open until midnight. I wasn't really hungry, but I wanted to go somewhere, anywhere. I bought a turkey sandwich for $1.75, but ended up trashing it when I got back to the room. I laid in bed and thought about everything. 38 years of life all at once, in a room with my dogs and a trailer full of novels. Not that I was bitter, I wasn't. I was alright with the tour, with the direction of things, but I was bored to the point of watching re-runs, of walking downstairs and upstairs, of wrestling with my dogs and doing push-ups. I didn't feel like writing or reading or being on the <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv4oTGu-xeU8WxHA_7rCIhB4FzjgKM7f2QREBE6dPzZmW0BTquyvWrzUZgR7CLrIm8cXnzzQh0XjBo5OWMJ1m1nsXLjxOYGXHt3Hbjd1haOuRB_vB2sqjb137MzTDBweiglOh0hY4gqU30/s1600-h/008.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv4oTGu-xeU8WxHA_7rCIhB4FzjgKM7f2QREBE6dPzZmW0BTquyvWrzUZgR7CLrIm8cXnzzQh0XjBo5OWMJ1m1nsXLjxOYGXHt3Hbjd1haOuRB_vB2sqjb137MzTDBweiglOh0hY4gqU30/s320/008.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356516612965501762" border="0" /></a>computer.<br />Too wet outside to find a place to ride my bike. Too fucking awake to sleep. Back on the bed, I closed my eyes and counted backwards from one thousand, or rather I pictured<br />each number flying at me from outer-space, and each number was red with orange borders, like big, fat 70s letters. When I got to 756 I passed out.<br /><br />The hotel phone. Gabriel's trumpet, the end of the world, judgment day. I have no cell reception in the room. The garage was going to call me in the morning and let me know about the compression test and whether or not I was able to drive the van any further. If the heads were shot, there was no point in putting the radiator in. The phone is so motherfucking loud it jerks me upward. I grab it and stare at the ceiling.<br />"Yes?"<br />"Hi, Jeff. This is Deb down at BJ'S."<br />"Hi, Deb. What's the word?"<br />"Welp, the compression test was fine, we got the radiator in <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCdftPLazPVcVVM_TgyStts7I9Lthvu0gxeFBVYz_AP9XbTe9h-8cvzJAkwwHwui9wxAbwPwHvVudF7h3zNqxJuA7XOJVN4mA0fmXZvLawr6QR-SyrY_fwvzeeqZpE4rWoJWlS0De99PV7/s1600-h/002+%283%29.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCdftPLazPVcVVM_TgyStts7I9Lthvu0gxeFBVYz_AP9XbTe9h-8cvzJAkwwHwui9wxAbwPwHvVudF7h3zNqxJuA7XOJVN4mA0fmXZvLawr6QR-SyrY_fwvzeeqZpE4rWoJWlS0De99PV7/s320/002+%283%29.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356516604985960034" border="0" /></a>and you're all set."<br />"I need to find a way there."<br />"We'll send Patrick."<br />I hang up, piss and let the dogs out. It's grey outside. The clouds aren't as bad as they were yesterday, but they're not good, either. I've always been neutral about Iowa. Until now.<br /><br />I see one bar on my phone. I call and Deb answers.<br />"Deb, I've been here for half an hour, out front on the bench. What gives?"<br />"Oh, well he called and said he was out front and you weren't there. He's been waitin' about 20<br />minutes."<br />She hangs up and calls me back.<br />"Patrick went to the wrong exit, wrong Super 8. Sorry. He'll be picking you up in your vee-hickle."<br />"Nice."<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid2SoFrwE5W5ixRyy-bqH8IQGSgNS7S3qxIw0q-nXWAMNnpfStsxtF649oxqR3oXVZxfSN9tQegOv0iFPA17LTJj1XLEd3SAi41XnnW9cpANuXVW9a42maxKThkHeiVm1pSEujS1gKD-9i/s1600-h/009.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid2SoFrwE5W5ixRyy-bqH8IQGSgNS7S3qxIw0q-nXWAMNnpfStsxtF649oxqR3oXVZxfSN9tQegOv0iFPA17LTJj1XLEd3SAi41XnnW9cpANuXVW9a42maxKThkHeiVm1pSEujS1gKD-9i/s200/009.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356518081743912322" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVq_qeNlwhI7X5ERL-GGjl1vn9tjt_q6KiCT0dHTHCernw9QRgIPeVQKVOKDpGE7isRQgWOSvVrkIAnFOS09O4nOcP0A5wAj8u-iSg7c3RedJ79pe0tLUlL3BNW7wceoToBcuU1zVhcebp/s1600-h/011.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVq_qeNlwhI7X5ERL-GGjl1vn9tjt_q6KiCT0dHTHCernw9QRgIPeVQKVOKDpGE7isRQgWOSvVrkIAnFOS09O4nOcP0A5wAj8u-iSg7c3RedJ79pe0tLUlL3BNW7wceoToBcuU1zVhcebp/s200/011.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356518096896254034" border="0" /></a><br />I sit there and wonder how the fuck he could have gone to the wrong exit. There was his town, then my exit, then almost nothing major until Iowa City. I wondered if he went west and not east. But still...<br /><br />I saw my van exit the freeway and head toward me. There's something really weird and dream-like about watching somebody else drive your car. It makes you proud and defensive. I made him get in the <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip53rNNW7bo0MIisgYJLl8jo8Ku-xC_yxEFho3SEmqCBRUyzJDLrORs9Vnmool1MNzVlmSPfUNfl1pbX1zVxk-HQFcVCz15hJF_dH73WR1fagMj5G71p5ulNCp24Gfk7FPHzmcddC1xLWx/s1600-h/007.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip53rNNW7bo0MIisgYJLl8jo8Ku-xC_yxEFho3SEmqCBRUyzJDLrORs9Vnmool1MNzVlmSPfUNfl1pbX1zVxk-HQFcVCz15hJF_dH73WR1fagMj5G71p5ulNCp24Gfk7FPHzmcddC1xLWx/s200/007.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356518546359299650" border="0" /></a>passenger's seat. I looked down and saw the check engine light was on. I looked at Patrick. He nodded to me with a lip full of chew.<br />"Why is the fucking engine light on, dude?"<br />"I don't know. It just came on this mornin' when I was driving it."<br />I got on the freeway, "Am I running on all six? Feels a bit off fire."<br />"You should be fine. I'll do a test back at the garage."<br />I drove down the freeway with him. There's something more desolate and boring about the landscape here, or maybe it's me being in a bad mood over the last few days, or maybe Iowa's just fucking ugly.<br />Back at the garage, the owner walks out.<br />"Patrick, what are doing? You need to fix those three tires sitting right there."<br />He points to the hood of the van,<br />"His check engine light came on."<br />"Fix the tires!"<br />I couldn't say anything. I had to wait it out, again. I walked in the office and took care of the paperwork, sat down and waited. The bathroom opened and I ran cold water over my face and hair and looked in the mirror. I was getting older, my dogs were getting older and the whole world was getting older. There was something good about it. I walked out to the garage and saw Patrick working on the last tire. He was bent over the tire and I read one of the patches on his cap. It said: <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Know your role</span>. I watched him for a few seconds after that, then walked out of the garage to follow the noise of a low flying jet. A stream of exhaust trailed behind it over the cornfield on the side of the garage. I watched the jet until it became a little white dot then went back in the garage. He rolled the tire over by the other two and grabbed his diagnostic kit and plugged it in under the steering column. Turns out that when they did the compression test, one of the spark plug wires wasn't fully connected. The engine light turned off and I pulled out of the station. My phone rings.<br />"Yes?"<br />It was a woman or a man with a thick Middle-Eastern accent calling from a Florida number. It had been happening a few times a week since I got the phone.<br />"Yes sir, may I please speak to Mr. William Harris?"<br />"I've had calls for him for the last 3 months. This is s new cell number. No Harris here. Please remove me from your list."<br />"Oh, okay sir. What is your name?"<br />"What?"<br />"The name on this phone account. Your name, please."<br />"You don't need to know my name. All you need to know is that I'm not your guy. Don't call me anymore."<br />"Oh, okay sir. Have a nice day."<br />"Fuck you."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ7BRMiUlI9K3tCaNeaCgJsYMZhtvOzzq7Fmu-q1UQltdsSOaiy4-T0Gdu4-M5Nne0LjzufNj8AGUhVD2QCpWbjzyw96KaAT4UX46CVj426Y-gGZX08D2kY_qRWSCAzINiOs0cdYw_ZKY3/s1600-h/008+%282%29.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ7BRMiUlI9K3tCaNeaCgJsYMZhtvOzzq7Fmu-q1UQltdsSOaiy4-T0Gdu4-M5Nne0LjzufNj8AGUhVD2QCpWbjzyw96KaAT4UX46CVj426Y-gGZX08D2kY_qRWSCAzINiOs0cdYw_ZKY3/s200/008+%282%29.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356518536943200082" border="0" /></a>Back at the hotel I reverse to the ball, hitch the trailer, take a test drive around the restaurant next door to make sure it's on tightly. I load up and let the dogs in. It's a smooth drive up until the Illinois border, when there's a detour, the drive across the Mississippi River, which has always felt holy to me for some reason, then past Galesburg straight into a black cloud. In all of my years on the road, I have never driven through rain this hard. Smarter drivers, pussies and the elderly had pulled over on the side of the road to wait it out. The tape flipped and Mexican Radio came on, just in time for lightening across the black fields on both sides of the road, and the surround of thunder. It's exactly like night. I look at the clock on my dashboard. 2:32 in the afternoon. The drive gets good now. Cars pull over one after the other. Semis switch to the right lane. I switch to the left and take it out of cruise control. It's the most intense 20 minutes I've driven since the icy back roads of Wyoming in the winter of 2005. But it's better than that because there are no cliffs, and really not too much danger once I think about it. I'm hauling a fully loaded trailer and a decently weighed down mini-van. The tires are new and the roads are smooth. Any kind of real danger is mental at this point, but it feels good to be anywhere but in that room eating take-out and stressing over money.<br /><br />The rain let up to a downpour and I took the 474 to Griswold, made a left and drove past Harrison Holmes in the south end of Peoria. The neighborhood is still as brutal as it always was.<br />I pass the street where I was born, and I head up toward Malone, where my brother has lived for centuries. I don't know how he does it. Two young and lean black murderers eyeball me as I drive toward Malone St. They have long shirts and picks in their hair, and eyes like stones. All of the south end comes back to me at once, and I give them a nod and look away first. I'm only 6 blocks from where I have to be. Out in front of my brother's, the driveway is full of cars and the rain has now become a steady, dull beat upon the gravel.Book Meets Roadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15751274788020109646noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4743190027280135110.post-90607476010254357832009-07-07T16:24:00.001-07:002009-07-07T20:07:31.042-07:00Chapter 11<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1uwwB9Z7ktrmrqyicvrbhRP2SGQhA-Ss97W7yfrz7h7M0k8zTY_TjSgMik99NoEkX3qsZ5-SEr1n34fw_EbP1Km_QyKIqW1VHU4ePbx8ZkgXL_O8PvofnsXHFYL27iwtx6ZRPMC-a8krK/s1600-h/003.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1uwwB9Z7ktrmrqyicvrbhRP2SGQhA-Ss97W7yfrz7h7M0k8zTY_TjSgMik99NoEkX3qsZ5-SEr1n34fw_EbP1Km_QyKIqW1VHU4ePbx8ZkgXL_O8PvofnsXHFYL27iwtx6ZRPMC-a8krK/s200/003.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355885660840830434" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqXOHIhXHqo104abth5nYjYSgftJBo3vOClIQkt7vKHKr7UY23RnI5_C4ZeKtVor8NZdmw_kLGUH411CEk8h8BGj9eEmIOuv4YNfA81ktuOionwwF1VMHWuK8MVAML4SR14pmclp6Q77LL/s1600-h/001.