Brief notes on writing and an American epidemic

A few notes:

-My posts will be fewer and further between because I am a very busy man. I'm taking 6 classes, working 30 hours a week, attempting to put together a portfolio of writing for grad school aps, and reading "Ulysses" which is a total bitch of a book. All this said, I am still going to attempt to write two posts a week. I'm formulating one based around the election- basically, I'm an Obama man myself, and to celebrate his victories last week, and in preview of the upcoming primary in Wisconsin, I wanted to write about the wonderful road trip possibilities of Maryland, Virginia, Washington D.C., and Wisconsin. I've spent a lot of time driving through all these places (family in Wisconsin, a best friend in Baltimore, and an ex-girlfriend in Virginia will do that to you), and they all offer up some fantastic opportunities for a long weekend drive.

-I want to respond briefly to two of Andrew's posts. I, too, want to drive through Montana. I'm not sure what the appeal is, but the words "big sky country" conjure in me images of vast, windblown plains beneath a lustrous, clear afternoon sky filled with languid cumulous clouds drifting past. It's a place that, to me, embodies the spirit of a road trip: nothing but open road in both directions, no one but you and your car and some good tunes. You roll your windows down, let in the sweet smelling, mild great plains air, and just cruise until you can't cruise anymore. So as you can see, my desire to drive through Montana is more cliche than Andrew's- I'm not one who drives for the sake of accomplishment, I drive for those token moments of American transcendence that have made "road travelogues" such an emblematic part of our culture.

The second post of Andrew's I'll address is the one about The College of New Jersey, also affectionately called the NGay. Yes, Andrew and I do have some mighty fond memories of our trips to the NGay. My experience at TCNJ can be summed up by a hungover me jolting awake in horror at around 8:30 am, fully clothed and sitting upright, a dull headache pulsing in my temples, wondering where in the fuck I am and how in the fuck I got here. It's not a terribly glorious legacy, or one that I would recommend anyone try to replicate, but it's what I've got. My latest sojourn to the NGay resulted in Joe cooking a shitload of pasta, the two of us pounding an entire bottle of rum in about 30 minutes, a spirited round of darts, me falling into a bush, and some wildly inappropriate facebook messaging (I apologize, Sarah Schachner...I hardly knew ye'). Needless to say, everything that took place after the bottle of rum is hazy at best in my memory. It was dangerously irresponsible, but also way, way, way too much fun. God bless the NGay.

-On a far more sobering and responsible note:
In lieu of the tragic shootings at Northern Illinois University, and as we near the one year anniversary of the Virgina Tech massacre, I want to reiterate a point I made a few months ago after the untimely and tragic death of Sean Taylor: this country has a serious, serious violence problem. Gun violence is the most extreme form of this epidemic, but violence is every where in America- from football to video games to the disturbing rise in popularity of the barbaric MMA fighting shows and their ilk. This is not a black problem nor a white problem. It's not a male problem or a female problem. It's an American problem. Until we pragmatically address these issues- by seriously analyzing why we're so drawn to the spectacle of two men beating each other to a pulp, by enacting real gun control legislation- tragic events like the ones in DeKalb, Illinois, and Blacksburg, Virginia, will continue to be a regular part of our news cycle. I'm aware this is not road trip-centric, but I did take a trip to Northern Illinois University in the fall of my junior year. I was working for the Temple football team, and we had a game in DeKalb. I was only there for a night, but the students I met went out of their way to be hospitable and kind. The campus seemed to be a vibrant community in the midst of a vast nothingness (oh the corn fields of the midwest...). I hope those students I met are safe and with their families. Our prayers go out to those students who were injured, and especially to the families of those who lost their lives.

I want to drive across Montana...

I think I remember hearing my parents talk about they'd like to retire there. They haven't. Im not sure how serious they were, but the idea stuck with me. I know nothing of the state. It has a few national parks, bears, and lots of room for a few people. Which is exactly why I want to go there.

Although I wouldn't oppose the idea of living there, in a different time in my life, right now I simply want to cruise, no speed across it's highways. And also stop for some food and drink. The same can be said for the Plains states. An open endless highway.

