I would like to take a second to wish everyone happy holidays. For me this time of year is a chance to see relatives I see infrequently and since being in college it also allows me to spend a few days with my whole (my brother, sister, and I just finished wrestling and tickling each other in true pre-teen fashion). I never understood the common portrayal of Christmas family gatherings, or my favorite holiday Thanksgiving, as these disastrous implosions that cause everyone to dread their arrival. If the the Bluths three short seasons on Fox has any long lasting effect on our lives besides showcasing the talents of Jason Bateman, Will Arnett, and Michael Cera, it should be the corny line that was repeated till the shows end, "Family first." Seriously, suck it up for half a day, leave your ego at the door and just enjoy the company of family. This is why I've always loved Thanksgiving so much, it simplifies a holiday to exactly what it should be, a good meal with those you love. No, I don't want to spend everyday with my entire family, or even one day every week, but for those few hours its perfect. These are are people I've know my entire life, they know me for me (to some degree) and I can be relaxed and perfectly at ease with myself.
I hope many of you feel as I do and are looking forward to being around family and those that are special to you this holiday season. Myself, friends, and family wish everyone a safe, relaxing, and fun holiday season and an exciting new year.
23.12.07
12.12.07
Some early number crunching
So I was browsing eBay earlier looking for a car for the trip. Personally I want an early 90's Buick Roadmaster, or Chevy Caprice wagon. My dad was doubting its fuel efficiency, however I was fairly sure I had read that they tend to get 28 MPG highway, not bad for such a luxury ride. With a little more research I discovered I was in fact correct and read many reports of them getting 25-28 MPG on the highway. City milage aint's so pretty, it drops down to 16-19 MPG. The main problem with this car is the price. According to Kelly Blue Book would probably pay about $3000 for a model that would get us across the country, on the other side of the coin, there is that fact that we could sell the car after the trip for more or less the price we buy it for and we wouldn't be piling miles on to my car, or somebody's parents car.
Tell me this wouldn't be a great car for driving cross country. Its roomy, easy to fix, and classy.
So with concerns of gas prices in my head I've started to crunch some number, and well, its kinda scary. I figure we each go into this willing to spend $3 grand, this is a hopeful estimate, especially in certain cases. So with a budget total of $9000, I first looked at the cost of gas.
Triple A puts the national average at $2.99 a gallon, However, I have a hunch that come summertime it will have gone up, so I used $3.20 per gallon. Justin's route as posted earlier took us over 8000 miles and my route was over 9000 miles, I went with 9250 miles for this estimate. So, I figure my beautiful Roadmaster would average about 22 MPG. Our expected bill for gas would be about $1350, which I might be able to live with.
Next, I started thinking about how much time it would take to drive these 9250 miles, and things got a little ugly. We had sort of been operating under the assumption that we had about 3-4 weeks. Well, 9250 miles over 21 days is 440 miles per day (about 8 hours) and over 30 days is 300 miles per day (about 5 hours per day). This math rules out a 3 week trip, it would be all driving. I know that there are parts of the country were we will be driving basically straight through, stopping for only a few hours for food and drink, but there are without a doubt times we will want to spend more or less the entire day in one place. The bottom line is this: 9000 miles is a fucking long ways, and 30 days isn't that long of a time period.
But for the sake of this estimate I will continue with some math. So, of our $9000, we've spent 3 on the car and 1.5 on gas, leaving us with 4.5. Divide this by 30 and thats a daily allowance of $150 ($50 per person). Im not sure, this sounds a bit underwhelming to me, but not by that much, about $100-200. So now, if nothing else, I've given us starting point. I've developed theses overly complex theroretical formulas to figure out the breakdown of our basic expenses and our daily drive time, while accounting for the variables of (B)udget (our combined budget), (T)ime (number of day), (D)istance (miles traveled), dail(Y) budget (for all three of us), (H)ours of driving (per day), (C)ar (price of), (M)iles per gallon (of said vehicle), and (G)as price (we can keep checking the national average as we get closer). Our friend BD would be proud.
Drive time per day:
(D/T)/60 ≤ H
Average drive time must be less then 5 hours per day, so:
(D/T)/60 ≤ 5
On to the daily budget:
(B-C)-((D/M)•G) = Y
With my guess of $3.20 per gallon:
(B-C)-((D/M)•3.2) = Y
I think we spent about $900 on our 3 day trip to Voodoo, about $300 each. I feel this is were we need to be. Meanwhile, we need to save money and perhaps start working on a more concise route and keep working on a more affordable option for transportation, although I haven't given up on my wooden paneled baby. Its still early, we have at least 6 months. So if anyone reading has any great ways to earn cash fast, save money on the road, or advice in general please feel free to share.
Tell me this wouldn't be a great car for driving cross country. Its roomy, easy to fix, and classy.
So with concerns of gas prices in my head I've started to crunch some number, and well, its kinda scary. I figure we each go into this willing to spend $3 grand, this is a hopeful estimate, especially in certain cases. So with a budget total of $9000, I first looked at the cost of gas.
Triple A puts the national average at $2.99 a gallon, However, I have a hunch that come summertime it will have gone up, so I used $3.20 per gallon. Justin's route as posted earlier took us over 8000 miles and my route was over 9000 miles, I went with 9250 miles for this estimate. So, I figure my beautiful Roadmaster would average about 22 MPG. Our expected bill for gas would be about $1350, which I might be able to live with.
Next, I started thinking about how much time it would take to drive these 9250 miles, and things got a little ugly. We had sort of been operating under the assumption that we had about 3-4 weeks. Well, 9250 miles over 21 days is 440 miles per day (about 8 hours) and over 30 days is 300 miles per day (about 5 hours per day). This math rules out a 3 week trip, it would be all driving. I know that there are parts of the country were we will be driving basically straight through, stopping for only a few hours for food and drink, but there are without a doubt times we will want to spend more or less the entire day in one place. The bottom line is this: 9000 miles is a fucking long ways, and 30 days isn't that long of a time period.
But for the sake of this estimate I will continue with some math. So, of our $9000, we've spent 3 on the car and 1.5 on gas, leaving us with 4.5. Divide this by 30 and thats a daily allowance of $150 ($50 per person). Im not sure, this sounds a bit underwhelming to me, but not by that much, about $100-200. So now, if nothing else, I've given us starting point. I've developed theses overly complex theroretical formulas to figure out the breakdown of our basic expenses and our daily drive time, while accounting for the variables of (B)udget (our combined budget), (T)ime (number of day), (D)istance (miles traveled), dail(Y) budget (for all three of us), (H)ours of driving (per day), (C)ar (price of), (M)iles per gallon (of said vehicle), and (G)as price (we can keep checking the national average as we get closer). Our friend BD would be proud.
Drive time per day:
(D/T)/60 ≤ H
Average drive time must be less then 5 hours per day, so:
(D/T)/60 ≤ 5
On to the daily budget:
(B-C)-((D/M)•G) = Y
With my guess of $3.20 per gallon:
(B-C)-((D/M)•3.2) = Y
I think we spent about $900 on our 3 day trip to Voodoo, about $300 each. I feel this is were we need to be. Meanwhile, we need to save money and perhaps start working on a more concise route and keep working on a more affordable option for transportation, although I haven't given up on my wooden paneled baby. Its still early, we have at least 6 months. So if anyone reading has any great ways to earn cash fast, save money on the road, or advice in general please feel free to share.