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqXOHIhXHqo104abth5nYjYSgftJBo3vOClIQkt7vKHKr7UY23RnI5_C4ZeKtVor8NZdmw_kLGUH411CEk8h8BGj9eEmIOuv4YNfA81ktuOionwwF1VMHWuK8MVAML4SR14pmclp6Q77LL/s200/001.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355863312707289634" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCg1lOq5T7T3e36rO7Khj5bfl_hyphenhyphenD_UNOB4ndRdZ8PANSaIUGu28By_DALefYR9YHMdDDo6k-PAGBMwVD_khKXbqKfRPhWqxqPswg3kGqa9-InciF1M6uw6VbZrQCU1MJjaHSIAEZxU8to/s1600-h/026.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCg1lOq5T7T3e36rO7Khj5bfl_hyphenhyphenD_UNOB4ndRdZ8PANSaIUGu28By_DALefYR9YHMdDDo6k-PAGBMwVD_khKXbqKfRPhWqxqPswg3kGqa9-InciF1M6uw6VbZrQCU1MJjaHSIAEZxU8to/s200/026.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355864441152334034" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9KQA3mYRjTcNwX24Bix-zYsVuld9frv1ljgRho50GsnicCb-P7bLeSObqLalyCZS6MKMlcavklXfgst47pCsCZOqKfKhAONbzmRIZjT3srL3w0Lq04cq3iqbbbMSQDqfMB9-m0gfNMHZX/s1600-h/002.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9KQA3mYRjTcNwX24Bix-zYsVuld9frv1ljgRho50GsnicCb-P7bLeSObqLalyCZS6MKMlcavklXfgst47pCsCZOqKfKhAONbzmRIZjT3srL3w0Lq04cq3iqbbbMSQDqfMB9-m0gfNMHZX/s200/002.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355863542540770002" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR9JZKLKXwLWC9mTs4bhjf5I4FaigohPoQdkMnumA5LhoKgwIF1mY21MU4AYotkQXwJABEJ9QeXoHp7EqrSPlZasuyKWGy_ME7MqFd7OY6ExST-1U8iIXLqyyBWkPXkcuwT71o1NEH5BSJ/s1600-h/013.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR9JZKLKXwLWC9mTs4bhjf5I4FaigohPoQdkMnumA5LhoKgwIF1mY21MU4AYotkQXwJABEJ9QeXoHp7EqrSPlZasuyKWGy_ME7MqFd7OY6ExST-1U8iIXLqyyBWkPXkcuwT71o1NEH5BSJ/s200/013.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355864447397521138" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtJ77d9j9gZkObjCMuUT7NyBNpsj1tYGWhudKY6nDnWOQRnKZcPuAFJSUK8XZq3QE_gbIVEDX2WbWKIEYfOh4EFtNtGBsUI3uXLZtyHd8zp3MQ2X_IsO2BFQy30jpL5bD7Cb1_MMk0lAnB/s1600-h/020.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtJ77d9j9gZkObjCMuUT7NyBNpsj1tYGWhudKY6nDnWOQRnKZcPuAFJSUK8XZq3QE_gbIVEDX2WbWKIEYfOh4EFtNtGBsUI3uXLZtyHd8zp3MQ2X_IsO2BFQy30jpL5bD7Cb1_MMk0lAnB/s200/020.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355864457312015298" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I called around outside of the gas station. There was a garage on the side of the place, but it was closed. Gas stations hardly employ mechanics anymore, which sucks. A couple headed to Des <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Moines</span> with their son stopped for a while and looked for garages on their GPS. Damn nice of them. Turned out there was nothing open. I drove across the street, stressed that there was no belt on my alternator. I parked, and came face to face with this dude walking out of one of the 3 hotels. This one looked cheap. But he was closing up for the night, and then I looked around and the windows boarded up and the overall slum-like appearance of the place and realized it was a no-go either way. Up the street at Super 8, it cost me 82 dollars plus tax for a room, because they charged me extra for my dogs. I had no fucking choice. I brought my dogs, my bike, guitar and a few other things upstairs and sat on the bed. I left a message to the towing company/garage 7 miles west in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Williamsburg</span>, checked my email and ordered from a pizza joint across the street. Downstairs I let the dogs run and do their business. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Chintan</span>, the clerk at the hotel stood outside with two women from Montana, and they smoked and watched Chico piss on every plant in the garden. One of the women, the mother of the other one, asked about my trailer. She bought a book from me and we talked about Montana. Inside, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Chintan</span> bought a copy, and I was thinking this place might not be so awful, but it is. It's awful. Expensive rooms and no personality to this town. I caught up on my <a href="http://thehun.net/"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">internet</span> porn</a> then watched The Lost Boys.<br /><br />It was good to be in the bed with the air conditioner and the movie blasting, my dogs sleeping on either side of me, my thoughts forced miles away from the van and the money it's going to take to get it repaired. I called my niece in Peoria and told her I was going to be a day or 2 late.<br /><br /><br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;"> </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEialW0ri6Ik0cw07yYHNn49M8VsfHM-3DteP9WkIm9FINZi64NYSDkSltP6u0qEetNHwWcqyUpGz_fbmyQMH-bejwv3wi9_-4D7O5qQI6esY8bRLLc7j2oQPrXc3Ay6Pp_5mrfOyQZT2Zw2/s1600-h/042.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEialW0ri6Ik0cw07yYHNn49M8VsfHM-3DteP9WkIm9FINZi64NYSDkSltP6u0qEetNHwWcqyUpGz_fbmyQMH-bejwv3wi9_-4D7O5qQI6esY8bRLLc7j2oQPrXc3Ay6Pp_5mrfOyQZT2Zw2/s200/042.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355879132599930914" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span>In the morning I called the garage, and they came and got the van. It was hot outside and I was burned out. It never fucking ends. The tow truck driver stops at a gas station so I can get some coffee. I sip it, the windshield blurs, and I'm at the garage, and the belt is fixed, but I notice a huge crack in the radiator. I call another mechanic over and he laughs,<br />"Need a radiator, dude. Oh, and your heads might be shot if it ran really hot for a while."<br />He lit a cigarette, smiled at me and walked off. I stared at the engine.<br /><br />Back inside they called around for a radiator. Can't get delivered until the next day. I feel my bank account being wiped clean. Between the room and everything else, I'm going to get to Illinois broke off my ass, which is something I want to avoid at all costs. But I have these <a href="http://store.timeandskin.com/">books to sell</a>, and they're worth every fucking penny they cost. I think it was the owner's wife at the garage who gave me lift to the hotel. I had my camera in my pocket the whole time, but the stress of the repair bill coming out shined the garage at the moment. I give her a book for the lift.<br /><br />The night goes by like the last night. Cable TV, AC, the web, emails, phone calls and trips outside with the pups. I call the garage. It'll be ready in the morning. I pay for another day. Out front I watch the storm move in, and I see some long haired dude in black loading a truck with Washington plates, like I have. I walk over and shake his hand. He's on tour with his band, <a href="http://www.myspace.com/ayria"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Ayria</span></a>, so I shot them. I checked out the link just now. It's kind of like light industry meets Romeo Void. Not my style musically, but they can make music, and I think it's fucking great they're on the road making it happen. Next stop for them is Milwaukee. I can't really imagine what it takes to be in a band. As a writer, I have enough problems dealing with myself. They seemed like a cool trio.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaQ8vhXOX9TzuPZnNVdgTGuZdxUIcUqiJKFfoupHAgAQlj18bnGt-hqOPaJ7oqMKbQ0fXy5-ChTwgAq5WB6Erf5S9E3opvFQiNrI8pi_1iaJZjgP45KCfxm4vibTO4FmfSfh86D6fN7VFv/s1600-h/006.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaQ8vhXOX9TzuPZnNVdgTGuZdxUIcUqiJKFfoupHAgAQlj18bnGt-hqOPaJ7oqMKbQ0fXy5-ChTwgAq5WB6Erf5S9E3opvFQiNrI8pi_1iaJZjgP45KCfxm4vibTO4FmfSfh86D6fN7VFv/s200/006.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355883189206734194" border="0" /></a><br />The storm came. There's something almost charming about the rain in Portland, or I think there is compared to the rain out here. Out here it's fatter and heavier and you don't walk around in it.<br /><br />Back upstairs I sit here behind the computer. I'm bored as shit, so I'm going to upload some random photos from the tour.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP0vSP68KC9k39GbW1xsPiqCkVjFa9MvXtTEayvsJ0NiPypJHTayMmoWOgNupwQMyJiFMRRQR2WJELvuBnRj3nk_bC2alFhCmYIjK497hdEravrNsr0FNzq1mwC6EqIJOgNjEaUluvqDXt/s1600-h/059.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 52px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP0vSP68KC9k39GbW1xsPiqCkVjFa9MvXtTEayvsJ0NiPypJHTayMmoWOgNupwQMyJiFMRRQR2WJELvuBnRj3nk_bC2alFhCmYIjK497hdEravrNsr0FNzq1mwC6EqIJOgNjEaUluvqDXt/s200/059.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355887623704950674" border="0" /></a> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4wA679kEKA37siwP-kS9oy18BYpZ3iNxmP-cAKVkFqfXfbsVQo_Lf5DWfhxMnFXoSycj4a_At9t4epNsqV63Gxr-arjvvLPLddjJwB6uhJzAgSF1cG49eezql9ZjqR2IsJcbiIhTkc-Qy/s1600-h/078.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; 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width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-6Qzyq5qb8KweLxvlT8nVzKer2p0MhzEc4HyhMwJ3bF9Ez2eqKWyMyRolq1y2k1bKcKTwfg-i5GRUSNVGAfi5WUXW3D5oAwdxPXu1quGKQbpNXbRdapCUDgxECoJGRm6GVD7ivP0u1oZ5/s200/080.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355889346867028594" border="0" /></a> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYA-iY1wdnkak3myMONCK0xxD4B0rRvmN9Emu-PD51_R1yp78-YyOgrheDSw9809jCoroRqZS3gHzs-xJkqhVt05ViWep2T85V7jiQPlkryWDtISaFKq6dLg1p1vP5FzgVh1mkcRdWMbMd/s1600-h/007.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYA-iY1wdnkak3myMONCK0xxD4B0rRvmN9Emu-PD51_R1yp78-YyOgrheDSw9809jCoroRqZS3gHzs-xJkqhVt05ViWep2T85V7jiQPlkryWDtISaFKq6dLg1p1vP5FzgVh1mkcRdWMbMd/s200/007.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355891692194658226" border="0" /></a> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe0m3Y9F9MJ7FVHgTsDaM_AuSkJDguidooCgzVUbYtRNEyKHA1HF3SKMvh0yWJL-XHiNsr9IYebEIIk83hxfadZh2Elwiq-pNONI_DcThwQaotFMKK477WeIHIch6oKfAvcVcnBsu9Of41/s1600-h/247.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe0m3Y9F9MJ7FVHgTsDaM_AuSkJDguidooCgzVUbYtRNEyKHA1HF3SKMvh0yWJL-XHiNsr9IYebEIIk83hxfadZh2Elwiq-pNONI_DcThwQaotFMKK477WeIHIch6oKfAvcVcnBsu9Of41/s200/247.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355891691136707826" border="0" /></a><span style="text-decoration: underline;"> </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilaj_Vv6D2Ti0Kc8gDyeG0mtKqDsFgaXLYDJGSGnxLcVv4jTr5TGvM19sNc39A2EOOv3OMry874hofyRlp5mL8-8U_lM6ZXdj6zN5vLjxgED2B03cYl_KLrJRtl42xP81vroFAtHrCnSH5/s1600-h/235.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilaj_Vv6D2Ti0Kc8gDyeG0mtKqDsFgaXLYDJGSGnxLcVv4jTr5TGvM19sNc39A2EOOv3OMry874hofyRlp5mL8-8U_lM6ZXdj6zN5vLjxgED2B03cYl_KLrJRtl42xP81vroFAtHrCnSH5/s200/235.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355891679900108098" border="0" /></a><br /><br /> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_cCONT6fFfGk3H86PZgTA17WzXeCrSCWk0eQa-I7ImNwmDOWS-P9Q9wMN-VpfL77iWUkJ_bjdUT9bjcpV6VBO8EpCII_CfuB4UaJS8nFjttJe3katiVvg78TDFdQsO3cplk46sjPX5bJ-/s1600-h/006+%282%29.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_cCONT6fFfGk3H86PZgTA17WzXeCrSCWk0eQa-I7ImNwmDOWS-P9Q9wMN-VpfL77iWUkJ_bjdUT9bjcpV6VBO8EpCII_CfuB4UaJS8nFjttJe3katiVvg78TDFdQsO3cplk46sjPX5bJ-/s400/006+%282%29.