The appeal has nothing to do with the cliched reasons... freedom and possibilities, that doesn't enter into it. I like the mission. Like many things, it goes back to my parents, my dad. I remember driving with him, to New York, soccer tournaments, North Carolina, wherever. I should take this time to point out that my father is an excellent driver, a skill which I have also inherited. There is a natural sense of achievement that goes along with driving. Point A to Point B. Mission accomplished. Of course, the chance to see or do something outside the daily routine is nice as an experience in its own right, but for me, literally, the drive is enough.

Voodoo Recap: The drive

So hopefully you've read our previous posts about your trip to New Orleans and Voodoo Fest 2007. Hoosier's pre-trip outlook can be read here and pictures from the trip also up. So now, months later, it's time for my full recap and a few thoughts.

The way I see it the trip can be split into three chapters: The drive, the festival, and the city. Im going to do a post for each.

The drive was a long one, riddled with stupidity and stuttering from the start, which I take full responsibility for. We left my place heading the wrong direction, literally. I had to show Roc the bridge over the Savannah river. Besides being the source of a few good stories, it has traditionally marked the beginning or end of many a long drive. Also, on a nice foggy morning, I love driving up the bridge, as it rises into the nothingness, its the best way to begin a trip, but more on that later. After seeing the bridge, I put us back on course heading south, but not for long.

Only an hour or so later I was taking us on another detour, this time to see a friend in Brunswick. Alex, is one those people whose charm and childlike humility can only be found south of the Mason Dixon, and despite his bushy red beard and extensive tattoo collection, you instantly feel at ease and free to speak as if you've known each-other for several years. Add a few bowls,and you will end up babbling back and forth. I hadn't seen him much since he moved south of Savannah, so why not stop along the way?

So it was about 9, 10 at night now and Alex was busy convincing us how insane we were for planning on driving all the way to New Orleans that night, and I was still locked in a state of denial, saying "No. It won't be to bad. We'll pull over and sleep for a few hours on the side of the road and we'll be fine." Either way, it was time to get back on the road. And after popping our Whataburger cherries, and seeing proof that they like things bigger in Texas, we were back on 95 south. I would now like to say that there was no really good way to do this trip that would accommodate our schoolwork, wallets, and schedule. We had to be in New Orleans by Friday afternoonish and is at-least a 10+ hour drive from Savannah. Rather then waking at the earliest hours of the night and driving direct, I decided to take a more leisurely pace

Soon after, it was time to head west, and that means the Bible Beltway, I-10. For many young, liberal northerners, this would be the time to shit on the local Christians responsible for the billboards reminding us that their is only one white male God, whose politics seem to fall inline with American fascists like Curt Weldon. But these signs really don't bother me, because as fucked as they are, and as evil as the frauds are who promote and profit from spewing this bile, at-least their is a sort of honesty in them. Which is more then you can say for most, if not all, conglomerates who use their sock piles of reserve cash to create giant eye-sores of lies, false-promises, and general phonyism. This why I cant wait to drive across Montana and North Dakota, because I have this idea in my head of an open highway drive, where you can see the horizon in any direction, and no billboards for a hundred miles. Now that I have that out of my system, we'll get back to the trip.

Next stop was Tallahassee, to see another lost friend. Like Alex, Rush has those extra hospitality and easy going genes that don't seem to like cold temperatures. So, we chatted about this, that, and the third over a few beers, and not very slowly or subtly, sleep crept upon all of us. I think we got to his place around 1:45 or 2, and we planned on sleeping until 4. We were still about 6 hours from New Orleans, and about 8 into the trip. After we awoke and thanked our generous host, we were off, again. 6 AM stop at Waffle House (A Waffle House along a major highway, has to be one of the safest places ever. At the right times, its a though looking crowd in there. You'd have to be batshitcrazy to start trouble in a Waffle house.). Two hour nap at the road stop before the Louisiana boarder. Short controlled burst, think of the Halo 3 Battle rifle. Shot people in the head, take cover. Drive a few hundred miles, take a nap.

The coolest part of the drive is certainly driving along the causeways of Alabama/Mississippi/Louisiana. As I said before, theirs something bizarrely powerful about driving on a near transparent structure in the air over water; ... simply its like flying. At least it is to me. And with a low thick fog, you plunge into the clouds and you find yourself in a unfamiliar context. The last miles into New Orleans couldn't be more unnerving , and upsetting. Communities one after another in ruin, deserted, empty. But that is were I will pick up in the next part of this Voodoo 07 Recap.
Next, my time in New Orleans.