10.12.07
Reflections on New Orleans, Savannah, and Voodoo Fest
A few notes about Voodoo Fest and the south from Hoosier:
-People really like Jesus along the I-10 corrior between New Orleans and Jacksonville, and this is a bad thing when your car breaks down in Alabama at about seven a.m. on a Sunday morning because everyone is in church, even truckers (they have churches at truck stops)
-Rage rocked, as to be expected, but my two favorite acts were probably Tiesto (thanks, mep), and a jam band from Jacksonville named Mofro. Tiesto may not be to everyone's taste, as he's techno, although I would recommend at least giving him a try, but Mofro is a pretty good band and are especially worthwhile to see live
-When going to an all day concert, I would advise not driving thirteen hours through the night to get there. That is, unless, of course you enjoy not sleeping for 45 hours straight and falling asleep while standing up during the middle of Kings of Leon...and not being able to go out the one full night you have in New Orleans because someone, cough*Rock*cough, thinks it would be a good idea to just "lay down for like thirty minutes then head down to Bourbon Street." You never just lay down for thirty minutes after having been awake for 45 hours; you sleep for 12 hours straight.
-Savannah, if you have not been, is maybe my favorite city in the contiguous United State (I've been to every city on the eastern sea board, most of the mid-western ones, and LA). It's a beautiful, charming place that feels more like a big town than a city. It's worth visiting for a few days, and just walking. Check out the eerie cemetaries, sample the food, admire the architecture and the Spanish moss, sit for a while in one of the many city squares- just go to Savannah. Trust me on this, and don't let Pinks tell you otherwise.
Lastly, I want to write about New Orleans. I'm not quite sure how to go about it. I feel like me writing about New Orleans would be like me writing about someone I've met twice in my life: sure, I've met them, and I might have a broadly superficial view of who they are, what has shaped them, but for me to pretend, for even a moment, to know their character would be a gross miscalculation. That's how I feel about New Orleans. It would be unfair for me to write with any kind of certainty about a city I've spent a mere 44 hours in.
Still, I think it's something to address. Since Katrina, I've heard a similar refrain: New Orleans used to be a great American city, right up there with New York, San Francisco, etc. It used to be a town with a unique, a bit off kilter character. It was like no place you'd ever been or would be again. After Katrina, although it's never been overtly said, the implication has always been that, well, it's lost something. It's like that uncle a lot of people have, the one who was a lot of fun in his youth but hasn't been the same since the divorce and the dui, but no one wants to acknowledge the fact he's different.
Of course, something has been lost. A large portion of the population, mostly black, has not returned to the city they once called home. And what makes a place but the people who inhabit it? That said, by all accounts, New Orleans, and its citizens, have doggedly attempted to return to "normalcy" after Katrina...whatever that might be. It was this, then- the desire to see New Orleans with my own eyes, to walk through its streets, to sample the creole cuisine, smell the briny air- that drew me to this trip. I honestly had little to no desire to go to the concert; I just wanted to see New Orleans.
So what did I see? A lot, I suppose, although I'm not sure what to make of it. Downtown, the commercial sector and the French Quarter, the areas most tourists will see, is mostly rehabbed. There are still a few bordered up buildings downtown, but the French Quarter- by all accounts one of the least damaged areas in Katrina- looks as if nothing ever happened. It's a beautiful place, full of 18th Century, Spanish and Victorian themed architecture, and a whole lot of steel lace balconies. While Bourbon Street is the main draw, I recommend visiting during the afternoon, when the crowds are at a minimum, and walking through the entire neighborhood. A lot of the side streets are peaceful and languidly beautiful; there's a considerable amount of options for good food (try a Po Boy sandwich); and you might run into one of the many, surprisingly entertaining street artists (we spent a good twenty minutes watching a magician/comedian). While it's still a touristy experience, you get the sense it's more genuine than most.
Despite downtown's resurgence, considerable portions of the area are still damaged- and I say this without having spent much time outside of the downtown sector. The drive into New Orleans, on route 10, is sobering. Many of the neighborhoods along the highway are still in shambles: one story ranch homes are still gutted, roofs still have holes in them, windows are still boarded up. Some blocks seem rehabbed, and then out of nowhere, an entire house will just be a pile of rubble.
In the city proper, many of the poorer parishes are supposedly still severely dilapitated and damaged. Unfortunately, the three of us didn't spend much time on the outskirts of town. I'm almost ashamed to admit it, but we chose to get drunk on Bourbon Street in the middle of the afternoon as opposed to driving through the lower Ninth Ward, or other poverty stricken parts of the city. The honest truth is, the thought of driving through the poorer parts of the city never even entered our minds.
That said, on our first morning in New Orleans, fresh off of our 13 hour drive from Savannah, we did drive through some of the poorer sections. Using a book called Road Food as our guide, we searched the city for a variety of restaurants. The first one we tried was in a neighborhood not terribly far from downtown, just under an overpass for Route 10. An old brick, steepled church marked the entrance to the area, and the street, even though it was nearly noon, was completely empty. Many of the homes were either boarded up or clearly uninhabited. Most still bore spray paint inscriptions from the immediate aftermath of the hurricane. The restauraunt we were looking for, sitting on a corner, had been described in the book as lively and always packed on weekday afteroons (it was a Friday). It was closed, and looked to have been that way for quite sometime. Disappointed, and considerably somber, we chose another restaurant, and drove a few minutes across town, past more boarded up homes, down streets that felt more suitable for ghost towns of the Wild West than a major American city. This restaurant, too, was closed. It had closed during Katrina, and had simply never reopened.
Our third choice worked out; not only was it open, but it was a thriving, upscale cafe a few blocks from the French Quarter. And, after this, our experiences limited to the downtown portion of the city, it was easy to forget we were in a city that, for so many, represented a home town lost. Saturday night, before beginning our long haul back to Savannah, the three of us went down to Bourbon Street, figuring it was an integral part of the New Orleans experience. It was overwhelming, to be honest, and not really in a good way. The street was jammed for blocks on end, drunk college kids, many in costume for halloween, pouring out of bars and strip clubs. In a lot of ways, its a cess pool of debauchery and young people looking to fuck, and not a whole lot more. I mean, sure, it was vibrant, and I saw a few pairs of boobs, and Ron Jeremy walking out of one strip club and into another, but I couldn't help but wonder if this is what New Orleans had become. Sure, it's always been known as a place for debauchery and partying, and that lack of depth and structure and consequences has a strong American appeal (see Las Vegas), but in a city where so many people lost their lives, and their homes, is it really ok for a bunch of kids- most of them not actually from New Orleans- to come and mindlessly get drunk? Is that part of the healing process? Is the ability to party, without heeding the incredible tragedy all around you, a part of moving forward? Or does it represent a certain callousness that I fear pervades our world these days, a me first selfishness that puts personal pleasure above public good?
I honestly don't know. I can't say what New Orleans was like before Katrina- I'll never be able to know how the city was then. Nor can I even begin to think I know what is healthy for it in the long, slow process of rebuilding. I don't want to espouse on the spirit of the city, or its people, because really, I'm not qualified to. Still, I can say that in a place many of us left for dead, most of its residents consciously decided to come back and rebuild, knowing full well that another hurricane, another ruin, might lurk just around the bend. That speaks to a basic human attribute: our incredible ability to suffer pain, and loss, and to keep living. That, or our incredible stupidity in the face of overwhelming empircal evidence. But I'm feeling romantic today, so I'll classify it as the former- we don't know how, or when, to give up, not just as Americans or citizens of New Orleans, but as humans. We persevere, and that's an admirable thing.
So I guess that's how I'll end. I will say this: do visit New Orleans. Even if it's only to get drunk and see boobs on Bourbon Street. But I would hope you would go for more than that. Go to experience an integral part of our country and our history. Go to help with the rehabilitation. Mostly, go to think, go to reflect, and go to admire the persistence that is our human mark on this world.