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355893186405035650" border="0" /></a>Book Meets Roadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15751274788020109646noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4743190027280135110.post-76039651569739817242009-07-07T08:56:00.000-07:002009-07-07T16:23:09.205-07:00Chapter 10<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYh1czXewBIKx_V__HQIRtQI-rsaRAPRafiOnilfyPex4Gv6Px7a4COjCpaKIuFCA2xEkv1wjo7NRlC9xPdZwu0vUHoHV-7YmRpdSy9POW98KCE95YXUTsnxM2QzEUUGC96JOnc8X6ByqR/s1600-h/025.JPG"> </a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYh1czXewBIKx_V__HQIRtQI-rsaRAPRafiOnilfyPex4Gv6Px7a4COjCpaKIuFCA2xEkv1wjo7NRlC9xPdZwu0vUHoHV-7YmRpdSy9POW98KCE95YXUTsnxM2QzEUUGC96JOnc8X6ByqR/s1600-h/025.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYh1czXewBIKx_V__HQIRtQI-rsaRAPRafiOnilfyPex4Gv6Px7a4COjCpaKIuFCA2xEkv1wjo7NRlC9xPdZwu0vUHoHV-7YmRpdSy9POW98KCE95YXUTsnxM2QzEUUGC96JOnc8X6ByqR/s200/025.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355749814166053058" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYh1czXewBIKx_V__HQIRtQI-rsaRAPRafiOnilfyPex4Gv6Px7a4COjCpaKIuFCA2xEkv1wjo7NRlC9xPdZwu0vUHoHV-7YmRpdSy9POW98KCE95YXUTsnxM2QzEUUGC96JOnc8X6ByqR/s1600-h/025.JPG"> </a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgyn_e3dzDQfcMbxBiTTDHVi17xd6IJBPtB1p4lvuctHS8yUuCiYWUVUgAlDa0_L46g5dO9nAwdnUkpICnUHlbZ0rsqBYXEBRJiQ7RvHTC7D0Z2Xjda91iN4yES62eD9szMcg1XVyJoDOo/s1600-h/060.JPG"> </a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgyn_e3dzDQfcMbxBiTTDHVi17xd6IJBPtB1p4lvuctHS8yUuCiYWUVUgAlDa0_L46g5dO9nAwdnUkpICnUHlbZ0rsqBYXEBRJiQ7RvHTC7D0Z2Xjda91iN4yES62eD9szMcg1XVyJoDOo/s1600-h/060.JPG"> </a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgyn_e3dzDQfcMbxBiTTDHVi17xd6IJBPtB1p4lvuctHS8yUuCiYWUVUgAlDa0_L46g5dO9nAwdnUkpICnUHlbZ0rsqBYXEBRJiQ7RvHTC7D0Z2Xjda91iN4yES62eD9szMcg1XVyJoDOo/s1600-h/060.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgyn_e3dzDQfcMbxBiTTDHVi17xd6IJBPtB1p4lvuctHS8yUuCiYWUVUgAlDa0_L46g5dO9nAwdnUkpICnUHlbZ0rsqBYXEBRJiQ7RvHTC7D0Z2Xjda91iN4yES62eD9szMcg1XVyJoDOo/s200/060.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355768346862088226" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgyn_e3dzDQfcMbxBiTTDHVi17xd6IJBPtB1p4lvuctHS8yUuCiYWUVUgAlDa0_L46g5dO9nAwdnUkpICnUHlbZ0rsqBYXEBRJiQ7RvHTC7D0Z2Xjda91iN4yES62eD9szMcg1XVyJoDOo/s1600-h/060.JPG"> </a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdLXXs7zNjljGEEF8Ex-J0K5UqYwT5v6JLd4wdVI-jvYqnumazFvmaeOowltBcMaaUoeM4Q7rOarstwwpSq1D71YtNbUzsOQezVzHM-mlnUBb2cTNL5N1vMP5rlE_VyCOP0kuD_2Dvuqxx/s1600-h/096.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdLXXs7zNjljGEEF8Ex-J0K5UqYwT5v6JLd4wdVI-jvYqnumazFvmaeOowltBcMaaUoeM4Q7rOarstwwpSq1D71YtNbUzsOQezVzHM-mlnUBb2cTNL5N1vMP5rlE_VyCOP0kuD_2Dvuqxx/s200/096.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355748724633015250" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPKXaamAQ-Wq4LcQWccT747Q42J0h2OD_-t2JR7xgULW7HVk5iANNpVeXuDPhxkda5TuoaCveu0kWzGHk8ToSRGJbJ3IPBAe-SgZwy_ltjGkE75XfEfU5NKbTs9mhSD_4hVA2_J8IwWcxp/s1600-h/090.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPKXaamAQ-Wq4LcQWccT747Q42J0h2OD_-t2JR7xgULW7HVk5iANNpVeXuDPhxkda5TuoaCveu0kWzGHk8ToSRGJbJ3IPBAe-SgZwy_ltjGkE75XfEfU5NKbTs9mhSD_4hVA2_J8IwWcxp/s200/090.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355748029765236050" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinbuXXz7rsFDcP6vSX5O9NycERo_7NLy2kcJbSquqLzCQhcWXjmrbSj8C-ONj2XC1gUDXaT4sPJ7TYU5wC7qX8WOdpu_0kbtTdexn8TYnJIuqkUVK73zYrdYH1or5knGkRNRkpLUObXxyF/s1600-h/015.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinbuXXz7rsFDcP6vSX5O9NycERo_7NLy2kcJbSquqLzCQhcWXjmrbSj8C-ONj2XC1gUDXaT4sPJ7TYU5wC7qX8WOdpu_0kbtTdexn8TYnJIuqkUVK73zYrdYH1or5knGkRNRkpLUObXxyF/s200/015.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355786741495994530" border="0" /></a><br />I walked Phillips in downtown Sioux Falls one last time and took photos. The 4<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">th</span> of July was spent in the clubhouse and backyard in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Wakonda</span>, where we watched fireworks and talked about crimes after dark in the small towns around the southern parts. One in particular tugged at me, the murder of a young woman who was left to die in a ditch. I wasn't drinking that night, because I had to drive 2 states the next day.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCiCO_55MKJUoKkM5G62c49ZOZEEsNzONyC9BeT9gxuvsGKxDscTfEp9lxrpLsKzLX2FlfHrTv7_4-oC8TwAUBtw0umI9gLUIg-JNjYmN36MDiVwonU1d95K7KYHd1Ctr5V_ENMKJ1B6Js/s1600-h/070.JPG"> </a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8wyJ3Ni3fTjjGGQl8WrxiQicF3XRc6lG_a415vos4qhykB2PC2WPzdY1TxsQ4NAKQqEP7iB1H9HFKcGD8JM3Dn_pl3cobXNInOKgnZeCFoNgS4YPxs2atdV8-JF8XD5D2ebPJyrkTeFkm/s1600-h/065.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8wyJ3Ni3fTjjGGQl8WrxiQicF3XRc6lG_a415vos4qhykB2PC2WPzdY1TxsQ4NAKQqEP7iB1H9HFKcGD8JM3Dn_pl3cobXNInOKgnZeCFoNgS4YPxs2atdV8-JF8XD5D2ebPJyrkTeFkm/s200/065.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355768353362021906" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCiCO_55MKJUoKkM5G62c49ZOZEEsNzONyC9BeT9gxuvsGKxDscTfEp9lxrpLsKzLX2FlfHrTv7_4-oC8TwAUBtw0umI9gLUIg-JNjYmN36MDiVwonU1d95K7KYHd1Ctr5V_ENMKJ1B6Js/s1600-h/070.JPG"> </a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHrYg5KliC6mnJXLaRNOLqc4pypxPb6Q3xO1rMsnUmijEnDm77hiwPO1wDeKGmewcj-6O3I8wJbvYhlpjH-sLvSiswn166J-BgB1HSU5YStqseNvgNOIvYZ-Uv0KiT8Hp1_qTQeoIwdPtD/s1600-h/013.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHrYg5KliC6mnJXLaRNOLqc4pypxPb6Q3xO1rMsnUmijEnDm77hiwPO1wDeKGmewcj-6O3I8wJbvYhlpjH-sLvSiswn166J-BgB1HSU5YStqseNvgNOIvYZ-Uv0KiT8Hp1_qTQeoIwdPtD/s200/013.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355754777880707090" border="0" /></a><span style="text-decoration: underline;"> </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW4T6aA1MfbgIn8xDPUuWEoSWVLHR61LXBO_NfnYGv28h_2QPGVoLsVoG-YJr3jsWQzAqAOYkVLm-1N8xbsNdqmu3kseCxitegYngZL84c8nm3eDEfXoFyfuIby5YnluxuG0Yf9m0AIjBf/s1600-h/033.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW4T6aA1MfbgIn8xDPUuWEoSWVLHR61LXBO_NfnYGv28h_2QPGVoLsVoG-YJr3jsWQzAqAOYkVLm-1N8xbsNdqmu3kseCxitegYngZL84c8nm3eDEfXoFyfuIby5YnluxuG0Yf9m0AIjBf/s200/033.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355786745872504866" border="0" /></a><br />I was sitting in the hotel this morning in Iowa, thinking about how I never mentioned seeing Mt. Rushmore here on Book Meets Road. I meant to write about it, about the weird feeling I got when I saw it, like this feeling of pride, and it challenged my perceptions of how I feel about the states. During all of my time going back and forth across the country, I had never seen Rushmore, because I had either taken 80 across or it was dark when I took 90.<br />But driving up the road that goes to Mt. Rushmore, you don't see anything until you round a certain curve, then you see Washington's head staring off into space, and it's fucking <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">trippy</span>. For me it was a big deal because I had never noticed the work involved. I sat there in the van just inside of the security gate, which I had to exit because there are no dogs allowed, and I looked up at the mountain and thought about exactly how much work was there, the hours and days blending to months blending to years. I talked with the security <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">guard</span> for a minute. I wondered about his job. I mean, high echelon meets low echelon. But driving away from the monument, I thought that if I absolutely had to be a fucking security guard, I'd work at a place like Rushmore. There or the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">AVI</span> awards. <br /><br /><br />.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPDqQ1G6mNpZddb7TzQuoIEJ2roNJ-ZhOVedoYNO0dYRHBW5-YKDxeSdd29rCnMvcI8Tu6tpqLLx9pjYLhew18Z-D9cnOP1q0HRhRmEy0EjvrE9vu_J-c6HVHaINoju3Jlas4z-L8VyM3I/s1600-h/027.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPDqQ1G6mNpZddb7TzQuoIEJ2roNJ-ZhOVedoYNO0dYRHBW5-YKDxeSdd29rCnMvcI8Tu6tpqLLx9pjYLhew18Z-D9cnOP1q0HRhRmEy0EjvrE9vu_J-c6HVHaINoju3Jlas4z-L8VyM3I/s200/027.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355755820540793282" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwQkigf6aLowHDVggOirX59CbW4jHD6BePOny4CH0PSpD5KcVj55Qpoz5idtHwDm2Jh6FdRph-KLCySJMD3xc8oyDBsct2u6YqIuZnYc7V15W2S3jEDJATMvw704Ukg45dTJPA0XTw6Hyk/s1600-h/024.JPG"> </a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwQkigf6aLowHDVggOirX59CbW4jHD6BePOny4CH0PSpD5KcVj55Qpoz5idtHwDm2Jh6FdRph-KLCySJMD3xc8oyDBsct2u6YqIuZnYc7V15W2S3jEDJATMvw704Ukg45dTJPA0XTw6Hyk/s1600-h/024.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwQkigf6aLowHDVggOirX59CbW4jHD6BePOny4CH0PSpD5KcVj55Qpoz5idtHwDm2Jh6FdRph-KLCySJMD3xc8oyDBsct2u6YqIuZnYc7V15W2S3jEDJATMvw704Ukg45dTJPA0XTw6Hyk/s200/024.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355755812415062690" border="0" /></a> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQEykriNoCeIsq6DWqxj91qx1f5as2_ZCvOTZyhLdH9CY2lpKfcZKcvlpHGpVIbyYjh7UdBUbmOl9Rg-Qgrnsb61dmrVkSTRqk88z9j5nsEfomt-qWcMZg7M_1O5-DWyDoVVqAStit1SEn/s1600-h/020.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQEykriNoCeIsq6DWqxj91qx1f5as2_ZCvOTZyhLdH9CY2lpKfcZKcvlpHGpVIbyYjh7UdBUbmOl9Rg-Qgrnsb61dmrVkSTRqk88z9j5nsEfomt-qWcMZg7M_1O5-DWyDoVVqAStit1SEn/s200/020.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355755829312612866" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />The downtown library was closed, but I stopped off at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Zambroz</span> and they took two books off me, as well as some people I bumped into along the way.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVzMvomHWE_cWpCkEPETT5YsmftRBlCDyUstjz2JrU1ZFCOYzU0cBohg6H_gljKqjAL9cp43n9UfOQ7pBDLWCIo8aS4soL4ddeE3nAg7wrrava_jaIbdZWqJdT4TLZ9UarsmjrXhcby4c7/s1600-h/006.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVzMvomHWE_cWpCkEPETT5YsmftRBlCDyUstjz2JrU1ZFCOYzU0cBohg6H_gljKqjAL9cp43n9UfOQ7pBDLWCIo8aS4soL4ddeE3nAg7wrrava_jaIbdZWqJdT4TLZ9UarsmjrXhcby4c7/s200/006.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355764748826542690" border="0" /></a> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0nEe3nE9obEmC2D3qZ5rOQobi5MmSf9EozJtFTVGwNSMUv1BhFgcuAC2GMUXt8Vln3KF_rjvG7vE_pPdUCl_SvkEhVZuZX1PX6v6nthsQuGb-ZjsKiz8ZTqPyhenVYSslyKcK-QDbDDA6/s1600-h/007.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0nEe3nE9obEmC2D3qZ5rOQobi5MmSf9EozJtFTVGwNSMUv1BhFgcuAC2GMUXt8Vln3KF_rjvG7vE_pPdUCl_SvkEhVZuZX1PX6v6nthsQuGb-ZjsKiz8ZTqPyhenVYSslyKcK-QDbDDA6/s200/007.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355755809152867218" border="0" /></a> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXpoI8IZV9dZwD7rOu_XQpJ5-MlzLVeku3C_TzjMzs4bdaZtMx8yfd7FW6QNWQqb36B62jmhPzi8pcXjTYLCi9DHgTMoqYh4nuVejt7u5uQvWQEDND2OhUZOuZeUM36y4idicEI5KtSGds/s1600-h/017.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXpoI8IZV9dZwD7rOu_XQpJ5-MlzLVeku3C_TzjMzs4bdaZtMx8yfd7FW6QNWQqb36B62jmhPzi8pcXjTYLCi9DHgTMoqYh4nuVejt7u5uQvWQEDND2OhUZOuZeUM36y4idicEI5KtSGds/s200/017.