Its a small world, even with all this cyberspace.

This morning I woke up and read Hoosier's post, and thought to myself, "Good. My post worked, gota keep going." But I agreed we should return to the subject central to all of our thoughts... not how Mets still can't threaten the Phils, but how this road trip will proceed. I then decided to look around at our competition, to see if their was prominent road trip blog out there that was stealing our interested public. Well if there is I didn't find it yet because Google's top result for "road trip blog" was far better then I could have hoped. I found DriveAndAHalf.com and started reading. It looks like they more or less abandon the site two years ago after a mere six posts, so if nothing else we're doing better then them, but I kept reading.

After a little while it became apparent that the contributors where, like yours trurly, of college age. I guess the awe of the car wares off by age 30, or your life becomes overrun with "more important" issues that leave little time to drive for pleasure. Then after reading still further, I began to sense that they were from or traveling in the Philadelphia area, on roads I grew-up on. The Blue Route. Route 1. The PA Turnpike. Then my heart skipped a beat as it grew clear they went to school in New Jersey, "These schmucks go to TCNJ" I said out loud to my empty bedroom. I hadn't read it, but deep in my soul I knew it to be the truth. Now completely unconcerned with whatever pulp I was reading, they appear to like horses, I started scrolling through text and pictures, looking for conformation of their enrollment at "the NGay." Then three quarter of the way down the page, in a post over two years old, BAM! "We left TCNJ at around 7am." After a brief period of laughter, I knew what had to be done.

First I want to make it known that when our trip does begin, New Jersey will not be on the itinerary. Second I have been to The College Of New Jersey, and a dear friend of ours will soon be graduating from the college formally known as Trenton State, and he may or may not be joining us on our big adventure. After multiple visits to the school, I think I would feel as comfortable walking 5 city blocks in Camden as I do walking through the dorms of the NGay. Luckily the students their always provide the cure for my discomfort, alcohol. Entering the campus is like leaving reality, and during the drive their you saw logic, reason, and good judgement commit a group suicide by pushing each other off the Scudder Falls Bridge. Usually with in an hour off being trapped in confines of their, "we wish were Princeton" red brick, I've started drinking, and will not stop until the nightmare goes away and I pass out cold. I think it says something when one of my most secure moments their, was sharing a bottom bunk with Hoosier, and this was done soberly mind you.

I should now take a second to say that I do have fond memories of TCNJ, like returning to my friend BD's dorm room to find him in only his breifs, with his head hidden in the trash can he was vomiting into. I also laugh to hear all the ways I agitated, questioned, and even abused the students and their lifestyle during period of drunkenness I do no recall. Although, my crowing achievement is without question pissing in BD's roommate's bed. I feel completely justified in this, although a bit sorry for the Drake, for this is what happens when you put locks on the public (multi-stall) bathrooms, the only restroom on the floor. If there is ever a place that illustrates both the evils and necessity of booze, its that little school in Ewing... Trenton State, um, I mean... The College of New Jersey.

This post is dedicated to the memory of Joe "BD" D'Urso. A true patriot and bro who's friendship was ironically claimed by America's armpit in 2004.

So Andrew gets off his literary high horse

All right, all right. You want me to write, Andrew? I'll write. The man has questioned both my sexuality and, one too many times, my dedication as a writer. I would like to say that I have been writing- three short stories and, hopefully, a novel- so it's not a question of motivation. It's just been a question of priority (granted, no one reads my stories just like no one reads this blog) and a question of topicality: I haven't had any road trip things to add, and the one time I went off topic, Andrew chastised me. That said, I'll follow Andrew's lead and go slightly off topic here (with a little big of trip tid bits here and there).