-People really like Jesus along the I-10 corrior between New Orleans and Jacksonville, and this is a bad thing when your car breaks down in Alabama at about seven a.m. on a Sunday morning because everyone is in church, even truckers (they have churches at truck stops)
-Rage rocked, as to be expected, but my two favorite acts were probably Tiesto (thanks, mep), and a jam band from Jacksonville named Mofro. Tiesto may not be to everyone's taste, as he's techno, although I would recommend at least giving him a try, but Mofro is a pretty good band and are especially worthwhile to see live
-When going to an all day concert, I would advise not driving thirteen hours through the night to get there. That is, unless, of course you enjoy not sleeping for 45 hours straight and falling asleep while standing up during the middle of Kings of Leon...and not being able to go out the one full night you have in New Orleans because someone, cough*Rock*cough, thinks it would be a good idea to just "lay down for like thirty minutes then head down to Bourbon Street." You never just lay down for thirty minutes after having been awake for 45 hours; you sleep for 12 hours straight.
-Savannah, if you have not been, is maybe my favorite city in the contiguous United State (I've been to every city on the eastern sea board, most of the mid-western ones, and LA). It's a beautiful, charming place that feels more like a big town than a city. It's worth visiting for a few days, and just walking. Check out the eerie cemetaries, sample the food, admire the architecture and the Spanish moss, sit for a while in one of the many city squares- just go to Savannah. Trust me on this, and don't let Pinks tell you otherwise.
Lastly, I want to write about New Orleans. I'm not quite sure how to go about it. I feel like me writing about New Orleans would be like me writing about someone I've met twice in my life: sure, I've met them, and I might have a broadly superficial view of who they are, what has shaped them, but for me to pretend, for even a moment, to know their character would be a gross miscalculation. That's how I feel about New Orleans. It would be unfair for me to write with any kind of certainty about a city I've spent a mere 44 hours in.
Still, I think it's something to address. Since Katrina, I've heard a similar refrain: New Orleans used to be a great American city, right up there with New York, San Francisco, etc. It used to be a town with a unique, a bit off kilter character. It was like no place you'd ever been or would be again. After Katrina, although it's never been overtly said, the implication has always been that, well, it's lost something. It's like that uncle a lot of people have, the one who was a lot of fun in his youth but hasn't been the same since the divorce and the dui, but no one wants to acknowledge the fact he's different.
Of course, something has been lost. A large portion of the population, mostly black, has not returned to the city they once called home. And what makes a place but the people who inhabit it? That said, by all accounts, New Orleans, and its citizens, have doggedly attempted to return to "normalcy" after Katrina...whatever that might be. It was this, then- the desire to see New Orleans with my own eyes, to walk through its streets, to sample the creole cuisine, smell the briny air- that drew me to this trip. I honestly had little to no desire to go to the concert; I just wanted to see New Orleans.
So what did I see? A lot, I suppose, although I'm not sure what to make of it. Downtown, the commercial sector and the French Quarter, the areas most tourists will see, is mostly rehabbed. There are still a few bordered up buildings downtown, but the French Quarter- by all accounts one of the least damaged areas in Katrina- looks as if nothing ever happened. It's a beautiful place, full of 18th Century, Spanish and Victorian themed architecture, and a whole lot of steel lace balconies. While Bourbon Street is the main draw, I recommend visiting during the afternoon, when the crowds are at a minimum, and walking through the entire neighborhood. A lot of the side streets are peaceful and languidly beautiful; there's a considerable amount of options for good food (try a Po Boy sandwich); and you might run into one of the many, surprisingly entertaining street artists (we spent a good twenty minutes watching a magician/comedian). While it's still a touristy experience, you get the sense it's more genuine than most.
Despite downtown's resurgence, considerable portions of the area are still damaged- and I say this without having spent much time outside of the downtown sector. The drive into New Orleans, on route 10, is sobering. Many of the neighborhoods along the highway are still in shambles: one story ranch homes are still gutted, roofs still have holes in them, windows are still boarded up. Some blocks seem rehabbed, and then out of nowhere, an entire house will just be a pile of rubble.
In the city proper, many of the poorer parishes are supposedly still severely dilapitated and damaged. Unfortunately, the three of us didn't spend much time on the outskirts of town. I'm almost ashamed to admit it, but we chose to get drunk on Bourbon Street in the middle of the afternoon as opposed to driving through the lower Ninth Ward, or other poverty stricken parts of the city. The honest truth is, the thought of driving through the poorer parts of the city never even entered our minds.
That said, on our first morning in New Orleans, fresh off of our 13 hour drive from Savannah, we did drive through some of the poorer sections. Using a book called Road Food as our guide, we searched the city for a variety of restaurants. The first one we tried was in a neighborhood not terribly far from downtown, just under an overpass for Route 10. An old brick, steepled church marked the entrance to the area, and the street, even though it was nearly noon, was completely empty. Many of the homes were either boarded up or clearly uninhabited. Most still bore spray paint inscriptions from the immediate aftermath of the hurricane. The restauraunt we were looking for, sitting on a corner, had been described in the book as lively and always packed on weekday afteroons (it was a Friday). It was closed, and looked to have been that way for quite sometime. Disappointed, and considerably somber, we chose another restaurant, and drove a few minutes across town, past more boarded up homes, down streets that felt more suitable for ghost towns of the Wild West than a major American city. This restaurant, too, was closed. It had closed during Katrina, and had simply never reopened.
Our third choice worked out; not only was it open, but it was a thriving, upscale cafe a few blocks from the French Quarter. And, after this, our experiences limited to the downtown portion of the city, it was easy to forget we were in a city that, for so many, represented a home town lost. Saturday night, before beginning our long haul back to Savannah, the three of us went down to Bourbon Street, figuring it was an integral part of the New Orleans experience. It was overwhelming, to be honest, and not really in a good way. The street was jammed for blocks on end, drunk college kids, many in costume for halloween, pouring out of bars and strip clubs. In a lot of ways, its a cess pool of debauchery and young people looking to fuck, and not a whole lot more. I mean, sure, it was vibrant, and I saw a few pairs of boobs, and Ron Jeremy walking out of one strip club and into another, but I couldn't help but wonder if this is what New Orleans had become. Sure, it's always been known as a place for debauchery and partying, and that lack of depth and structure and consequences has a strong American appeal (see Las Vegas), but in a city where so many people lost their lives, and their homes, is it really ok for a bunch of kids- most of them not actually from New Orleans- to come and mindlessly get drunk? Is that part of the healing process? Is the ability to party, without heeding the incredible tragedy all around you, a part of moving forward? Or does it represent a certain callousness that I fear pervades our world these days, a me first selfishness that puts personal pleasure above public good?
I honestly don't know. I can't say what New Orleans was like before Katrina- I'll never be able to know how the city was then. Nor can I even begin to think I know what is healthy for it in the long, slow process of rebuilding. I don't want to espouse on the spirit of the city, or its people, because really, I'm not qualified to. Still, I can say that in a place many of us left for dead, most of its residents consciously decided to come back and rebuild, knowing full well that another hurricane, another ruin, might lurk just around the bend. That speaks to a basic human attribute: our incredible ability to suffer pain, and loss, and to keep living. That, or our incredible stupidity in the face of overwhelming empircal evidence. But I'm feeling romantic today, so I'll classify it as the former- we don't know how, or when, to give up, not just as Americans or citizens of New Orleans, but as humans. We persevere, and that's an admirable thing.
So I guess that's how I'll end. I will say this: do visit New Orleans. Even if it's only to get drunk and see boobs on Bourbon Street. But I would hope you would go for more than that. Go to experience an integral part of our country and our history. Go to help with the rehabilitation. Mostly, go to think, go to reflect, and go to admire the persistence that is our human mark on this world.