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355755800627828098" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNTbo2AGFvBunSj1JPeCbq0i4Jy9SvpIzzi7BD5uLyNv2IpSZlS7PcloGeKgqZZKoXLjvBKsZRGzGWsWY6Frvh7btjzoCUPq89B5cLU4tQbZMwUEUZseO3Z3pxAdcYo0dSXg5C-88cF9oB/s1600-h/003.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNTbo2AGFvBunSj1JPeCbq0i4Jy9SvpIzzi7BD5uLyNv2IpSZlS7PcloGeKgqZZKoXLjvBKsZRGzGWsWY6Frvh7btjzoCUPq89B5cLU4tQbZMwUEUZseO3Z3pxAdcYo0dSXg5C-88cF9oB/s200/003.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355749795852200642" border="0" /></a> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis3hUhpiK9FW-oQ9vkp_Ke6RXFpuHyb6vWQkAHrt8BM9M4BEmHIsfrcdZgwF8yBLPC5pUoISjTijvg0Pyorsp8rlxrWoA4Z0y3G8frL1TruzhlAYDEzOTh_HFJMcoU09dr4NiXvLrpi2Uk/s1600-h/004.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis3hUhpiK9FW-oQ9vkp_Ke6RXFpuHyb6vWQkAHrt8BM9M4BEmHIsfrcdZgwF8yBLPC5pUoISjTijvg0Pyorsp8rlxrWoA4Z0y3G8frL1TruzhlAYDEzOTh_HFJMcoU09dr4NiXvLrpi2Uk/s200/004.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355786755194610466" border="0" /></a> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifRb0cr6WMnX7GK7emDyzynRi4zOpV7SWX_twLAfTrFTA1-5oR4GCDXIhHLmlag-jmcoIZig_Wcj-cHBQ3IVXbsr3xfvU37if4G9NqyRBdepg4Wz85rYRmrb2j0xHyvnpEfKeydpy2ZEEr/s1600-h/010.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifRb0cr6WMnX7GK7emDyzynRi4zOpV7SWX_twLAfTrFTA1-5oR4GCDXIhHLmlag-jmcoIZig_Wcj-cHBQ3IVXbsr3xfvU37if4G9NqyRBdepg4Wz85rYRmrb2j0xHyvnpEfKeydpy2ZEEr/s200/010.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355786760763836642" border="0" /></a> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiubrjAxD2qxRc1Is0qpF8QhXk6dn2eg_QZBhr4_5iMvqTk2r4g2m67qdJ86mWZooNh0prNEeMozjoV8VkRUsjuCzGdwR7SK4RvcMDlil5KTaCuEXvDJekA3yN3jr4s2jEPMEC-x2zs6964/s1600-h/029.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiubrjAxD2qxRc1Is0qpF8QhXk6dn2eg_QZBhr4_5iMvqTk2r4g2m67qdJ86mWZooNh0prNEeMozjoV8VkRUsjuCzGdwR7SK4RvcMDlil5KTaCuEXvDJekA3yN3jr4s2jEPMEC-x2zs6964/s200/029.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355790760890482178" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />One thing about this tour that I like is that it forces me to be more outward around people. When it comes to my writing I like to keep it to a minimum. When it comes to selling your writing and the writing of others for a living, it can't be so private. The trick is to talk about the product side of the work, not the mechanics and other such bullshit. I've found that people want to buy books from a writer, which is fine with me. And it's given me the chance to meet some good people. <a href="http://silent-migration.artician.com/">Michael Hay</a> and the Sioux Falls crew come to mind. Another bonus about doing the tour is the chain of small towns, the rawness of them, the total separation from rush hour. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiihNEI20HTf0NDNrZwHPTJv4Uut21SY_w_4CuQaNctVlq7w8654nc5hyphenhyphen0nsM26H0E9tteizCCdIwtHVWHnkHYYab9H0iOolSJGnLUU3zMAyhzc_jjQmWQzlJS_jSlaS-JlyeRLWgXQjBlV/s1600-h/035.JPG"> </a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiihNEI20HTf0NDNrZwHPTJv4Uut21SY_w_4CuQaNctVlq7w8654nc5hyphenhyphen0nsM26H0E9tteizCCdIwtHVWHnkHYYab9H0iOolSJGnLUU3zMAyhzc_jjQmWQzlJS_jSlaS-JlyeRLWgXQjBlV/s1600-h/035.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiihNEI20HTf0NDNrZwHPTJv4Uut21SY_w_4CuQaNctVlq7w8654nc5hyphenhyphen0nsM26H0E9tteizCCdIwtHVWHnkHYYab9H0iOolSJGnLUU3zMAyhzc_jjQmWQzlJS_jSlaS-JlyeRLWgXQjBlV/s200/035.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355749038039421362" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEyEXjFkPBEDhdGZdsz35dRbsaSVk5HcxEcoOz2OhpYwtuiu5qH740jKh9U23TujHyuOxAoPkMN-jQz8d2SbsQm-u6V3zPd8T-G5zkirDEYyMUd1qfOAsqzl8m9RcYoVYT2CTfZprIdMJK/s1600-h/045.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEyEXjFkPBEDhdGZdsz35dRbsaSVk5HcxEcoOz2OhpYwtuiu5qH740jKh9U23TujHyuOxAoPkMN-jQz8d2SbsQm-u6V3zPd8T-G5zkirDEYyMUd1qfOAsqzl8m9RcYoVYT2CTfZprIdMJK/s200/045.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355754797341121042" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiihNEI20HTf0NDNrZwHPTJv4Uut21SY_w_4CuQaNctVlq7w8654nc5hyphenhyphen0nsM26H0E9tteizCCdIwtHVWHnkHYYab9H0iOolSJGnLUU3zMAyhzc_jjQmWQzlJS_jSlaS-JlyeRLWgXQjBlV/s1600-h/035.JPG"> </a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghQVECf0ZU47RYjwQRCIPrRlH7iBmsLQyIqVRphyphenhyphenGEI9dtj_t2F9IqCAxTdw9pPt4d6Jj1ciqODq7E3hnOEAxY-G26MySYo7Ax-cEkhYGJ6_cuZJ9Pk-SDS8kcSLCWmM_uR1nrrl9ywoPM/s1600-h/031.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghQVECf0ZU47RYjwQRCIPrRlH7iBmsLQyIqVRphyphenhyphenGEI9dtj_t2F9IqCAxTdw9pPt4d6Jj1ciqODq7E3hnOEAxY-G26MySYo7Ax-cEkhYGJ6_cuZJ9Pk-SDS8kcSLCWmM_uR1nrrl9ywoPM/s200/031.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355754802365342754" border="0" /></a><span style="text-decoration: underline;"> </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUo7-9QDVyEEcLxXy_HIPqkygNoR0DH8IUlXqm948q10ExwDsn_g5SCpuGt1TNTdXij3VuVRM4Xz_IGFK5yFHyjRNSBXb_X_Aa7cFsuj0ecj7A-c0GO3UZ_auSnVrIzLvp7sYC00vdL0S8/s1600-h/021.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUo7-9QDVyEEcLxXy_HIPqkygNoR0DH8IUlXqm948q10ExwDsn_g5SCpuGt1TNTdXij3VuVRM4Xz_IGFK5yFHyjRNSBXb_X_Aa7cFsuj0ecj7A-c0GO3UZ_auSnVrIzLvp7sYC00vdL0S8/s200/021.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355754791215211298" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span><br />I spent a few days in total driving the fields and towns along the small state routes. It's weird to me that in one town everyone knows everyone else, knows their business, their weaknesses, their day to day life in detail. It would drive me insane, but after a while I'd probably get used to it, then it would be weird to be in a city where nobody says shit to each other...<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtYl2VxjN94-ZMGzqhi8W72a_HQhOPp7utgM0JPqiVMi8OikHK2tZ2YgaZP8tx0cfk1yi-Hwjw5pf4w9QKo7P_unpL-3aTiFhYxX2bmmg-cAka-dpdFmP3ubziNzoAwUxizDedrwLYLI6N/s1600-h/002.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtYl2VxjN94-ZMGzqhi8W72a_HQhOPp7utgM0JPqiVMi8OikHK2tZ2YgaZP8tx0cfk1yi-Hwjw5pf4w9QKo7P_unpL-3aTiFhYxX2bmmg-cAka-dpdFmP3ubziNzoAwUxizDedrwLYLI6N/s200/002.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355768341239832642" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2pIa9UDuZJRKiAUxycUl2dHwtujQOdCJiV6rw8LBxgdv1dJIwRgJzzATMU34Td_n3-2zbrfUBROKGehvlo8Fy9Xdr0VEMIaWNzc9yyA1gLSMupfmcGRdVfop3mzOgIQiFH511i_TqZv_w/s1600-h/012.JPG"> <img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2pIa9UDuZJRKiAUxycUl2dHwtujQOdCJiV6rw8LBxgdv1dJIwRgJzzATMU34Td_n3-2zbrfUBROKGehvlo8Fy9Xdr0VEMIaWNzc9yyA1gLSMupfmcGRdVfop3mzOgIQiFH511i_TqZv_w/s200/012.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355754784625061474" border="0" /></a> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-s_UmqZ47wBrwnwLj92-o0mZYwsE2ipYvtMNirIdWB8plcpZDJP771Z3RU0rftltxE8cbtXfyfGT77ZYHn1P3BIrbxkViIn1ixtUaMeh5uG5lmNmeAAHiJDoFxJHvjXCQripNJC-WoQso/s1600-h/008.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-s_UmqZ47wBrwnwLj92-o0mZYwsE2ipYvtMNirIdWB8plcpZDJP771Z3RU0rftltxE8cbtXfyfGT77ZYHn1P3BIrbxkViIn1ixtUaMeh5uG5lmNmeAAHiJDoFxJHvjXCQripNJC-WoQso/s200/008.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355749812051781090" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilxCwP7-UaNbLqAcNz6QVscntSSaNWCKxPKHbJNTD148-vWAVzIWjF9MSZm58HqoCU_ZtovPc93_P6UOPQ-JcZGOuX3mrQ-eqZ3bmfD0ytoUTIRQHAjQHWad6qKDnaL5VyQK55mW_RxPko/s1600-h/005.JPG"> </a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilxCwP7-UaNbLqAcNz6QVscntSSaNWCKxPKHbJNTD148-vWAVzIWjF9MSZm58HqoCU_ZtovPc93_P6UOPQ-JcZGOuX3mrQ-eqZ3bmfD0ytoUTIRQHAjQHWad6qKDnaL5VyQK55mW_RxPko/s1600-h/005.JPG"> </a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMXDSZOTlQ8pfxTEFMv0PLgEmHcTrq5HMjBSavKVnO2ZgNXBRhgn9vu021zI8mLXcStryhnwK44-V4M8irTA4GbBjeya1OAekDjuXS0KN8UHe8sI_unpB2RnqrQtLyryCGewja6KJXEeuc/s1600-h/086.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMXDSZOTlQ8pfxTEFMv0PLgEmHcTrq5HMjBSavKVnO2ZgNXBRhgn9vu021zI8mLXcStryhnwK44-V4M8irTA4GbBjeya1OAekDjuXS0KN8UHe8sI_unpB2RnqrQtLyryCGewja6KJXEeuc/s200/086.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355790750366945394" border="0" /></a> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiprvqC8uas5E2tETJixi2tlDg3trwhwat9gMPONPis5IsPa1XOfcY6YSgIQiapFf_Y-1oXZIL2AhN_aCInFVkXqxKKl3tX2W5oKd473maFS2tv4bMzb3umQX3SOJSkt1P_J3hHfJpKkqt/s1600-h/009.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiprvqC8uas5E2tETJixi2tlDg3trwhwat9gMPONPis5IsPa1XOfcY6YSgIQiapFf_Y-1oXZIL2AhN_aCInFVkXqxKKl3tX2W5oKd473maFS2tv4bMzb3umQX3SOJSkt1P_J3hHfJpKkqt/s200/009.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355790773142454082" border="0" /></a> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCWPYNJUD-W_htEuHXZ0Dy4zx7vE3nU3BV6Hpg15JYwYMfZ0rAWW8g1vb41-F07VRdFEzplemdzbGKEqTNm9iDC3VtBYS_C-wsDiBNrsXYxbWMolbEKzQdz2bQdoV_KGKTZIxGjG7_cSfH/s1600-h/093.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCWPYNJUD-W_htEuHXZ0Dy4zx7vE3nU3BV6Hpg15JYwYMfZ0rAWW8g1vb41-F07VRdFEzplemdzbGKEqTNm9iDC3VtBYS_C-wsDiBNrsXYxbWMolbEKzQdz2bQdoV_KGKTZIxGjG7_cSfH/s200/093.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355790768739610786" border="0" /></a><br />I drove into Iowa, bound for Illinois, to see my family. Been 5 years since I've been to Peoria, and my sister and the girls are in town from Phoenix. I was driving thinking about how my lucky number is 16, how I was born in Peoria, grew up in Phoenix, and lived in Portland. P is the 16<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">th</span> letter in the alphabet. I was thinking about the number 16, and how I'd peaked in the fourth grade. Soccer number 16, homeroom number 16, my birthday falls on the 16<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">th</span> in the fall, and I had won a ping pong tournament there that summer. I was thinking about how it was kind of lame that I had my best year in the fourth grade, but then I laughed a bit at the thought, when my van let out a snap and the dogs and I were covered in white smoke. The needle was buried on the hot side. I pulled into a gas station off exit 220 and popped the hood. It was Sunday at 7 pm, and the only thing I could see was a hotel and a strip mall. I walked inside the station and asked for a phone book.Book Meets Roadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15751274788020109646noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4743190027280135110.post-47479886555714804362009-07-02T13:48:00.000-07:002009-07-02T21:13:29.356-07:00Chapter 9<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwkeU8FCSwl41GMlakYiMklwMcjqUfDoroa9RSYtptLCRe9j9OIt3z-c_OhWZjWB-96uojn0CvT5G7ZntS-duFNC__VAh_xEfI67Qq2WXGmhqIxJT1Ss7Sp6sMrlNxc4OA5SVNzvdDdQIn/s1600-h/qc2.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwkeU8FCSwl41GMlakYiMklwMcjqUfDoroa9RSYtptLCRe9j9OIt3z-c_OhWZjWB-96uojn0CvT5G7ZntS-duFNC__VAh_xEfI67Qq2WXGmhqIxJT1Ss7Sp6sMrlNxc4OA5SVNzvdDdQIn/s200/qc2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353985159382620466" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWzz-R1kEvcJxdV7N-SyIwYqPrp9f8BflNsv9VKw47qzYER8jG0qQ3EhPR65v_y2Un0f-dH88yG8eGMp614vOJVKWa9SkaJ9qqlYj_XM5oTJI5wLDFAzHZqszqzDFj4rNFLRFkfntgO1O0/s1600-h/005.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWzz-R1kEvcJxdV7N-SyIwYqPrp9f8BflNsv9VKw47qzYER8jG0qQ3EhPR65v_y2Un0f-dH88yG8eGMp614vOJVKWa9SkaJ9qqlYj_XM5oTJI5wLDFAzHZqszqzDFj4rNFLRFkfntgO1O0/s200/005.