First and foremost, as to the writing process, I can certainly understand Andrew's frustration. Obviously, I am a writing major, and aspire to someday be a writer myself. Really, writing is like any art: you have to be honest to yourself, and you have to realize that perfection isn't a legitimate possibility. It just isn't going to happen, so there's no use worrying about it. I know Andrew, and many writers, worry about choosing the right word, worry about sounding stupid or awkward, and because of this, either don't write or don't let people see their writing. I can vouch for myself, and I imagine Matt would agree: a majority of my writing sucks. That's how you get better as a writer- you write, and a lot of times it sucks, a lot of times you're convinced it's terrible, but that's how you improve: practice, trial and error, learning from your mistakes. The reason I write, other than my love for the written word, for creation, for hopefully illuminating what I think are the beauties of this world for other people, is for that moment when you write that sentence or paragraph of story where everything comes out exactly the way you imagined it would. Perfection, as I said earlier, isn't a sustainable goal in writing. It is possible in small doses, though, and those doses make it all so rewarding. Of course, the only way you reach that is by practice, practice, practice. So, Andrew- and anyone else who might stumble on this- don't get hung up, don't get discouraged. Writing isn't about perfection in the long term (hell, it's not even in the short term). It's about exploring yourself and the world around you. Just write, and keep writing.

As for Matthew. Yes, New Year's was pretty fucking incredible. Everyone was at the top of their game. Some moments of mine that were particular favorites:
-Andrew being Andrew. Namely, his stumbling and bumbling around the room, him putting up his dukes to fight Ben, and being an all around belligerent misanthrope for the latter half of the evening. Absolutely my favorite part of the night.
-Matthew's imaginary fight with Andrew.
-Everyone ganging up to tackle Ben. He certainly had it coming.
-Eric's four hot dogs.
-Above all, the rare occasion where we were able to get all six of us together in the same place.

Lastly, Ben and I took a kind of road trip (as Matt alluded to in his piece) to the beautiful United States Virgin Islands. While it was not a traditional road trip, we spent a lot of our time there in cars, although it was mostly hanging on for dear life while being flung around hair pin turns by sleazy, rip off cabbies. It was a wonderful trip- probably more eventful than I can recap here (and let's be honest, I've made sure you all heard the highlights already anyway...and if not, I'd be more than happy to enlighten you). I wanted to say that although it was not a tradtional road trip, it accomplished what I think any good trip hopes to accomplish- it brought people together who usually don't get to spend time together. It brought my entire extended family together for a week, and it brought Ben and Matt (Nate's friend) into the fold, too, and I know by the end of the week, they both felt like Pahls (for better or worse). Above all, it gave me, perhaps most pleasurably, a chance to grow closer with my brother. We've never been close, and I think everyone knows we aren't exactly similar beings, so to have a week where we spent a majority of our time together- and enjoyed that time- was a wonderful development. As I said, that is what I think any kind of trip is for: to bring people closer. So in that lens, both New York and the Virgin Islands were very successful trips.

Now Andrew can shut up, hopefully.

Excuses, Excuses, Excuses

Two posts in as many days. Rock on us! We're back, and this time to we're gonna keep it going, at-least until finals and other academic dribble takes over. But now I want to address the idea of blogging, and by extension my writing process. First let me say I do not consider myself a strong writer, and by no means do I enjoy writing. This maybe not be something you would expect a blogger to say, especially one who's posts ramble on with self-loving obliviousness to the readers, but hell, nobody reads this anyway. So I struggle and stumble over every word, revise and edit, and end up just as annoyed as I was to start. Consequently each post I write ends up getting written over the course of several days, and any possible sense of cohesion is in the trash next to the first three drafts, and several other concepts/ideas I could not seem to articulate and I wouldn't with myself, or this hijacked pseudonym. My Voodoo recap, I promise its coming soon, has been started on three separate occasions, and my current version is in a state of disrepair similar to parts New Orleans itself.

Part of my continual battle with these posts, comes from my uncertainty on how to approach blogging, my subjects, and the readers. I think my own writing style can be wordy, polluted with run-ons and asides. I find myself trying to balance a critical academic approach with youthful honesty and cerisma. Of course I would like to blend the two, and that would be the accurate representation of me, but too often I see the results as heavy handed its simplicity or stale and unoriginal. But enough of my whining.

So now you know, that despite literary handicap I am often trying to provide a new post that you will hopefully enjoy enough to read to the end. As for the laziness of my colleagues, well that rests squarely on their sub-six foot shoulders. They often tell me of their ability to run off several pages in a few hours time when class and their procrastination demand it, yet they appear unfit to complete a weekly, forget semi-daily, written exercise in creative opinionation or brainstorming for what will surely be a defining event in our lives.

Look for my Voodoo recap and destinations of interest in upcoming posts.