8.12.07
Stop the killing
I'm aware this is a road trip blog, but I want to take a minute to address the recent tragedies in Florida and Nebraska. My condolences and prayers- our condolences and prayers- go out to Sean Taylor's family and friends, as well as the families of those killed in the horrific mall massacre in Omaha. I want to draw attention to a very topical, and well written piece by David Aldridge from the Philly Inquirer in response to Sean Taylor's death. I also want to add a piece I wrote in response to it. I hope you'll read both, say a prayer (I'm not even religious, but it can't hurt) and think about what can be done to stop this violence.
Tomorrow, I'm hoping to have my full Voodoo Fest re-cap, as well as a few thoughts on New Orleans. Until then, take care, and I hope everyone has a safe, enjoyable weekend.
David Aldridge's article in the November 29th Philadelphia Inquirer
In regards to Sean Taylor’s death, David Aldridge wrote a fantastic piece in the Inquirer today. I only have one problem with it: Aldridge addresses his article to black men. Painting this problem as a black problem, or even specifically a male problem, serves only to reinforce the idea that what is good for one group of Americans might not be for another. It reinforces the misconception, held since this country‘s beginning, that the interests of blacks and whites do not necessarily coincide; that they are somehow different.
While the facts of the matter are, yes, young black men are dying at an alarming rate, classifying them as black ignores the bigger problem. Young Americans are dying at an alarming rate, and not just overseas in the misguided and tragic Iraq war- they are dying here, on our own soil, on our own streets and in our own homes. This is not a black problem. Nor is it a white problem. It is an American problem.
That it has not been painted as simply a black problem allowed for an astounding degree of apathy. Because this string of violence has been painted as a “black“ problem, it has allowed the mostly white hunters in central Pennsylvania to turn their backs on gun laws, to fight diligently for their right to “bear arms” because, well, it isn’t them or their children dying. Because this is only a “black“ problem, it has allow the, mostly, white representatives in our state government to waffle and dawdle on gun control legislation. It has allowed them to ultimately acquiesce to the demands of the NRA, pressured by losing money, and most importantly, votes. Instead of enacting change, our government stands idly by while citizens of the commonwealth of Pennsylvania die every day at the barrel of a gun.
And painting gun violence as a “black” problem has allowed America to write off such tragedies as the Virginia Tech massacre last April, and the mall shootings in Omaha this past week, as isolated incidents. Because America views gun violence as a “black” problem, we’ve been able to ignore the fact that violence- and especially gun violence- is a national problem, and one that grows worse with each inner city child killed, each state legislature loosening gun control laws, and each absurdly violent sport that gains popular attention (mixed martial arts, ultimate fighting, etc…)
America has a problem with violence. We glorify it, and we excuse it. We don’t see anything wrong with someone wanting to buy more than one hand gun a month (a law in Pennsylvania that would limit hand gun purchases to one a month was recently defeated in the state legislature). We ignore the mounting death toll, and all too easily pass it off as a “black” problem, or an isolated incident. That such a respected journalist as Aldridge plays into this is unfortunate. That this has not been painted as an American epidemic has allowed white suburbanites like me to sit on my couch, and shake my head while watching Sportscenter, to bemoan the tragedy of such a young man like Sean Taylor dying…and then to zone out while watching LeBron throw down his next dunk ten minutes later, even while my brothers around the country die.
No, this is not just a problem for blacks. It is a problem that should concern whites and blacks, those in urban America and those in rural America, democrats and republicans. This is an American problem: our children, our friends, our husbands, our brothers, our heroes, and our sons are dying in our streets. And we have done nothing to stop it. We have sat idly by while our fellow man suffers and dies. I am as a guilty as the next person. But now I‘m tired. There is no place in a civilized society for automatic weapons. The second amendment was written at a time when even the most skilled marksmen could only fire three shots a minute; automatic weapons were not even thought technologically possible. The second amendment was written when America had no standing army or police forces, when the American frontier was wild and unsettled and dangerous. The times have changed. The second amendment is outdated and obsolete, and those who defend it are contributing to the deaths of thousands of Americans every year. When will enough Americans open their eyes, open their mouths, and demand that the killing stop?
Tomorrow, I'm hoping to have my full Voodoo Fest re-cap, as well as a few thoughts on New Orleans. Until then, take care, and I hope everyone has a safe, enjoyable weekend.
David Aldridge's article in the November 29th Philadelphia Inquirer
In regards to Sean Taylor’s death, David Aldridge wrote a fantastic piece in the Inquirer today. I only have one problem with it: Aldridge addresses his article to black men. Painting this problem as a black problem, or even specifically a male problem, serves only to reinforce the idea that what is good for one group of Americans might not be for another. It reinforces the misconception, held since this country‘s beginning, that the interests of blacks and whites do not necessarily coincide; that they are somehow different.
While the facts of the matter are, yes, young black men are dying at an alarming rate, classifying them as black ignores the bigger problem. Young Americans are dying at an alarming rate, and not just overseas in the misguided and tragic Iraq war- they are dying here, on our own soil, on our own streets and in our own homes. This is not a black problem. Nor is it a white problem. It is an American problem.
That it has not been painted as simply a black problem allowed for an astounding degree of apathy. Because this string of violence has been painted as a “black“ problem, it has allowed the mostly white hunters in central Pennsylvania to turn their backs on gun laws, to fight diligently for their right to “bear arms” because, well, it isn’t them or their children dying. Because this is only a “black“ problem, it has allow the, mostly, white representatives in our state government to waffle and dawdle on gun control legislation. It has allowed them to ultimately acquiesce to the demands of the NRA, pressured by losing money, and most importantly, votes. Instead of enacting change, our government stands idly by while citizens of the commonwealth of Pennsylvania die every day at the barrel of a gun.
And painting gun violence as a “black” problem has allowed America to write off such tragedies as the Virginia Tech massacre last April, and the mall shootings in Omaha this past week, as isolated incidents. Because America views gun violence as a “black” problem, we’ve been able to ignore the fact that violence- and especially gun violence- is a national problem, and one that grows worse with each inner city child killed, each state legislature loosening gun control laws, and each absurdly violent sport that gains popular attention (mixed martial arts, ultimate fighting, etc…)
America has a problem with violence. We glorify it, and we excuse it. We don’t see anything wrong with someone wanting to buy more than one hand gun a month (a law in Pennsylvania that would limit hand gun purchases to one a month was recently defeated in the state legislature). We ignore the mounting death toll, and all too easily pass it off as a “black” problem, or an isolated incident. That such a respected journalist as Aldridge plays into this is unfortunate. That this has not been painted as an American epidemic has allowed white suburbanites like me to sit on my couch, and shake my head while watching Sportscenter, to bemoan the tragedy of such a young man like Sean Taylor dying…and then to zone out while watching LeBron throw down his next dunk ten minutes later, even while my brothers around the country die.
No, this is not just a problem for blacks. It is a problem that should concern whites and blacks, those in urban America and those in rural America, democrats and republicans. This is an American problem: our children, our friends, our husbands, our brothers, our heroes, and our sons are dying in our streets. And we have done nothing to stop it. We have sat idly by while our fellow man suffers and dies. I am as a guilty as the next person. But now I‘m tired. There is no place in a civilized society for automatic weapons. The second amendment was written at a time when even the most skilled marksmen could only fire three shots a minute; automatic weapons were not even thought technologically possible. The second amendment was written when America had no standing army or police forces, when the American frontier was wild and unsettled and dangerous. The times have changed. The second amendment is outdated and obsolete, and those who defend it are contributing to the deaths of thousands of Americans every year. When will enough Americans open their eyes, open their mouths, and demand that the killing stop?