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353985148535334706" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMhWwKhzWE-Tf99x3TQxy8a9EBjt0mqZqkudyBPLi5tXrzGFgOiCQVJKVKWHZ0yj4GmX4NNkU7cLSsYBE2x7CVA2qJ0dukU52F0dKNqpkYrrmNODXlwNJdG37_PiyNil2vmYOycz8SD4nZ/s1600-h/006.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMhWwKhzWE-Tf99x3TQxy8a9EBjt0mqZqkudyBPLi5tXrzGFgOiCQVJKVKWHZ0yj4GmX4NNkU7cLSsYBE2x7CVA2qJ0dukU52F0dKNqpkYrrmNODXlwNJdG37_PiyNil2vmYOycz8SD4nZ/s320/006.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353983052824189618" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfoU71x96UhIJ7IWCBa3COh2qfzo8Fe1ys0lRrL6-zqbU0UQYNPTk50pQGP9Fu20Wl2N-S2-Qoxy2rsn79n8VopUxH1FAMpSDF4pp0ckB9W_VRt4BH5Lg7tYVjaLnnmIwUoVP2SZeDUzHV/s1600-h/074.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfoU71x96UhIJ7IWCBa3COh2qfzo8Fe1ys0lRrL6-zqbU0UQYNPTk50pQGP9Fu20Wl2N-S2-Qoxy2rsn79n8VopUxH1FAMpSDF4pp0ckB9W_VRt4BH5Lg7tYVjaLnnmIwUoVP2SZeDUzHV/s320/074.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353973494390001218" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='316' height='262' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwTV4LrgptnXCfk2MvrP-nuMZ9K2rnPNyzXvwZLn2jb_VQPYKHBzqoy8cQBj1JuhLGPIrc8Xg1iW3DHSaNvbg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe> <br />I sat in<a href="http://wwwqueencitybakery.com/"> Q</a><a href="http://wwwqueencitybakery.com/">ueen </a><a href="http://wwwqueencitybakery.com/">Cit</a><a href="http://wwwqueencitybakery.com/">y </a><a href="http://www.queencitycafe.com/">Bakery </a>and did a long audio interview with <a href="http://pickfresh.com/">Ted Heeren</a>, easily one of the most likable people I have met, and also a<a href="http://www.argusleader.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=2009907020333"> local radio evolutionar</a><a href="http://www.argusleader.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=2009907020333">y</a>. The layout of the bakery shocked me a bit when I first walked in, as I was used to the small cafes and diners of rural South Dakota. Screen doors and flies and sweat, dog bowls and bare feet and good fried food. But it's the working of dials. I met <a href="http://www.flyastronaut.com/">Greg Veerman</a> through <a href="http://www.ladywasteland.com/">Mark Roush</a> back in Portland. Greg introduced me to Ted and a week later we're talking about radio, literature and corn country. The day before, I sold a title each to the<a href="http://vpl.sdln.net/"> Vermillion Public Library</a>, which is always the highest form of marketing for me. There is something so goddamn holy about a library carrying your novel. It is surreal and bright to the core.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXXsHYcgk2yZRM5Rg9TOKc3OjCkDBjsBcqHL5sAhhu7JwrMX5oKNVHZ4_orMg7aa7VNGKtwyUXSurI_KrIKSdBM_SVIuS5v1DgwFQsbBgNMP8j2-1jBzqlvbEK54rn4OzcSyhbryHhNh4e/s1600-h/099.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXXsHYcgk2yZRM5Rg9TOKc3OjCkDBjsBcqHL5sAhhu7JwrMX5oKNVHZ4_orMg7aa7VNGKtwyUXSurI_KrIKSdBM_SVIuS5v1DgwFQsbBgNMP8j2-1jBzqlvbEK54rn4OzcSyhbryHhNh4e/s200/099.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353976995337153570" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBjoI_j62rZxS6OMLOj6mgcqi5bif2Bl06QTUIibc4WWsVYICCp2kGyBi48OZCshaBfkRHJY1rE4Zbfna0C_LQ4hGEmfAevglQg_Qg_zoXzmcCzlgBb2Ry4O9qJONxnIIQLKBISyktrJZr/s1600-h/098.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBjoI_j62rZxS6OMLOj6mgcqi5bif2Bl06QTUIibc4WWsVYICCp2kGyBi48OZCshaBfkRHJY1rE4Zbfna0C_LQ4hGEmfAevglQg_Qg_zoXzmcCzlgBb2Ry4O9qJONxnIIQLKBISyktrJZr/s200/098.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353976987038057554" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I drove through the center of Sioux Falls in the daylight, to a cell store to get my phone fixed, when I noticed a couple on a BMX cruiser, pedaling up Louise Avenue. She sat on his handlebars above his number plate, they had the same hair, cigs dangling in tandem, and they weaved up and down the cubes and around patches of glass and plants. I was immediately brought back to the desert of Phoenix, to the slow and long burn of summer there without a car. It felt good to be where I was, period. But I think owning a BMX cruiser with a number plate and pedaling up the hot sidewalk with a stoner betty on my handlebars would feel pretty fucking good, too.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn7pO003pMW9x5cxEnkipLcoo3msGDqShyphenhyphenelZ681BGJHAUxvxyVFAElma2CuQQ9wAulY8S7tdX8Q3dsNRejQ-Z8CoLCQzCo-buDVCLNY0FI92VT4PgH5YBiOv-P0axllyfbtx1PGlLTCgE/s1600-h/001.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn7pO003pMW9x5cxEnkipLcoo3msGDqShyphenhyphenelZ681BGJHAUxvxyVFAElma2CuQQ9wAulY8S7tdX8Q3dsNRejQ-Z8CoLCQzCo-buDVCLNY0FI92VT4PgH5YBiOv-P0axllyfbtx1PGlLTCgE/s400/001.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353981462125605186" border="0" /></a>Book Meets Roadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15751274788020109646noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4743190027280135110.post-84511026017678515632009-06-30T10:24:00.000-07:002009-07-01T20:12:35.726-07:00Chapter 8<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqM_5w8Eac2jK4MhsyRu6NSimR-6j94zIiWru-UlNcPuO3KQec6A5l7SyEKfXxko0ueIQrthXATOq7bkwEV3rFgup_23ENY_O-5cWqGb4O9B_55HxHw1CA8LhcA_0fX76CVF86izkBrVMS/s1600-h/032.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqM_5w8Eac2jK4MhsyRu6NSimR-6j94zIiWru-UlNcPuO3KQec6A5l7SyEKfXxko0ueIQrthXATOq7bkwEV3rFgup_23ENY_O-5cWqGb4O9B_55HxHw1CA8LhcA_0fX76CVF86izkBrVMS/s320/032.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353203651514439330" border="0" /></a>I was walking around a field looking at old cars from an auction that had ended yesterday, when I was introduced to a guy in a golf cart who was recently released from prison for murder. Turns out he shot a Native to death after a fight outside of a bar.<br />"I was minding my own business, drinking with some friends, and this big fuckin' Indian, 38 years old, sits down and says to me, 'I want to be your friend,' you know, trying to work me for a goddamn drink. So I tell him, I got enough friends, and that starts it, and he gets thrown out."<br /><br />I look around me at the cars and the sky. The grass here is deep green and the sky has remained light blue since I crossed the border. He rests his hand upon the top of the cart and shifts in his seat,<br />"The guy comes up behind me outside and hits me in the back so hard that it separates my ribs. I got into the car, grabbed my 22 and turned around firing."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw7HOHZ7bZqsXUfo126SUTPiitX6Wj-gZ3PnlWuJdEFQGiRWVDsB6g6lzd8PR69XV-1-xU8CZaJMyroZp_Db6Zu7zMQxFRFEBRF5BWp9QUcr6VfRKW1Pr39Tj0ZX9_TX8Nfehcnt27betD/s1600-h/065.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw7HOHZ7bZqsXUfo126SUTPiitX6Wj-gZ3PnlWuJdEFQGiRWVDsB6g6lzd8PR69XV-1-xU8CZaJMyroZp_Db6Zu7zMQxFRFEBRF5BWp9QUcr6VfRKW1Pr39Tj0ZX9_TX8Nfehcnt27betD/s320/065.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353180803513664930" border="0" /></a>He goes on about the details of the murder, the coroner report, the trial and the 12 years he did for the shooting. I was called away to check out an old Lincoln with suicide doors. The golf cart guy yelled to me and I looked back at him and he said, "I'd have shot him if he'd have been white, too."<br /><br />I walked over and looked at the car. It was old and mean and expensive. The main street was windy and I watched some loose gravel pelt my van from the passing of two farmers on a tractor.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTON30OBlUxi5E2kDtHc8VxZtLcCq7veMSsDVixpsNrR0D7NW9YxxltBEHCVT44crEdq9AdKHtBPPk2QphIpxZEomYIvZgX8LkPK2k28xpPwbumn20rlckeDJomwrywJOFnnky_JMt_RNJ/s1600-h/050.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 227px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTON30OBlUxi5E2kDtHc8VxZtLcCq7veMSsDVixpsNrR0D7NW9YxxltBEHCVT44crEdq9AdKHtBPPk2QphIpxZEomYIvZgX8LkPK2k28xpPwbumn20rlckeDJomwrywJOFnnky_JMt_RNJ/s320/050.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353182325486463970" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I got in the van and slammed the rest of my water, drove to a cafe and read for a while. My friend Todd Kimball called me up to ask me about my trip, and to tell me that he just ordered some books from the site <a href="http://store.timeandskin.com/">store. </a> I asked him how is own <a href="http://obvious-clothing.com/">company</a> was doing. I told him about some of the trip so far and we hung up, and I sat there and stared at three of the seven churches in a town of three hundred. There is something so untouched and clean about some of these small towns, regardless of what you run across. I have spent a lot of time here driving the back roads and routes and fields of the plains. The small bars and the people and the feel of family here are lost in a city life, but that's also what I like about the city. Everything gets old or routine given enough time. For now the tin sheds and the fields of cropped industry mixed with the sunsets and calm summer creeks are important to me. The cities are there but harder to get away from than where I am at this moment, which sharpens the landscape to a polarized dream of sorts.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1B_sfxNRcIgJgGS4aIYtnt6riNXektqHElZJattl7xkxq3pB58o0d8tk_xLHxwtcu5SsnzOuivmqltlWx7BYTGFapWT0JCHBGhCedarycO5ZPz9YiQqhjpv0N2inAmBplUTXvwkSUEmSa/s1600-h/jc.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1B_sfxNRcIgJgGS4aIYtnt6riNXektqHElZJattl7xkxq3pB58o0d8tk_xLHxwtcu5SsnzOuivmqltlWx7BYTGFapWT0JCHBGhCedarycO5ZPz9YiQqhjpv0N2inAmBplUTXvwkSUEmSa/s400/jc.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353207420603931458" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIELV0pK859Gs5GHoFJYvvXLGEOqPtAA-RL30gh4rkCSj7LAIj27b4fJtErai2JUNGCDyIEzRVGraF1KT8a8nlgLNEAHwCVNZ20EEwa8Wa31YAPabmGKHgvUexrl6S-d1qrzA4MRUiY0iw/s1600-h/080.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIELV0pK859Gs5GHoFJYvvXLGEOqPtAA-RL30gh4rkCSj7LAIj27b4fJtErai2JUNGCDyIEzRVGraF1KT8a8nlgLNEAHwCVNZ20EEwa8Wa31YAPabmGKHgvUexrl6S-d1qrzA4MRUiY0iw/s320/080.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353185974918723906" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I let the dogs run for while and threw the frisbee for Meg. Chico has yet to learn the art of returning what he fetches, but I like that about him. I like that he's different from his sister. Dogs are small mirrors of the humans they run with and sleep next to.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiebg1DzyFfD1QxJiWufhhX7BDdQEEPl359mQ1CVpgDexADE6O0IE0gKunDA06R0Q5Nh_bnTGMtrt5oBtMF6YyGWZRymm_nn8Q2j7tPaeIfXmmYATlpLu6sZtsYj-ZDRLt6uzjmZdUVJg5u/s1600-h/064.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiebg1DzyFfD1QxJiWufhhX7BDdQEEPl359mQ1CVpgDexADE6O0IE0gKunDA06R0Q5Nh_bnTGMtrt5oBtMF6YyGWZRymm_nn8Q2j7tPaeIfXmmYATlpLu6sZtsYj-ZDRLt6uzjmZdUVJg5u/s320/064.