Shenannigans on a New York City New Year

Firstly, my apologies for neglecting the blog as long as I have. Secondly, nothing has been said thus far regarding our distinguished trip in NYC over New Years. Let me preface this by explaining that my camera plummeted from my backpack strap down underneath the train track as I was boarding our first train, and so, alas, there are no pictures to document the magical occasion. Also, this is told from the perspective of my reportedly dysfunctional memory, so, if I screw up a detail, please forgive me.

I had just finished tutoring two middle school girls, Zoe and Celeste, in American history and science, respectively. After returning home, showering and gathering my essential belongings, I sat downstairs and waited. Moments later light flooded the driveway and I headed outside and got into the back seat of the car. I greeted my loyal friends Joe and Eric. I unearthed The Genie, packed, sparked, and passed, as Eric cranked the music and we cut onto the highway, through the black night, into New Jersey.

After parking the car, leaping down the stairs, heading across the lot to the station and buying tickets at the machine, we beat the train with about 2 minutes to spare. As the train rolled up and came to a stop, my camera was taken from me by cruel gravity. We boarded the train, each found a seat to ourselves, laid our packs down, and Eric and Joe laughed at me. I waved them aside, reasoning that I would retrieve the camera on the return trip. I got into my book, 'The Road', Eric got into his headphones and Joe got sleepy. The train barreled down the tracks, hemorrhaging and reaquiring passengers intermittently. At last I saw the bright lights and monstrous structures; we soon after pulled into the station.

Eric, Joe and I beat our way through the throngs of faces in the station and emerged onto the street. It was not a far walk; from the station to the apartment it was maybe 15 minutes. We arrived. I got the keys from the lobby and we shot up the elevator to the 18th floor, turn left, room b. After throwing our things down, using the bathroom and taking a breath, I mixed some drinks and we visited The Genie. We relaxed and put on the TV; I spoke to my friend and college roommate, Kate, who was in the city and needed a place to stay. There was talk of heading uptown and meeting Brian and Rebecca to hit a bar or two, but this was decided against in favor of finding food. We killed some time until Kate arrived; soon after Ben and Pinks showed up; there was great merriment upon the reassembly of the fellowship. We all went a few rounds with The Genie and headed to the streets, landing on thick, delicious Sicilian pizza slices and sodas. Back at the apt. the night passed more or less without incident (joe's buddy came by to drop off some delicious Fruit)--we put on some music and partied fairly modestly in order to not spoil our appetite for the 'shit show' tomorrow.

We all awoke at various times; everyone was ready to go by the early afternoon I believe, at which time we set in motion the necessary preparations for an epic New Years. Joe, Kate and I trekked downtown to find a liquor store. I purchased a 6-pack of Hoegaarden for my illustrious friend Ben, as well as a sizable bottle of Jack Daniels for myself and Eric. Various other types of beer were purchased. I stopped at Duane Reade on the way home and purchased some victual necessities--eggs, cereal and frozen pizza. Ben had made a huge skilletful of eggs and french toast upon our return. The french toast was a bit iffy, but the eggs were good, and we stuffed our faces. We inhabited the apartment throughout the afternoon into the evening, on account of, apparently the roof terrace is completely closed for the whole winter season. Which I was very angry about because, aside from having an incredible view of the city and its boroughs and bridges, I like to entertain certain hobbies up there. So, we lounged in the apartment, had some drinks, talked things over with The Genie, and waited for our most loyal friend, the flip-flopper, Justin, who had first planned on coming all along, then got 'deathly ill' but hoped to come anyway, then said he couldn't come, then called at the last minute and said he was catching a train. What a guy. Justin was the Gandalf of the Fellowship, and now that he was here, we could continue in our journey. Although by this time I was a good way into the Jack, with not much help from my so-called friend Eric, and was not 100% sure of my ability to walk on this journey.

The plan was to get to a bar called the 'Whiskey Trader', a place at which Ben had a connection that got us a deal. The connection went as follows--Ben had a friend at school whose father owned this bar; his friend rented out the bar from 10:00 to 1:00 on New Years night. We were able to get open bar, top-shelf booze during this time period for only $40; an unbelievable deal in NYC. After Brian and Rebecca came over and we had made the necessary pre-party preparations, we headed down to the street, split up and took a couple cabs uptown, to the mid-town area, around 52nd st. and 5th ave.