5.12.07
My NOLA Photos
Here is a slideshow of the photos I took during our trip to Voodoo Fest '07. Basically all the photos (unedited) so there are some crapy ones. I might end up going back and deleting some, as we need to free up disk space on our Picasa account. There is a really awesome feature on Picasa that lets you look at map of were you photos were taken. It requires a bit of extra time to add locations to your photos but for us it should be worth it. I have a link to our account in the sidebar, or yo can go right to the map of my photos here.
(Since the trip I've got a new camera which isn't 4 years old, and thus has better stabilization when not using the flash, as that aspect of my old Camera, was terrible.)
A quick not on the setup (setting up) of this blog. Being the tech guy of the group most of the setup rests on my shoulders, which I am more then happy with, however I also can be a bit picky and want the page to look better then nice. As you may or may not know, with wed design, as with many other computer arts fields, setting up the workflow can be tricky, and should not be overlooked or rushed. Making things editable and accessible to multiple contributors makes things more complex, and trying to do it all without spending a dime is even harder. Hopefully by the end of the year I will have worked out the kinks and have developed a smooth system that allows all of us to post entries, add pictures and stay updated while being in separate cities.
(Since the trip I've got a new camera which isn't 4 years old, and thus has better stabilization when not using the flash, as that aspect of my old Camera, was terrible.)
A quick not on the setup (setting up) of this blog. Being the tech guy of the group most of the setup rests on my shoulders, which I am more then happy with, however I also can be a bit picky and want the page to look better then nice. As you may or may not know, with wed design, as with many other computer arts fields, setting up the workflow can be tricky, and should not be overlooked or rushed. Making things editable and accessible to multiple contributors makes things more complex, and trying to do it all without spending a dime is even harder. Hopefully by the end of the year I will have worked out the kinks and have developed a smooth system that allows all of us to post entries, add pictures and stay updated while being in separate cities.
Thoughts at six a.m.
It's six a.m....dreaded finals season in colleges across America. I just wanted to ads a few thoughts. First, the title True Patriots means something to me, too. I don't remember if I had any input in the title- maybe?- but if I did, I would have chosen the name true patriots for a wonderful encounter I had on a family road trip this summer.
It was a brutally cold, rainy August night in Green Bay, Wisconsin, and the Pahl family had acquired much sought after tickets to the Packers-Seahawks preseason game at hallowed Lambeau Field (really...they were much sought after...they were being scalped for 200 bucks outside the stadium). We found our seats, about fifty rows up on the ice cold, aluminum bleachers, and settled in for a long, wet evening of sloppy football. I was sitting on the far left edge of our row, with my brother, the ever colorful Nate Pahl, to my right. Our parents were a few seats down, as was our younger sister.
Now, it's pouring rain- just coming down in sheets. So, the teams finish warm ups, a big American flag is unfurled on the field, and the stadium rises, in unison, for the National Anthem. Without thinking, my brother and I do not remove the hoods from our garish yellow ponchos as the Star Spangled Banner kicks into gear. Again, it's pouring fucking rain, like a biblical rainfall here, so over 80 percent of the stadium neglects to remove their ponchos, too. Unfortunately, 80 percent of the stadium is not sitting in front of the total drunken shithead that Nate Pahl and I are sitting in front of.
This guy, henceforth referred to as shithead, is about 300 pounds, short, squat, and round as a boulder. He's decked out in camoflage, an orange hunting hat, and looks like he just spent eight years in the mountains- this dude hasn't shaved in months. He's also hammered drunk. And, as Nate Pahl and I are about to find out, one hell of a patriot.
About two lines into the anthem, shithead taps Nate Pahl on the shoulder. "Hey, show some respect for your country. Uncover your head. Honor America." Nate Pahl, without really thinking, reaches up and slides the hood of his poncho off his head, appeasing, only slightly, shithead. Now, he comes after me. "You, too" he growls and slurs. "On the end. Show some respect for this country and those who died for it. Uncover your head."
I turn around, slowly, so as not to get my head wet (I hate wet hair). "Dude," I say. "It's pouring. No way. I don't feel like getting soaked." There is no fucking way I'm taking this poncho off, especially for this guy.
Shithead dives in for more: "If you don't uncover your head right now, you aren't a patriot." I swear on my dead dog's grave (rip, Cocoa), this guy actually said this. Verbatim.
Now, I'm not one to get all hot and bothered about patriotism. I'm the guy who said, earlier this summer at a baseball game, "I'm not singing God Bless America because I miss the seventh inning stretch. God Bless America is propoganda. Oh, and fuck George Bush." (really, though, fuck George Bush). Still, I love my country. I love it to death, and that is why it pains me to see a silver spoon asshole like George Bush desecrating our constitution, trampling our civil liberties, and sending our men and women to die to feed his pathetic ego. It pains me even more to see dumb fucks like this drunk ass tossing around words like "patriot" and "freedom" as if they were weapons. Sitting in Lambeau Field, being berated by right wing talking points, I'm righteously pissed off. Thus, my love of country re-ignited, I turn, slowly, and look this drunken, slobbering, rotund bastard in the eye. "Sir," I say. "I love my country. And unlike you, I don't have to take my fucking hat off to prove it."
Taken aback, Shithead leaves me alone. Nate Pahl looks at me, surprised, and, doing the sensible thing, puts his hood back on. Shithead objects, and reaches down and pulls Nate Pahl's hood off his head. Nate Pahl, enraged, spins around and is now standing toe to toe with a 300 pound, drunken, grizzled Wisconsinite.
Now, for those who don't know Nate Pahl, he's an imposing figure. He's about an inch shy of six feet, with a shaved head. He's a big ass guy, with broad shoulders and a neck the size of Delaware. He's fucking jacked, and as he will be quick to tell you, he reps on the bench at 255. He could kick my ass in a heart beat. Anyway. Nate Pahl, glowing red with fury, stares this shithead down, and says "If you touch me again, I will fucking kill you." And I don't doubt the fact that Nate Pahl would have.
Luckily (sadly?), my father stepped in and difused the situation. Shithead went back to his beers and Nate Pahl stewed by himself, at one point espousing on his distaste for the midwest, and his desire to return to "civilization" (the east coast). For maybe the first time ever, Nate Pahl and I were on the same side in an idealogical battle. It felt nice.
What does this have to do with the title "True Patriots?" Honestly, not all that much, except that I occasionally like to refer to myself as a patriot in jest. Still, there's a fifty percent chance I actually thought up that title, and if I did, it's absolutely because of that story.
Lastly, I just want to echo the eloquent and wise words of Pinks. This is a trip about getting to know our country, good and bad, beautiful and ugly, profound and mundane. It is a trip about enhancing our perspective, and hopefully opening our eyes to people and problems we did not know existed. It's a trip about meeting people- and maybe even sitting down with that shithead, throwing back a beer, and finding some common ground that we have as humans and Americans (Go Pack Go!). It is an educational trip in every sense of the word. We welcome people to have a dialogue with us (I promise I will not call you shitheads or any other vulgar names...I can't speak for Pinks. He's part bovine, you know...unpredictable and wily). We want people to recommend places to visit, people to meet, food to eat. We want to meet as many people as possible through this trip.
And that brings me to my last thought. This trip is also about friendship. It's about searching for those rare, unexpected moments of transcendence that can only occur with the people you love most- those moments that ultimately define our lives, and help to give them meaning. Perhaps that's a selfish reason for taking this trip, but it is my biggest reason- I want to spend more time with these guys, I want to experience as much of this world, this life, as I can with them.