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353190060441020178" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />One of the best feelings as a writer, for me, is when the library carries your book. In Beresford, SD, the <a href="http://www.bmtc.net/%7Elibone/">library</a> there took copies of <a href="http://rosecitypublishers.com/Books.html"><span style="font-style: italic;">Meat Won't Pay My Light Bill</span></a> and <span style="font-style: italic;"><a href="http://rosecitypublishers.com/Books.html">March of Time and Skin</a>.</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJKmIheFhzI5ptko7JJoadK8NQOehft3XZAMUvcpQQahjkPTRTvoN3e_iPa7TG4r3ejcc93F6YjiKI4DNh07kvdvwLRW3LTOKgL3EHSgcYdhRxMqGitXl4gUxuZbRZyWPxGssISGO2Exx_/s1600-h/072.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJKmIheFhzI5ptko7JJoadK8NQOehft3XZAMUvcpQQahjkPTRTvoN3e_iPa7TG4r3ejcc93F6YjiKI4DNh07kvdvwLRW3LTOKgL3EHSgcYdhRxMqGitXl4gUxuZbRZyWPxGssISGO2Exx_/s200/072.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353195768847112786" border="0" /> </a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMKT-I6HJvgUBGYMEbj5wWMYnEoDoQp13cPBPhCYKctqldjrrrT4Fh3D4iiAxHWzaeXu7_y6iP5-TNSZwUn-1iZfh9F0fY5DuymfKglIIvHyoOA8Lvj8q01SxAhvAPohypaWSnl2E-fkAM/s1600-h/073.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMKT-I6HJvgUBGYMEbj5wWMYnEoDoQp13cPBPhCYKctqldjrrrT4Fh3D4iiAxHWzaeXu7_y6iP5-TNSZwUn-1iZfh9F0fY5DuymfKglIIvHyoOA8Lvj8q01SxAhvAPohypaWSnl2E-fkAM/s200/073.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353196637528845874" border="0" /></a>I've been spending a lot of time on this tour talking to people and watching them drink and smoke. I spend time in small bars or in large, open fields taking photos. I like the history of places, the feeling of old air and dead things watching me. It's surreal and free and haunting. The American road remains strong and without too many wounds from the changing of us. I would say that everyone should drive coast to coast once a year. It would cut down on a lot of brutality.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzx6UbZjhaliQg3PyIEQWEzuT-WVwYMrqRHJYjKU17XP70jcUd5HFydLv80LwfUnp9USLSUd7_Jz_U2ESW_6MdawFmovjIeel9idy9UWjFQI22EvM9ClPk9PrnMok-mbuA8X2FBb3VQCu5/s1600-h/088.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzx6UbZjhaliQg3PyIEQWEzuT-WVwYMrqRHJYjKU17XP70jcUd5HFydLv80LwfUnp9USLSUd7_Jz_U2ESW_6MdawFmovjIeel9idy9UWjFQI22EvM9ClPk9PrnMok-mbuA8X2FBb3VQCu5/s320/088.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353205652553435410" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhju5AYvYqRg1aXewGL4cwXB2RA7T5ErCePUR2_HxNGLDbMXiI5U7EiJM0PEijRPWg14NeG-tDdyFT0-AgNqTbOZ4pTPtNXrH5sk7WYVWPWlZag8x3tWwGneo0p6zijj98puuE1YUCfzzZD/s1600-h/008.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhju5AYvYqRg1aXewGL4cwXB2RA7T5ErCePUR2_HxNGLDbMXiI5U7EiJM0PEijRPWg14NeG-tDdyFT0-AgNqTbOZ4pTPtNXrH5sk7WYVWPWlZag8x3tWwGneo0p6zijj98puuE1YUCfzzZD/s320/008.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353204037662211810" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJKmIheFhzI5ptko7JJoadK8NQOehft3XZAMUvcpQQahjkPTRTvoN3e_iPa7TG4r3ejcc93F6YjiKI4DNh07kvdvwLRW3LTOKgL3EHSgcYdhRxMqGitXl4gUxuZbRZyWPxGssISGO2Exx_/s1600-h/072.JPG"> </a>Book Meets Roadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15751274788020109646noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4743190027280135110.post-60947161627255857612009-06-28T10:07:00.000-07:002009-06-28T10:39:04.503-07:00Chapter 7<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEismhNay_FlwIEGLEfPy1Loskcze4wkfVFr3abOV3UmydmyIasfvZwJJLVxUDcoe5Gh1x0-foy7_b-SCDZojzocrl5rXStBdz_uXkPJuDrt04ZoZOGZfoV7hvQw95JewJLewj9Vhq6Gw-AO/s1600-h/031.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEismhNay_FlwIEGLEfPy1Loskcze4wkfVFr3abOV3UmydmyIasfvZwJJLVxUDcoe5Gh1x0-foy7_b-SCDZojzocrl5rXStBdz_uXkPJuDrt04ZoZOGZfoV7hvQw95JewJLewj9Vhq6Gw-AO/s320/031.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352427968170802402" border="0" /></a>I found myself in downtown Sioux Falls at some traveling beer festival after midnight. <a href="http://minikiss.com/">Mini Kiss</a><br />played the headline. I've never been a huge Kiss fan. I tried to get into them when all of my friends were but I couldn't. Not saying here that a couple of their songs haven't been emblazoned across my memory. They have. But to be able to meet this band of midgets or little people or whatever the hell their handle is today, was one of my best times on this book tour. Turned out Joey Fatale, the band's creator and lead, is a writer himself. Gave him my email. I have to read this guy's shit. I really do. Here he's holding a copy of <a href="http://rosecitypublishers.com/Books.html">March of Time and Skin</a> that I gave him in trade for their set, which was hypnotizing. If you get a chance to catch them, then catch them.<br /><br />I sat in a jazz club and had a drink before driving onward. Heading to a small town about 40 miles south. The moon is low and blood orange over the cornfields and plains to the west of 29 south. Sioux Falls Rock City...Book Meets Roadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15751274788020109646noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4743190027280135110.post-90405430913427352922009-06-25T13:52:00.000-07:002009-06-25T14:11:29.059-07:00Chapter 6<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEita_8M4I2yhJnwSAKhhZnKEtZp9lmUARm5-91170Wm4uvUqDdpHKHCzUA4hOK5bqYllqqG3XKi2hTjed_gKSyJMhMw1YQI5d9gHE1sd-1543ZKJlhvmK2pNoEKmzs_pksX0G8mNsdpHSs8/s1600-h/190.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEita_8M4I2yhJnwSAKhhZnKEtZp9lmUARm5-91170Wm4uvUqDdpHKHCzUA4hOK5bqYllqqG3XKi2hTjed_gKSyJMhMw1YQI5d9gHE1sd-1543ZKJlhvmK2pNoEKmzs_pksX0G8mNsdpHSs8/s200/190.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351375325262688338" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSq0yujeBOjeNvF-Zm5EekfbzwQyz8CRhYb3VGho8jeWi5VoiPZ1j_muIrHcHDApMjawvzP4Cf8GEkTcrfA-6t84gvEyHAnQtj-pBRKh02RN7qbYwubu6Ptx3K1gQ8_kTZkzzE65txksW_/s1600-h/216.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSq0yujeBOjeNvF-Zm5EekfbzwQyz8CRhYb3VGho8jeWi5VoiPZ1j_muIrHcHDApMjawvzP4Cf8GEkTcrfA-6t84gvEyHAnQtj-pBRKh02RN7qbYwubu6Ptx3K1gQ8_kTZkzzE65txksW_/s320/216.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351371305677934018" border="0" /></a>When you drive into Montana from the west, you pass some trees then a center opens into a vastness and depth that can't be captured with a small, digital camera. Words like boundless and god come to mind. Words like blue and clean and reset. I've spent a great many years driving and working labor across the states, but I've never driven east through Montana in the daylight. For the first time in what has to be a decade I feel almost great.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9pikoQrBR4a3SrziGiY0RO7_0F7kuslW8XBMTnMM1i8k6XMj_WmRNXscEXFVOGHZWRAvbwoHvSxRSIbinTTXPnm1pnVLRjqCeP8SaNBISMZiQrzGnjeP0jlEn8CGPbYRMnP7LXEtm44XI/s1600-h/185.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9pikoQrBR4a3SrziGiY0RO7_0F7kuslW8XBMTnMM1i8k6XMj_WmRNXscEXFVOGHZWRAvbwoHvSxRSIbinTTXPnm1pnVLRjqCeP8SaNBISMZiQrzGnjeP0jlEn8CGPbYRMnP7LXEtm44XI/s200/185.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351375611208618338" border="0" /></a>Meg and Chico sit up and stare over the cliffs and valleys. I drive and sip my coffee, turn the music off and watch what's around me. The sky is blue and it fades into cobalt blue, and then it fades into a concave canvas. I reach over and rest a hand on Chico's head. He sniffs at the air coming in from the outside through the vent as Meg jumps to the floor. It occurs to me that I will be 39 this year. It occurs to me that I haven't been married or had children, or even been engaged. It occurs to me that I might just close the shop alone, which is fine. I mean, if the past is any reflection of the future, then I'm better off that way. I don't know how to put my finger on the pulse of what I want to do. I only know I want to write books and keep pushing, keep myself young and without the ugliness of being under any type of control.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2bTnbRyXoiKV8oEboUPulJmeWZgyPkb-4PKQM01TVJWE3Oz_7GhrFoQOviDLwulc9uvaRTIMOkKPFKcD2fno7bWXIX_RZ_YLaWsws0nBPthiY6IMRVosYk9e_0gNSBalL25gNuj0e8Hth/s1600-h/211.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2bTnbRyXoiKV8oEboUPulJmeWZgyPkb-4PKQM01TVJWE3Oz_7GhrFoQOviDLwulc9uvaRTIMOkKPFKcD2fno7bWXIX_RZ_YLaWsws0nBPthiY6IMRVosYk9e_0gNSBalL25gNuj0e8Hth/s320/211.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351374999050560290" border="0" /></a>Book Meets Roadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15751274788020109646noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4743190027280135110.post-79934304485301894052009-06-25T11:36:00.000-07:002009-06-27T15:00:03.326-07:00Chapter 5<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGLdcrSBL1_N6fQ_lQ2u_7bQ6ERg-OjPzoY8_tzVt11fHIH0CNi92sqNHlzuki5awEHgHXE5cNJN0Xl-CfzVCvH56s3KJn6BXoYCCH-ckyllpvNC3DqssNPec9Dcz8XbBsEU2TtHnAB9N-/s1600-h/177.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGLdcrSBL1_N6fQ_lQ2u_7bQ6ERg-OjPzoY8_tzVt11fHIH0CNi92sqNHlzuki5awEHgHXE5cNJN0Xl-CfzVCvH56s3KJn6BXoYCCH-ckyllpvNC3DqssNPec9Dcz8XbBsEU2TtHnAB9N-/s320/177.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351336171522797538" border="0" /></a>I found an exit close to the rest area and pulled off for coffee. The lady behind the counter was wrinkled and bitter, and the coffee was weak and tasteless. I asked her if she read. She actually grunted and said, "Nope." I trashed the coffee and drove a ways up to Poor Henry's. The clouds had burned off in the center and it was hot. I tied the dogs outside and ordered a burger and a coke. Walking out to the van to get my phone charger, I saw a billboard up the access road, and I stepped back and shot it.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_j-q7pHqeUJ6yXoBZIxKdIQ0Diev9mbTsC1dckZ62GIOPdfAO3U1jxvpXEogXWEeGI51AQ5o3RhRBj620PMTY42UNsPlr5eDGCvsUlszmqEC6yUXJ-qHm_WyQDlYTGqs0-y99YwmD5B_m/s1600-h/164.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_j-q7pHqeUJ6yXoBZIxKdIQ0Diev9mbTsC1dckZ62GIOPdfAO3U1jxvpXEogXWEeGI51AQ5o3RhRBj620PMTY42UNsPlr5eDGCvsUlszmqEC6yUXJ-qHm_WyQDlYTGqs0-y99YwmD5B_m/s320/164.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351337282714418546" border="0" /></a><br />Inside I asked the bartender about the sign.<br />"It's a big deal here," he said, "Never had balls before?"<br />"No. What do they taste like?"<br />He stared off for a second, trying to add a name to the taste and texture of balls in his mouth.<br />"They taste like gizzards? You had gizzards before?"<br />"Yes."<br />"Just like that."<br />"Or Rocky Mountain Oysters," I heard. I looked across the bar to a guy in an orange shirt and a white beard. "They call them Rocky Mountain Oysters," he said again. Then the bartender, Todd, nodded, "Gizzards, dude. They taste just like gizzards." A guy and his wife had been sitting there, and I sold them books. The orange shirt and white beard started talking to me about his own business, homemade relish made from zucchini squash. Willie. Willie's Gourmet Relish. I shot him and a jar. It looked good. In case you want to order a jar for yourself, I promised Willie I'd include his number here. 406-258-5139.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSTzEe0hnT1XaSVvVx6x7BgMPFuTBhbjNzzj4PWbSn_shOjxrFnZcd6AqFRbzP_H0UyliUIQ-V_GOk1Vbn1pfoUeTz4tCuGJ5203XnjBHdoKPsr1kjHpH8Teewsg_7YFZG3Bu70J0laQcY/s1600-h/168.