There was an awning with painted letters reading 'Whiskey Trader' out front and, inside, there was a long, polished wooden bar along the right-hand wall. When we arrived around 10:00 it was fairly crowded; Ben exchanged some greetings with people he knew from his college, Loyola, and we met up with Simon and Sean, good friend's of Ben's who most of us had met before. There was a DJ playing a mix of some electronic songs as well as some more classic numbers, and two bartenders frantically pouring and serving; the one who I approached was Asian; I kicked it off with a Jagermeister shot with my roommate Brian and then ordered a White Russian and kept them coming for an hour or so. We were all drowning our drinks of choice, pausing for a shot of tequila or some such thing every now and then. I glanced over and observed my ex-girlfriend sloppily making out with a middle aged black guy who I could have sworn was a bouncer. It was around this time that I attempted to calm my stomach with a Heineken, and then continued to order both gin and vodka tonics. We were all good and drunk by now, as the clock approached midnight. The conversation was loud, girls were dancing on the bar, and as the final minutes of 2007 shed away, everyone began yelling and singing and laughing at once. Then the countdown started; I stood up on a stool and we all counted down aloud. On the TV behind the bar, the ball in Times Square dropped. I drunkenly exchanged hugs and words with my roommates, Kate and Brian, as well as my droogs, Ben, Pinks, Justin, Joe and Eric.

Champagne was passed around and all indulged. We all had a few more drinks and joked around for a while. As the clock ran down to 1:00 the crowd began to thin and friends of mine began to head for the door. I went to the coat-rack attendee, but, in my inebriatedness I was unable to find my ticket. I gave up on the brown blazer which I had purchased years before for my high school graduation party ($3.50 at Goodwill) and headed into the street to join Ben, Justin, Pinks, Joe and Eric. It is at this point that my memory becomes largely unreliable. I do remember of the walk back that our good friend Pinks was, as he can always be counted upon to be, belligerent, and was pushing Ben and Justin around, haggling them. Eric reportedly bought 4 hotdogs on the less than 20 block walk back.

We returned to the apartment afterwards, completely, 'shitty', in the parlance of our time, apparently burned a j, which I still do not remember, rounded up The Genie, and began to scrounge around for whatever food we could find. I think I made some french fries, and we had some cereal and ice cream and whatnot. After another hour or two of debauchery, it got to that point where most of us were barely conscious. People began to pass out on the floor; I think I assisted in the sleeping arrangement--there was an inflatable bed, couch cushions, pillows and blankets laid out, and about 8 people packed tight like sardines into the 'living room' of the 1 bedroom apartment. I was fortunate enough to have the bed for myself. I lay down and shut my eyes but was immediately hit with the most unbearable spins I have ever experienced. I felt the 6 or so different kinds of alcohol sloshing around in my stomach and moving quickly up into my throat. I ejected myself from the bed and quickly got to the bathroom, shut the door, and threw up violently for about 5 minutes. I could hear all of my friends laughing through the door. When I emerged Ben told me that Pinks called me a pussy and I told Pinks to go fuck himself and so on, but it was too dark and I was too gone to realize that Pinks was already passed out. I returned to the bed--I returned to the bathroom--bed--bathroom...again and again for what must have been at least 90 minutes. My jerkoff 'friends' erupted into fresh laughter with each of my miserable, defeated returns to the toilet. Finally I had gotten everything out of my stomach, dry heaved for about 10 minutes, and then returned to the bed for the last time, exhausted, slipping into the heavy, inevitable sleep that follows a night of blackout partying.

I woke up around noon with a shrieking headache and stumbled into the main room to find that Justin, Pinks, Simon and Sean had already gotten up in the early hours and left. First of all, how do you get up for a 8:00 train after a night like that, and second of all, the apartment was a shithole, with bedding, dishes and trash everywhere. As Kate, Ben, Joe an Eric slowly woke up, we laughed and reminisced about the night before. I needed something to settle my stomach. We all went down and across the street to jamba juice and I acquired a big fucking smoothie with an energy boost. Afterwards we headed back to the apartment. It was at this point that Kate left to get curry uptown with Brian. I cleaned the majority of the dishes, the couch and the bed, and Joe and Eric vacuumed the floor and threw out the trash. Finally it was done and you could never tell that anything had transpired in the previous 48 hours. I returned the key at the lobby and we headed onto the street, making for the train station. The return journey was unremarkable other than the fact that I was unable to retrieve my camera. We got off the train and into the car; we were all in a stupor from many a late night and many a substance abused, and the hour long ride passed without incident. Upon returning home we all praised the trip as an experience not soon to be forgotten. In the ensuing day friends began to depart to resume school (except for fucking Ben and Justin, who went to the Virgin Islands), a bittersweet experience as always. The final new year of our lives as students had dawned; one can only guess at how many more experiences together our fellowship has ahead of us. I eagerly await the almighty Road.