It was a brutally cold, rainy August night in Green Bay, Wisconsin, and the Pahl family had acquired much sought after tickets to the Packers-Seahawks preseason game at hallowed Lambeau Field (really...they were much sought after...they were being scalped for 200 bucks outside the stadium). We found our seats, about fifty rows up on the ice cold, aluminum bleachers, and settled in for a long, wet evening of sloppy football. I was sitting on the far left edge of our row, with my brother, the ever colorful Nate Pahl, to my right. Our parents were a few seats down, as was our younger sister.
Now, it's pouring rain- just coming down in sheets. So, the teams finish warm ups, a big American flag is unfurled on the field, and the stadium rises, in unison, for the National Anthem. Without thinking, my brother and I do not remove the hoods from our garish yellow ponchos as the Star Spangled Banner kicks into gear. Again, it's pouring fucking rain, like a biblical rainfall here, so over 80 percent of the stadium neglects to remove their ponchos, too. Unfortunately, 80 percent of the stadium is not sitting in front of the total drunken shithead that Nate Pahl and I are sitting in front of.
This guy, henceforth referred to as shithead, is about 300 pounds, short, squat, and round as a boulder. He's decked out in camoflage, an orange hunting hat, and looks like he just spent eight years in the mountains- this dude hasn't shaved in months. He's also hammered drunk. And, as Nate Pahl and I are about to find out, one hell of a patriot.
About two lines into the anthem, shithead taps Nate Pahl on the shoulder. "Hey, show some respect for your country. Uncover your head. Honor America." Nate Pahl, without really thinking, reaches up and slides the hood of his poncho off his head, appeasing, only slightly, shithead. Now, he comes after me. "You, too" he growls and slurs. "On the end. Show some respect for this country and those who died for it. Uncover your head."
I turn around, slowly, so as not to get my head wet (I hate wet hair). "Dude," I say. "It's pouring. No way. I don't feel like getting soaked." There is no fucking way I'm taking this poncho off, especially for this guy.
Shithead dives in for more: "If you don't uncover your head right now, you aren't a patriot." I swear on my dead dog's grave (rip, Cocoa), this guy actually said this. Verbatim.
Now, I'm not one to get all hot and bothered about patriotism. I'm the guy who said, earlier this summer at a baseball game, "I'm not singing God Bless America because I miss the seventh inning stretch. God Bless America is propoganda. Oh, and fuck George Bush." (really, though, fuck George Bush). Still, I love my country. I love it to death, and that is why it pains me to see a silver spoon asshole like George Bush desecrating our constitution, trampling our civil liberties, and sending our men and women to die to feed his pathetic ego. It pains me even more to see dumb fucks like this drunk ass tossing around words like "patriot" and "freedom" as if they were weapons. Sitting in Lambeau Field, being berated by right wing talking points, I'm righteously pissed off. Thus, my love of country re-ignited, I turn, slowly, and look this drunken, slobbering, rotund bastard in the eye. "Sir," I say. "I love my country. And unlike you, I don't have to take my fucking hat off to prove it."
Taken aback, Shithead leaves me alone. Nate Pahl looks at me, surprised, and, doing the sensible thing, puts his hood back on. Shithead objects, and reaches down and pulls Nate Pahl's hood off his head. Nate Pahl, enraged, spins around and is now standing toe to toe with a 300 pound, drunken, grizzled Wisconsinite.
Now, for those who don't know Nate Pahl, he's an imposing figure. He's about an inch shy of six feet, with a shaved head. He's a big ass guy, with broad shoulders and a neck the size of Delaware. He's fucking jacked, and as he will be quick to tell you, he reps on the bench at 255. He could kick my ass in a heart beat. Anyway. Nate Pahl, glowing red with fury, stares this shithead down, and says "If you touch me again, I will fucking kill you." And I don't doubt the fact that Nate Pahl would have.
Luckily (sadly?), my father stepped in and difused the situation. Shithead went back to his beers and Nate Pahl stewed by himself, at one point espousing on his distaste for the midwest, and his desire to return to "civilization" (the east coast). For maybe the first time ever, Nate Pahl and I were on the same side in an idealogical battle. It felt nice.
What does this have to do with the title "True Patriots?" Honestly, not all that much, except that I occasionally like to refer to myself as a patriot in jest. Still, there's a fifty percent chance I actually thought up that title, and if I did, it's absolutely because of that story.
Lastly, I just want to echo the eloquent and wise words of Pinks. This is a trip about getting to know our country, good and bad, beautiful and ugly, profound and mundane. It is a trip about enhancing our perspective, and hopefully opening our eyes to people and problems we did not know existed. It's a trip about meeting people- and maybe even sitting down with that shithead, throwing back a beer, and finding some common ground that we have as humans and Americans (Go Pack Go!). It is an educational trip in every sense of the word. We welcome people to have a dialogue with us (I promise I will not call you shitheads or any other vulgar names...I can't speak for Pinks. He's part bovine, you know...unpredictable and wily). We want people to recommend places to visit, people to meet, food to eat. We want to meet as many people as possible through this trip.
And that brings me to my last thought. This trip is also about friendship. It's about searching for those rare, unexpected moments of transcendence that can only occur with the people you love most- those moments that ultimately define our lives, and help to give them meaning. Perhaps that's a selfish reason for taking this trip, but it is my biggest reason- I want to spend more time with these guys, I want to experience as much of this world, this life, as I can with them.
4.12.07
Thoughts
I am so sleep-deprived, malnourished, and stoned that I can barely see straight. My stomach is making fucking weird noises and my brain feels like pudding. Ah, so is finals week at Bates College. As I sit in my Medieval Art class, a Tuesday night 7:30-10:30 tradition, barely able to understand the words that are coming out of my professors mouth, I decide to just phase them out and take a nice trip down memory lane. Pictures that initially make me smile and give me an adrenaline rush to recall eventually bring frowns as I compare my current dismal situation to the whimsical, dare I say, swashbuckling? adventure that was our glorious trip to New Orleans. The only thing that sustains me during these dark times and preserves my will to live is the crystal clear image inside my head of stepping into a car (or van, or whatever, yet to be decided) on a beautiful Swarthmore summer afternoon and just going. I know there is a deeper, more profound purpose to our Odyssey, but fuck it, I'd be happy just driving around, crossing borders, smoking joints and camping out. Anyway, I posted the following pictures in no logical order. I guess it was because food is on my mind, which is drifting. I can't wait to get out of this dungeon, eat a pot brownie, watch Tin Man and pass out cold after being up for about thirty hours straight. I will have more to say when I am in a saner state of mind. Until then...peace.
Et Toufe... Our first meal in New Orleans
The Three getting their picture taken by a couple of really friendly southern ladies (who totally had a boner for me)
Stoop boys
A note on our title
I chose the name True Patriots as the title our blog for a few reasons, and so we don't look like total jerks I will try and explain it. First off we are patriots, we are all truly proud to be living in this country and can't wait to explore its diverse geographical and cultural composition. The United States of America covers about 3,793,079 square miles, spans across 4 time zones, and is home to approximately 302,927,000 people.
The three of us have been privileged to grow up in middle-class households, and although we have on occasions abused opportunities given to us, I think we understand how blessed our young lives have been. That being said, we certainly have no illusions that our lifestyles, and those of the people around us are the only ways of living. In fact, we all feel that some the people our backgrounds have surrounded us by, our decidedly out of touch with the country they live in. With the hopes of better defining the word American, and its countless variations, we will drive through as much of this country as time and our limited budget will allow. I believe that this truly is patriotic.