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSTzEe0hnT1XaSVvVx6x7BgMPFuTBhbjNzzj4PWbSn_shOjxrFnZcd6AqFRbzP_H0UyliUIQ-V_GOk1Vbn1pfoUeTz4tCuGJ5203XnjBHdoKPsr1kjHpH8Teewsg_7YFZG3Bu70J0laQcY/s320/168.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351355261071438818" border="0" /></a><br />An interesting part of this tour is that there are writers everywhere. Todd ended up buying two books from me, and he tapped the cover of mine and said, "This is what I want to do for a living. I mean, I own the bar and all, but I want to write, man."<br /><br />Moments define existence. I'm full with one of the best fucking hamburgers I've ever had and I'm high on fatigue from sleeping in a ball in the back seat. I feel a bead of sweat run down the back of my neck. I want to order a beer, but I have to keep driving east. I finished my coke and paid up, unleashed the dogs and headed past the testicle sign. Poor Henry's is alright.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMXUUvHgyMGCR8-sgWTQB3G43LnJFG33Dmo7iIzhdM3W89klIWppiKalz1lzYzS2W-SOYfzP6n-tfTcvij3fH0CvpfYvvd3qDanKb2Y0QIxDzdyFW6H12viGIPJsXcmtF2sbNWcSKlcKm2/s1600-h/176.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMXUUvHgyMGCR8-sgWTQB3G43LnJFG33Dmo7iIzhdM3W89klIWppiKalz1lzYzS2W-SOYfzP6n-tfTcvij3fH0CvpfYvvd3qDanKb2Y0QIxDzdyFW6H12viGIPJsXcmtF2sbNWcSKlcKm2/s320/176.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351359140426344818" border="0" /></a>Book Meets Roadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15751274788020109646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4743190027280135110.post-89432866669257473722009-06-25T11:24:00.000-07:002009-06-25T11:35:58.608-07:00Chapter 4<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7c0uPl9QSpikTwa_nT5pClUVyZD7pRa2j9zfdY8jZE0Pn2sEx3dVK3h31ty2Jl14Lehj9TbL-6op2YNtBCUiePeui7rTAury0f-J9N82JCwCRthulIdl5Ad-HvppGac7CwCJWXz3RxdDP/s1600-h/133.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7c0uPl9QSpikTwa_nT5pClUVyZD7pRa2j9zfdY8jZE0Pn2sEx3dVK3h31ty2Jl14Lehj9TbL-6op2YNtBCUiePeui7rTAury0f-J9N82JCwCRthulIdl5Ad-HvppGac7CwCJWXz3RxdDP/s320/133.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351333274897331970" border="0" /></a>I woke up to the sound of air brakes and Chico growling at a guy who was talking to him through the window. Meg has learned the road and people at this point, so she and I watched Chico bare his teeth at this jackass while he tried to offer his hand. I sat up and cracked my neck, and asked the guy to leave, to which he said,<br />"Just trying to pet your dog. His eyes are beautiful!"<br />"You're still here," I said. He mumbled something under his breath and walked off. I walked into the welcome center and waited on the bathroom. A really fucking creepy looking kid walked out. I started to walk in the bathroom, but the toilet seat was lined with paper, and it smelled like black death. I saw a soccer mom walk out of the women's room so I went in and locked the door, pissed, brushed my teeth and wiped my hair back with hot water. Walking back to the van I shot a photo of the tufts of clouds over the trees.Book Meets Roadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15751274788020109646noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4743190027280135110.post-8547326737236160852009-06-25T11:08:00.000-07:002009-06-25T11:24:30.436-07:00Chapter 3<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQPQsNrW85HU5Wwe08uLr3b_eEczFqVe-g0FOjY9iCaNmA7VSkkghQPYGLI_vAa4MA1B1Fob9HSgZD7LdbaWjC9cjOgKOZMWwKkxYgmrVgebYUb6sWD5B-nnHtyWM7cSge6KCRL0nsMy-q/s1600-h/099.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQPQsNrW85HU5Wwe08uLr3b_eEczFqVe-g0FOjY9iCaNmA7VSkkghQPYGLI_vAa4MA1B1Fob9HSgZD7LdbaWjC9cjOgKOZMWwKkxYgmrVgebYUb6sWD5B-nnHtyWM7cSge6KCRL0nsMy-q/s320/099.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351330394599287522" border="0" /></a><br />I crossed the border into Washington on the 395, where I stopped at a coffee place in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Kennewick</span>, hoping to sell some books at random. I stood behind this old man while he talked to the counter girl for 10 literal minutes. I looked over my shoulder at my dogs in the van, and they watched me back, and I thought about how they saw everything, and it started to make sense to me to punch the old man in the back with all my strength, because he saw me in line and he knew he was being a pain in the ass. Just as I was about to exhale a Jesus Fucking Christ he walked away and I had lost the feeling of talking about myself or the books or any of it. The coffee turned out to be free because it was old. I loaded it with milk and sugar but ended up trashing it before I got off the sidewalk.<br /><br /><br />The drive through Spokane was mindless for the most part, because there was some scattered rain and the sun had fallen, and because I was thinking about a job I'd worked seven years back, building barns for horse shows along I5 from Monroe, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Washington</span> down to Burbank, but also along this same road to Spokane, where I had once met a girl in a thrift store and stayed with her at her place on Mission, a little house on the corner. Now she was in Hawaii and I was in my van. I thought about Hawaii and the time I met her. I was glad to be in the van hauling books and headed around the country. It made more sense this way, like it made more sense to blow through Idaho at night, where I broke the Montana border, found a rest area so the dogs could run and I could lay the blankets out across the back seat.Book Meets Roadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15751274788020109646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4743190027280135110.post-13527864273907212302009-06-25T06:54:00.000-07:002009-06-25T07:22:32.540-07:00Chapter 2<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz_k5y419maQ6NaVMpuCmpR7iEX3YE_xvX3bsDnp7BtWXUSh403hUUHJQ52mhVvqqyLDvNErSko6o9PMEK58EOUO954ZDJ8mYbFZ16kHoUV3RIlcVj8JUGnulo8Sb_OpbZfzjyxnpzOFAU/s1600-h/megs.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 130px; height: 106px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz_k5y419maQ6NaVMpuCmpR7iEX3YE_xvX3bsDnp7BtWXUSh403hUUHJQ52mhVvqqyLDvNErSko6o9PMEK58EOUO954ZDJ8mYbFZ16kHoUV3RIlcVj8JUGnulo8Sb_OpbZfzjyxnpzOFAU/s320/megs.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351267052310611442" border="0" /></a>I had a tongue jack fastened to the trailer and we drove 84 through the Columbia Gorge. The trailer is heavy with 2,000 books. I watched the gas gauge move physically. Up the mountain and around the water burned over a quarter tank.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY2tGpKqfdIR6ATNHcPiSovWsBun_quNqvd1J0YaYf1wfkpar4DyMVgNERHJqSylAX4vL9JhrUw8dzdCQHz4OYaWH1DMB1VxRyXenh6Aie17RSzFu5xShnM0qVCLWzdSxQvcTKogx-Yecn/s1600-h/hefe.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 130px; height: 106px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY2tGpKqfdIR6ATNHcPiSovWsBun_quNqvd1J0YaYf1wfkpar4DyMVgNERHJqSylAX4vL9JhrUw8dzdCQHz4OYaWH1DMB1VxRyXenh6Aie17RSzFu5xShnM0qVCLWzdSxQvcTKogx-Yecn/s320/hefe.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351267634951029122" border="0" /></a>In Boardman I was being followed into the gas station. I grabbed some water and some coffee. Outside a guy walked up to me and asked me if I had any books on me, drug deal style. What I had forgotten was my friend Crystal Shade had painted www.bookmeetsroad.com on the side of my trailer. This guy and his girlfriend had entered the site on their cell and followed me off the exit. I sold them a copy of each title. The best part was the wind, the constant wind of Boardman as we stood and talked about Book Meets Road. I was tired and the dogs were tired. But we left with 20 dollars more and a full tank.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTnVsdCqh4KZp4GPYoVsCkV73ny6SH0Z_jOml5FlYZnpb6HgA161l4D8B8e71cu5RpZBRLMNQ7B_8yFftlJmKjtOe5KESD6IrRkGCW2Mh_FeSURPQL-DBGZm6JCHVzaeCsNmCWSJAKRHQB/s1600-h/cheekoh.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 145px; height: 107px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTnVsdCqh4KZp4GPYoVsCkV73ny6SH0Z_jOml5FlYZnpb6HgA161l4D8B8e71cu5RpZBRLMNQ7B_8yFftlJmKjtOe5KESD6IrRkGCW2Mh_FeSURPQL-DBGZm6JCHVzaeCsNmCWSJAKRHQB/s320/cheekoh.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351267926467592658" border="0" /></a>I drove and thought about the couple who had bought the books. They were headed back to their place, they had a good day together in the sun and wind and they were most likely headed back to clean up, see a movie, eat something and maybe read a bit after sex or before, or whatever. But I am driving east with the river to my left and my mind on Montana. There are few things better in America than blasting through Montana at dawn. I'd never seen Montana in the daylight heading east. First there was 395 and the tri-cities, then Spokane, then the panhandle of Idaho, which I will blow through as fast as possible.Book Meets Roadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15751274788020109646noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4743190027280135110.post-53728636558941338852009-06-24T20:05:00.000-07:002009-06-27T15:21:36.377-07:00Chapter 1<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMD_hmICowKcAOib_oF7uhYn3EDnSIsjYL7KcbgJvI9Xws9xzvTWlDbTtebD70n5vb99KjpP3yhCQZb5hBYSBtQN2uQJAucxwZvOdOzd8V7rXDucIrQmj-Dfh8wnGEsSUkGz4JhpAbi5Pv/s1600-h/069.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMD_hmICowKcAOib_oF7uhYn3EDnSIsjYL7KcbgJvI9Xws9xzvTWlDbTtebD70n5vb99KjpP3yhCQZb5hBYSBtQN2uQJAucxwZvOdOzd8V7rXDucIrQmj-Dfh8wnGEsSUkGz4JhpAbi5Pv/s320/069.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351097454638927698" border="0" /></a>On 82<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">nd</span> just after the tire shop I drove past an old lady holding up this sign. I parked the van and walked over, dropped to my knee and shot her. She said something about the vet not properly sedating her rabbit, which caused it to go into heart failure. Then she told the vet that she would stand out there every day for the next seven years, since it's the normal life span of a rabbit. I put my camera in my pocket,<br />"You're going to stand out here every day for seven years."<br />"Yes."<br />I walked to the van and continued the test drive. I had to turn it around so I could get the other side of the van and trailer aired up, and I got a crash course in reversing the trailer, which is heavy with 2,000 books. One is my novel,<span style="font-style: italic;"> March of Time and Skin</span> and the other is a novel by Kurt <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Eisenlohr</span>, <a href="http://rosecitypublishers.com/Books.html"><span style="font-style: italic;">Meat Won't Pay My Light Bill</span></a>, which was originally published by <a href="http://futuretensebooks.com/">Future Tense Books</a> in 2000, a small press run by small press savior <a href="http://litpark.com/2007/04/11/kevin-sampsell/">Kevin <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Sampsell</span></a>, a writer and long time <a href="http://powells.com">Powell's Books </a>events organizer, who is single-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">handedly</span> responsible for most of the underground to small to pristine literary scene in Portland. Powell's, as well as a few other bookstores and readers who showed up to some of the best dives in town to meet Kurt and I at our signings were a huge help in getting the work out there as fast as it got out there.