Driving tunes: A post for the blog's sake

Since posting has more or less stopped I figured I'd post a something on the lighter side. I just drove back to school in Savannah, GA, and the 11+ hours spent in the car prompted me to write this post. What is the best music to drive to? I tend to listen to albums in their entirety, although I think this puts me in the minority. I know that crafting a good mixtape is an skill unto itself, however I have never really been able to sink my teeth into the process, and have left it in the hands of the artists. But I want to hear what people have to say on the subject. You can recommend single songs, albums, mixs, as well as what type of drive they would be suitable for. Be as specific (song, album, traffic conditions, length of drive, destination) or as broad (artist/genre) as you want. Here are some of my picks, in no particular order:

• Steve Reich - Music for Eighteen Musicians
Steve Reich was one of the leading minimalist composers of the 1970's, and honestly this is the only work of his I have in my music library, or have really been exposed to, but I've wanted to get my hands on some of his other work for a while now and just never got around to I. I like driving to this album (the whole album is a single hour long track) when driving long distances. I tend to listen to Music… 5 or 6 hours into a day of driving. At this point in the drive I want music that is not going to demand my attention to be enjoyed and not put me to sleep. Reich's construction (and deconstruction) of a repeated theme, and all it's permutations, is certainly worthy of a focused headphone listen, but it can also serve as a beautiful backdrop while speeding down I-95.


• Kraftwerk - Electric Café & Daft Punk - Homework
Two of my favorite electronic albums. The Kraftwerk album really gets me into the mind set of being a robot, which helps when driving for a while. The first three songs are very strong, you really feel their presence, but the final three tend to receeded in the spectrum of my wondering, long-drive mind, however they never fall off into background music. Homework is similar in this sense, it starts of bumping and then slows down, then it picks back up, however it never regains the enthusiasm it started with. In addition to being longer then Electric Café, most of its energy comes from fast tempo, pulsing rhythm, and flashy sample modulation, instead of a simpler more open, non-techno soundscape. Moderism vs Post-modernism, in my opinion.


• Tool - Lateralus
This album is fucking amazing. I don't know how I discovered it, probably because of "Schism" but thank God, no thank Satan I did. Imagine King Crimson, taking black acid and listening to Sabbath, a beatutiful mix of heavey metal drums, Velvet feedback drones, and psychadelic conceptualism. The drums alone will keep you awake and driving. I highly recomend buying the physical CD, the album/booklet art makes for a great package.


• The Grateful Dead - American Beauty
You know when people say, "Think of a happy place." For me, this album is that place. Accordingly, American Beauty, and most Dead is better during the day, its a nice complement to the sun. Personally, I enjoy the Dead's studio recordings to the numerous live sets available. It showcases their composition and musical talent, without slipping into self-indulgence or familiarity. "Ripple" to "Brokedown Palace" is phenomenal.

Will there you have it, a taste of my drives to school and back. Like I said these drives are done by myself, so I enjoy being able to select an album and listen to it from front back. I'd love to hear what other people listen to when in similar situations, or any other driving situation.

My cousins want to be on Google...this blog will have to do

Greetings from St. Thomas. I hope everyone has had a happy, prosperous, and safe holiday season. Sorry it's been so long since any of us have updated. It's been a bit hectic lately for all of us. I just wanted to say that, one, we'll be updating more lately (if anyone is still reading), and two, I want to give a shout out to my cousins, Amanda, Alex, and Lauren Pahl. Amanda really wants to be famous. She is a beautiful singer. Lauren also wants to be famous. She wants to dance and sing. Alex is very, very smart, knows a lot about science, and hopes someday to be a famous scientist. They all want to be on google, so hopefully this will get them there.

Happy Holidays

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.