I must now take second to recognize the very legitimate and obvious fact that there is a whole world outside of the U.S.A. While this undoubtedly true, and I know there are many places across the globe that would astonish me, greatly expand my world view, and hopefully bring light to my understanding of the human condition, this trip is partially about understand our development, current standing, and future within modern American culture. Hopefully, after achieving this, I can one day explore the world and get a better perspective on my significance as a human being, and American.
Getting back to the title, and reason for this post, I will now cut the shit and revile the actual, and very shallow, reason I choose this title of True Patriots, to guilt and shame friends into coming on the adventure. It is a tactic we have all seen the picks in the GOP use countless times, often quite effectively (I must note that our Democrats are morally above this strategy, they just lack the balls needed to make it work). Here is an example of my intended use:
The three of us have been privileged to grow up in middle-class households, and although we have on occasions abused opportunities given to us, I think we understand how blessed our young lives have been. That being said, we certainly have no illusions that our lifestyles, and those of the people around us are the only ways of living. In fact, we all feel that some the people our backgrounds have surrounded us by, our decidedly out of touch with the country they live in. With the hopes of better defining the word American, and its countless variations, we will drive through as much of this country as time and our limited budget will allow. I believe that this truly is patriotic.
I must now take second to recognize the very legitimate and obvious fact that there is a whole world outside of the U.S.A. While this undoubtedly true, and I know there are many places across the globe that would astonish me, greatly expand my world view, and hopefully bring light to my understanding of the human condition, this trip is partially about understand our development, current standing, and future within modern American culture. Hopefully, after achieving this, I can one day explore the world and get a better perspective on my significance as a human being, and American.
Getting back to the title, and reason for this post, I will now cut the shit and revile the actual, and very shallow, reason I choose this title of True Patriots, to guilt and shame friends into coming on the adventure. It is a tactic we have all seen the picks in the GOP use countless times, often quite effectively (I must note that our Democrats are morally above this strategy, they just lack the balls needed to make it work). Here is an example of my intended use:
Me: Hey, you should come on our road trip next summer.Seriously, thats why I thought of the name. Does that make everything you've read to this point bullshit? Absolutely not! I honestly feel that way, and did before I picked the name. I just had not yet put it words. In the end I think that though the title may have come about because of a stupid joke, it did feel right to me, and it contains truth about us and our ambitions for the voyage. By the end of it I hope we prove ourselves worthy.
Friend: Eh, dude, thats a lot of driving. We should just, like, backpack across Europe or something?
Me: Europe? Don't you love your country? Are you terrorist? A real patriot would love to be dragged by a car across America.
Friend: What are talking about? That doesn't even make any sense.
Me: Of course it doesn't make sense to you. You unpatriotic bastard.
Route Possiblities
Here are possible routes that Hoosier and I have concocted.
(The links will take you to a Google Map version of the journey.)
My proposed route
Hoosier's path to glory
The direction of the trip is still undeceided, we could head southwest cross the country and the come back east via the northern states, or do the opposite. Either way, we have started to establish a list of places we want to see.
Key stops-
(Please note these are not all the places we want to stop, rather the spots we have planned our routes around. Please see the linked Google maps we have setup to look at the path, not only the spots.)
(The links will take you to a Google Map version of the journey.)
My proposed route
Hoosier's path to glory
The direction of the trip is still undeceided, we could head southwest cross the country and the come back east via the northern states, or do the opposite. Either way, we have started to establish a list of places we want to see.
Key stops-
(Please note these are not all the places we want to stop, rather the spots we have planned our routes around. Please see the linked Google maps we have setup to look at the path, not only the spots.)
- Nashville & Memphis, Tennessee
- Austin, Texas (Schlitterbahn)
- Santa Fe, New Mexico
- Denver, Colorado
- The Great Salt Lake, Springdale, Utah (Robert Smithson's Spiral Jetty & Zion National Park)
- Las Vegas, Nevada (Hoover Dam & Vegas Strip)
- San Diego, Los Angeles, San Francisco, California (Pacific Coast Highway)
- Vancouver, BC
- Montana (Glacier National Park)
- Wyoming (Yellowstone National Park)
- The plains of North Dakota, South Dakota, Nebraska, or Kansas
Our Mission
Hoosier here. So, this is where it begins. Sometime next summer, with a cast of characters yet to be fully assembled, Pinks, Rock, and myself will embark on a one month journey across this beautiful country of ours. We plan on documenting the proceedings- the planning, the implementation, the after math- for those of you who might care to follow us on our journey or give us advice along the way (all five of you who find the three of us interesting). We'll try to make it as interesting as possible, with photos, anectdotes, and perhaps even a little philosophizing along the way. We'll take a few "training" road trips throughout the course of the next nine months or so, and we'll throw up any interesting details from those, too. Thus, to start, I'll end my first post with a little something I wrote before the three of us drove, sleep deprived and slightly inebriated (those of us not driving), from Savannah to New Orleans and back again at the end of October. Hopefully it'll give you an idea of what's to come.
October 25, 2007
"Crossing a causeway outside of Savannah, Georgia, beneath a stone grey sky flecked with purplish-pinkish flashes of sunlight, the three of us were hit with an idea. We were on our way to Tybee Island, for what Pinks had called “a ritual cleansing” in the Atlantic Ocean. I had dubbed it our “baptism of the road.” We were about to embark on the first of what, we hoped, would be many overly ambitious, thoroughly exhausting, drug addled, sexually fruitious road trips. Somewhere on this causeway, most of the way through our first joint (I would abstain), one of us (does it matter who?) had an idea.
“Why don’t we just become travel writers? Like, travel around and write about it. We’re smart guys. We’re good writers. We’re funny. I know a lot of people who would read us write about ourselves traveling.”
All of us agreed. Why not be travel writers? We're all seniors in college (some of us more so than others), and decidedly unsure of where our lives might be headed within the year. So travel writers it would be.
Immediately upon making this decision, we were hit with a serious problem: how to find an un-trodden path through a well worn genre? The road trip narrative is as over done in American literature as, well, as about anything. Since Kerouac’s “On The Road,” the American road trip has been seen as a right of passage both serious and funny. It helps young men come of age, widowers weather mid life crises, and families reconcile, if only temporarily their differences. The point is simple though: in America, if you can just take to the open road, you’ll somehow find yourself.
Within these various genres, folks tend to take a few specific angles. There are the young, immature guys who hit the road and, after seeing their “real” country, are moved to action and live a pure life (think Into the Wild, or the Motorcycle Diaries)…this can also double as a “last stand” type trip, where friends take a trip to celebrate the end of “freedom,” via either marriage or entrance into the world of responsibilities or jobs.
There is the older man/woman, suddenly alone and lost in the world, that hits the road and sees the country for what it is- and finds a reason to keep living (About Schmidt). And there’s the satirical road trip, in which a dysfunctional band of people is forced into travel, and encounter all sorts of characters and bumpkins and realize that deep down, we're all more or less the same.
These three/four angles are usually presented from one of two views: there is either the Kerouac, outsiders looking in from the outside offering an alternative (and often condescending) view, or there’s the overly sacharin, Disneyland, small town America that comes across as too genuine to be possibly be true.
Faced with the task of tackling this already overdone, tired canon, what were we to do? Were there any new angles to circle and make our own? Were there any corners of this country that had not been criss crossed and thoroughly covered? Any obscure events that might have flown under the radar? Our answers, in quick succession: no; probably not, and if there are they have not been covered for a reason; and likely, but obscurity for the sake of obscurity is neither original, nor artistic, nor particularly fun.