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Vw6saIOr8oZi71jc05EtcRc-ad8DdzFCLZiQxC0iw2a3FiAnUBAffpNactvimc2PxIgY0CIV6n0wO1EDRfNL7kv-LrUmU_ESuGG9rhYurf10a6DBlptkIstMmEIapkT92MF3gJEPEt6p/s1600-h/motas.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 158px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Vw6saIOr8oZi71jc05EtcRc-ad8DdzFCLZiQxC0iw2a3FiAnUBAffpNactvimc2PxIgY0CIV6n0wO1EDRfNL7kv-LrUmU_ESuGG9rhYurf10a6DBlptkIstMmEIapkT92MF3gJEPEt6p/s320/motas.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351124836282731682" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUyjtJcU4BW3Si8oFAOToTAHwDTVnLikL-mVTEj5k3ZwnjRjxstrAu3xJw9z0_bBMUT0UE5RjQaimJpcIAmsT439klYBq0yEJfWesx3tUuXNPeeSeZYLECo1NaCWHBkIIny2VAscsdKlTb/s1600-h/meat.jpg"> <img style="cursor: pointer; width: 165px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUyjtJcU4BW3Si8oFAOToTAHwDTVnLikL-mVTEj5k3ZwnjRjxstrAu3xJw9z0_bBMUT0UE5RjQaimJpcIAmsT439klYBq0yEJfWesx3tUuXNPeeSeZYLECo1NaCWHBkIIny2VAscsdKlTb/s320/meat.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351124837286019954" border="0" /></a><br /><br />But I had decided to do this tour because I can't afford professional advertising, and because I think the books are strong enough to put Rose City Publishers on the map permanently. I had also decided to do it because I missed the road. I missed the long drives and the feel of constant inspiration, good and bad. The miles laid to dust for years behind me now, the strange feeling of prison within the freedom of a big city. The failing jobs, the failed ventures and the inevitability of another job acted like a catapult. I loaded up the van, the trailer, my two dogs, my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">BMX</span> bike and a few other necessities and I left. Those of you who have read <span style="font-style: italic;">March of Time and Skin </span>have an idea about my relationship with the road and the work in involved, but also involved is the economy of motion and the poetry of motion. The idea here is to go place to place and sell the books, get another print run going for other titles, and sell those books, and to meet good writers who deserve some recognition.Book Meets Roadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15751274788020109646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4743190027280135110.post-23926800937092234182009-06-01T19:16:00.000-07:002009-06-08T11:16:04.640-07:00Right here.My friend Nicole Lane (www.nicolelane.com) set up the following promo note for me. I am dealing with some last minute details as far as getting ready for the road. Been thinking about it, this aimless drive with a purpose. It's been a long time since I've gone far and long on the road. Those of you who have read March of Time and Skin know about my relationship with asphalt and byways... Today I was cleaning paint off the garage floor, and I thought about pulling up to some mountainous rest stop somewhere in Montana, opening the back windows of the van and reading until I fell asleep, then waking up and driving. Coffee, air, clean opened road and sky, and maybe even a more opened mind. Been letting the bullshit of life and my own fucking expectations of myself eat at me. All these words and no way to let them out for the last long stretch of time, and also the 7 month fucking winter we dealt with here in Portland. The road is just sitting there, the bars, the independent book stores, coffee houses, not to mention the people in truck stops and gas stations and road side cafes. I need to sell books to survive, but mostly I need to be back out there to survive. I tried the stable life, I tried the lawn and the routine. I tried to make myself aspire to the typical goals that maybe should matter more to me. But I can't do it. I need the movement and sunlight and cities and mountains and also new, darkened corners to thrive on. I need to punch a hole and drive through it. I leave in a matter of one week. First Seattle, then where ever the hell. <br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">JEFF STEWART</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">…BOOK MEETS ROAD…</span><br /></div></div><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-style: italic;">One Man's Quest to put the Blue Collar back in Fiction<br /></div><br />Portland, Oregon -- Prolific road writer and publisher Jeff Stewart sets off on a cross-country trek across the U.S. to hand-market books. In a van pulling a trailer full of novels, Stewart with his two dogs, a flatland BMX bike, a video camera and a laptop hit the road…until the trailer is empty.<br /><br />This is far more than a run-of-the-mill book tour.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">‘Book Meets Road’ blog</span>. Stewart will keep a nightly blog about the trip including photos and videos of the project. His features will chronicle the towns, cities and venues he visits; tribute the characters he meets along the way; account on inspirations, interesting people and situations that cross his path. Eventually, this blog material will form a book about the trip, in a literary survivor manual and photo journalism format. Take the trip.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Off the Beaten Track.</span> With much success reaching out to readers on their own turf, Stewart is setting up appearances in bars, coffee houses, indy bookstores, bike shops, skate parks and other unusual venues. Potential tour partners are bands, bloggers, BMX outfitters and bookstores.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">This is crazy, but smart. Why do this?</span> Ultimately, the most important reason is to get the work out to as many people as possible. This tour will promote and sell his publishing company Rose City Publisher’s books “March of Time and Skin” by Jeff Stewart and “Meat Won't Pay My Light Bill” by Kurt Eisenlohr. Stewart will introduce new readers to Rose City’s Publishers next releases: “Dead Birds Hot,” Stewart’s upcoming short story book; Jeff Wenker’s novel “Gone Postal,” a book about the decline of the Western States, set in present tense. Stewart is also looking to meet other writers and discovering new talent. He has no timeline except to sell the remaining print run -- approximately 2,000 books. Revenue generated from this enterprise will finance the print runs of forthcoming books.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />His Story.</span> Stewart has been writing novels, short-stories and poetry for the past 20 years. Readers rave about his recently published novel “March of Time and Skin” as a “can’t-put-it-down,” raw and honest read. Stewart has been featured in media, read the Portland Mercury interview with Stewart. With Rose City Publishing, he participated in the internationally recognized Wordstock literary festival in 2008. Stewart was a featured writer in Smallpressapalooza 2009, presented by Powell’s Books and the Independent Publishing Resource Center.<br />Feeling the fire to publish, Stewart founded Time and Skin Media to publish his book in 2008 which has recently become Rose City Publishing. Stewart has written many un-published books, scores of poems and other writings, but hadn’t had the yearning to publish until now. A traveler at heart, Stewart has spent much of his life on the road and writing about it. He has an extensive history in BMX, including writing internationally for Ride UK BMX since 2001, plus his own 25 year history of flatland riding. Stewart is looking forward his next road adventures with his two dogs Meg and Chico...and writing about it.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Long-tail Ambition.</span> Stewart wants to turn Rose City Publishers into a bigger publishing house. Using this flesh-to-flesh method, he hopes connect to readers and to discover new talent, paying them what their work is really worth. Stewart’s definitive goal is for Rose City Publishers to be the place artists want to be to get their work out there, and for loyal customers to await the next Rose City release, because of our content vein and high standards of quality. Eventually, Rose City Publishers will also be a multi-media venue, publishing short films and music videos.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">…Sponsoring Book Meets Road…</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;">Stewart is ultimately seeking 10k, in any increments.<br />Offering advertising space on the trailer and van, as well as blog credit,<br />Stewart is a mobile advertising opportunity.<br />This innovative, independent, physical hand-to-hand style marketing to target audiences will generate solid and loyal customers for everyone involved.<br />Anyone can be a sponsor.<br /></div><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Books.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">March of Time and Skin </span>written by Jeff Stewart<br /><br />An aggressive, blue collar road novel in which the young and scarred narrator takes us along on a cross-country hell ride. Grotesque and beautiful, savage and tender and relentlessly alive, March of Time and Skin is a punch in the gut that reads like an epic letter fueled by loss and the deep need to communicate. A new anthem for an unwound, unsound generation.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Meat Won't Pay My Light Bill</span> written by Kurt Eisenlohr<br /><br />...about a punk named Lupus Totten. Lupus, like the disease, yeh. A man bent on escaping the horrors, headaches and hemorrhoids of the work world. A man who would rather paint or stare into blue-black eternity than grovel at the feet of the clock eight hours a day. A man whose woman gives him the boot for just this reason. A man who then panics, takes two full-time jobs, gives up art for the 9 to 5 life, the 6 to 2 life, no life. And what occurs thereafter, the yawn and madness he encounters while trying to redeem himself in the eyes of Woman and World.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">email: stewartlives@hotmail.com | site: http://bookmeetsroad.com/</span>Book Meets Roadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15751274788020109646noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4743190027280135110.post-48070176402983683512009-05-11T18:02:00.000-07:002009-05-11T18:21:55.040-07:00March of Time and Skin ExcerptI climbed a mountain and sat there on a palm shaped rock, looking out over the towns. The whole world was something, or it was supposed to be, and the faces were supposed from something, but everything had fallen short because the two of them were tangled together and helpless now.Book Meets Roadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15751274788020109646noreply@blogger.com0