Being baptized in the surprisingly lukewarm, unsurprisingly gloomy and grey Atlantic, I thought of our own motivations for our coming trips. Were we hoping to find ourselves? Maybe. In some sense, I think we were going out of an obligation to travel, to use our quickly dying youth to take in experiences that would no longer be possible once we integrated into society at large. Above all, I think, we were looking to appease that undying American (human?) inkling, that whispering deep in the soul, that begs to run, to take one’s life and individuality by the throat and just explore. To hell with structure and jobs and kids, it says- adventure, be spontaneous. Live. Still, we worried- was there anything in this of interest to anyone but ourselves?
Drying off on the rock strewn beach while a man fished some hundreds of feet from us and an abandoned revolutionary era fort loomed over us all, I couldn’t help but think back to earlier that afternoon in Savannah- that classic Southern town of old Victorian mansions, and Spanish moss laden squares, and endearing oddities. We’d encountered a man in a small, second story art studio in a small market in some corner of the city. He was old, his face wrinkled and fading like the limestone grave markers of the cities cemeteries. He had a shaggy white beard. He was surrounded by vibrant paintings, although none of them would pass for high art. He sat at an easel and worked diligently, and peacefully, on another ordinary, mundane painting- but one that he no doubt put his whole life into. We struck up a conversation with him, and found out he’d come to Savannah 12 years before from Philadelphia, leaving behind a stable job and quite a bit of money. “I saw a chance to re-invent my life at fifty and took it. At some point, you realize there are more rewarding things than money in life. I’m not lighting the world on fire here, but I’ve found a little place for me.”
Ah, but of course. Re-invention. That, perhaps above all, is what the road offers. Re-invention, a fresh start, free from constraints of the past or expectations for the future. Life is as blank as a west Texas plain at dawn.
This is a story that has been told countless times. This will not be the last time it is told. But the devil, they say, is in the details. Perhaps the most American idea of them all, yea, the most democratic of all our American ideals, is that each and every one of us has a unique story to tell; not necessarily for its extraordinary-ness, but for our own, personal way in which we tell that oft-told tale. This unique, intimate take on America from the road is all we can offer. Maybe it will be enough. It might not, of course. But as we cross the Savannah River, a phosphorescent orange and maroon sun setting over the refineries and tankers, the clouds glowing and thin as wafers, what the point of this trip is, and whether it is new or unique or enough, does not seem important. We ascend the crest, then fall, the highway opening in front of us. We’ve got a full tank of gas, a bottle of bourbon, a pack of smokes, and a couple of joints. We’re off, on the road, and anything seems possible.
(and maybe it really is…)"
October 25, 2007
"Crossing a causeway outside of Savannah, Georgia, beneath a stone grey sky flecked with purplish-pinkish flashes of sunlight, the three of us were hit with an idea. We were on our way to Tybee Island, for what Pinks had called “a ritual cleansing” in the Atlantic Ocean. I had dubbed it our “baptism of the road.” We were about to embark on the first of what, we hoped, would be many overly ambitious, thoroughly exhausting, drug addled, sexually fruitious road trips. Somewhere on this causeway, most of the way through our first joint (I would abstain), one of us (does it matter who?) had an idea.
“Why don’t we just become travel writers? Like, travel around and write about it. We’re smart guys. We’re good writers. We’re funny. I know a lot of people who would read us write about ourselves traveling.”
All of us agreed. Why not be travel writers? We're all seniors in college (some of us more so than others), and decidedly unsure of where our lives might be headed within the year. So travel writers it would be.
Immediately upon making this decision, we were hit with a serious problem: how to find an un-trodden path through a well worn genre? The road trip narrative is as over done in American literature as, well, as about anything. Since Kerouac’s “On The Road,” the American road trip has been seen as a right of passage both serious and funny. It helps young men come of age, widowers weather mid life crises, and families reconcile, if only temporarily their differences. The point is simple though: in America, if you can just take to the open road, you’ll somehow find yourself.
Within these various genres, folks tend to take a few specific angles. There are the young, immature guys who hit the road and, after seeing their “real” country, are moved to action and live a pure life (think Into the Wild, or the Motorcycle Diaries)…this can also double as a “last stand” type trip, where friends take a trip to celebrate the end of “freedom,” via either marriage or entrance into the world of responsibilities or jobs.
There is the older man/woman, suddenly alone and lost in the world, that hits the road and sees the country for what it is- and finds a reason to keep living (About Schmidt). And there’s the satirical road trip, in which a dysfunctional band of people is forced into travel, and encounter all sorts of characters and bumpkins and realize that deep down, we're all more or less the same.
These three/four angles are usually presented from one of two views: there is either the Kerouac, outsiders looking in from the outside offering an alternative (and often condescending) view, or there’s the overly sacharin, Disneyland, small town America that comes across as too genuine to be possibly be true.
Faced with the task of tackling this already overdone, tired canon, what were we to do? Were there any new angles to circle and make our own? Were there any corners of this country that had not been criss crossed and thoroughly covered? Any obscure events that might have flown under the radar? Our answers, in quick succession: no; probably not, and if there are they have not been covered for a reason; and likely, but obscurity for the sake of obscurity is neither original, nor artistic, nor particularly fun.
Being baptized in the surprisingly lukewarm, unsurprisingly gloomy and grey Atlantic, I thought of our own motivations for our coming trips. Were we hoping to find ourselves? Maybe. In some sense, I think we were going out of an obligation to travel, to use our quickly dying youth to take in experiences that would no longer be possible once we integrated into society at large. Above all, I think, we were looking to appease that undying American (human?) inkling, that whispering deep in the soul, that begs to run, to take one’s life and individuality by the throat and just explore. To hell with structure and jobs and kids, it says- adventure, be spontaneous. Live. Still, we worried- was there anything in this of interest to anyone but ourselves?
Drying off on the rock strewn beach while a man fished some hundreds of feet from us and an abandoned revolutionary era fort loomed over us all, I couldn’t help but think back to earlier that afternoon in Savannah- that classic Southern town of old Victorian mansions, and Spanish moss laden squares, and endearing oddities. We’d encountered a man in a small, second story art studio in a small market in some corner of the city. He was old, his face wrinkled and fading like the limestone grave markers of the cities cemeteries. He had a shaggy white beard. He was surrounded by vibrant paintings, although none of them would pass for high art. He sat at an easel and worked diligently, and peacefully, on another ordinary, mundane painting- but one that he no doubt put his whole life into. We struck up a conversation with him, and found out he’d come to Savannah 12 years before from Philadelphia, leaving behind a stable job and quite a bit of money. “I saw a chance to re-invent my life at fifty and took it. At some point, you realize there are more rewarding things than money in life. I’m not lighting the world on fire here, but I’ve found a little place for me.”
Ah, but of course. Re-invention. That, perhaps above all, is what the road offers. Re-invention, a fresh start, free from constraints of the past or expectations for the future. Life is as blank as a west Texas plain at dawn.
This is a story that has been told countless times. This will not be the last time it is told. But the devil, they say, is in the details. Perhaps the most American idea of them all, yea, the most democratic of all our American ideals, is that each and every one of us has a unique story to tell; not necessarily for its extraordinary-ness, but for our own, personal way in which we tell that oft-told tale. This unique, intimate take on America from the road is all we can offer. Maybe it will be enough. It might not, of course. But as we cross the Savannah River, a phosphorescent orange and maroon sun setting over the refineries and tankers, the clouds glowing and thin as wafers, what the point of this trip is, and whether it is new or unique or enough, does not seem important. We ascend the crest, then fall, the highway opening in front of us. We’ve got a full tank of gas, a bottle of bourbon, a pack of smokes, and a couple of joints. We’re off, on the road, and anything seems possible.
(and maybe it really is…)"
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