Shish Kabobs, Cattle Drives and Mexican Lasagna

Last week I was in the Northeast and had nothing to report but a couple mean teachers with Jersey accents.

On Saturday, me and the boys made shish kabobs on my little football shaped grill:



We had a great time drinking beer, grilling, and playing music on our old six-strings. Great to be back in Seattle, where I have my own kitchen. I miss cooking.

In Birmingham, Monday's seminar was canceled so I took an earlier flight to Dallas-Fort Worth to rent a car and find Townes Van Zandt's headstone. Townes is one of my favorite song writers, and I figured that he surely would be celebrated in Fort Worth, where he was born. I had no access to the internet so I found a place called "The Texas Cowboy Hall of Fame." I figured someone there would surely know where his grave was. Maybe there was even a little museum or something dedicated to him. At the visitors center, I met two old fellas with cowboy gear and hearing aids. After spending a good amount of time explaining I wasn't looking for the town of Van Zandt but the headstone of Townes Van Zandt, we figured out it was at Dido Cemetary, which neither of them had ever heard of. The phone book didn't have any record of it. Nor did directory assistance. Finally we pulled out an old Fort Worth directory book and found my Dido Cemetary, about 1/2 hour northeast of town.

Before I left, my two new friends suggested I stick around the Fort Worth Stockyards for a bit and wait for the cattle drive. I grabbed a beer (to go) and walked around, meeting some nice cowboys before their daily run:

Meeting one of the last authentic cowboys of Fort Worth, TX

Enjoying a test run while I waited for the cattle drive

Trying to take a picture of myself in front of the
longhorns making their daily walk down the avenue

I had a great time watching the show, but it was past 4pm and I needed to get to Dido Cemetary before sunset. The drive out was beautiful, except for the police officer that pulled me over for speeding. He let me off with a warning, which I was greatful for. Then I inquired about where I might find Dido Cemetary. "It's right there," he said, and pointed across the street.

I pulled in and called a phone number from a sign that said "For questions about Dido Cemetary, please call..." A nice old lady answered the phone and directed me to the "Van Zandt Plot," where I finally found Townes's headstone:


My adventure had ended with this tombstone, and I sat with Townes for a little while, drinking a beer and thinking about his sad life and songs that have become part of the soundtrack to my life:

Days, up and down they come
Like rain on a conga drum
Forget most, remember some
But don't turn none away.
Everything is not enough
And nothin' is to much to bear.
Where you been is good and gone
All you keep is the getting there.

I had my moment with Townes and said goodbye, heading back towards town to get a good meal in with my friend Aaron Bale, who had made Mexican Lasagna that was waiting for me in Arlington along with his girlfriend Sarah and her son Aiden. It was a great meal, but the only picture I have is one Aiden took of his cat:

Beer, Movies, and a Fish Fry at Cousin Sean's

MLK weekend was family time, spending Saturday night with my dad, my Uncle Ed, and cousin Sean at his cabin somewhere near Brainerd, MN. My dad (The Timmer) and I arrived Saturday morning, bloody marys in hand, finding Ed and Sean watching Chevy Chase in Fletch. We sat down as Sean cooked a major breakfast and finished watching the first of many movies throughout our stay.

Uncle Ed upon our arrival

Soon Sean and I were out shooting his semi-automatic 12 gauge at some empty booze bottles. After that we cracked some beers and brushed the snow off his "sled," finding it wouldn't start. Sean decided the spark plugs were the culprit, and 30 minutes later all three had been replaced. Still, only one cylinder was firing, so we drank a beer and decided to give up.

Frustration meets Sean and myself with cold hands and a broken snowmobile

Having already shot guns and no sled to ride, Sean did not relent being a great entertainer. Luckily, his entertainment center included surround sound and a loud subwoofer, which he demonstrated by playing jets flying over Nick Cage in The Rock, so we decided to crack a beer and watch the whole film.

Good viddles: Sean prepares some fried Crappie to munch on during one of our film screenings

Later on in the day, the four of us drove to a nearby lake to meet some of the locals. I finally got a ride on a snowmobile, but with Sean driving I became very afraid and asked to head back about 90 seconds after he darted away from the icehouses we were stationed at. Ed and Timmer hung back and talked shop with the fishermen and their kids:

My Uncle Ed and Dad enjoying the icefishing scene on the lake

After riding and fishing, we all decided to head back and watch The Borne Supremacy, or one of those Jason Borne movies. I fell asleep and woke up to an amazing steak dinner with rosemary potatoes and beans. We all had a blast and I look forward to future partying with my family in the middle of nowhere.

Back at my folks house, the only thing that has changed is the size of Murphy, our dog. He's still a raging puppy who chews on everything and harrasses us as we try to sleep:

Gary Hardy's Nostalgic Rock n' Roll and Rusty the Bone in Memphis

Well, here I am in West Memphis, which is not in Tennessee but actually in Arkansas. I had a nice flight here from Columbia, SC, which was not exactly an exciting town but warm and sunny, which was nice. I spent the night eating ribs on Beale Street (in the real Memphis) at a place called Blues City, where Gary Hardy and the Memphis 2 entertained us bored tourists dining on the best barbecue I've ever had. He once actually owned Sun Records, claims Carl Perkins kept him alive, and is currently friends and neighbors with Jerry Lee Lewis, whom I'm sure we all figured passed away by now. It was amazing to watch him perform, not due to his uncanny impersonation of Johnny Cash, but because of the rich detail of rock's history he explained with slurred words between songs.

After checking in to my room, I headed across I-55 to Southland Park Gaming & Racing where I won 50 bucks playing Blackjack before trying my luck at my first dog race. I lost about $7 but had two ice cold Budweisers in wax paper cups before heading home to my hotel room. The dog races are exactly the same as horse races minus the jockeys and plus the bone the greyhounds chase they call Rusty. The bone cruises around the track on some sort of remote controlled arm as the announcer calls "Here comes Rusty!" and the dogs go crazy for 1/4 mile and all the gamblers yell and hollar and throw their tickets down. I didn't throw either of my two tickets down because I was betting about $2.50 on each race and wasn't that upset that my dogs never won.

Ringing in the New Year: Lessons Learned from Winter Vacation

Winter break began in Seattle, where I spent a few days cooped up at home watching the snow. While it was nice to sit in the warmth of my apartment, drinking wine and watching the flakes fall gracefully, the mood on the streets was different. The entire city shut down because Seattle's Department of Transportation, along with Mayor Nickels, are total idiots when it comes to how to deal with snowy roads, deciding to "wait for it to melt" and create "snow-packed instead of snow-free" roads. Cabs were out of service, trash removal was out of the question, and power outages were a problem for much of the city.

Seattle's Snowstorm of 2008 from out my apartment window

My homecoming in Minneapolis was well received. One night a bunch of the boys got together and headed to Babe's in Lakeville, along with our moms and dads. The dance floor was empty for a long while until more drinks were ordered. Soon, shy feet shuffled to the sounds of Michael Jackson and Dire Straits (Babe's also hosted a class of '89 reunion that night) and Lakeville's first annual father-mother-son mixer was born.

Me, my dad, and Brock's mom dancing at Babe's

Before long I was heading to Wisconsin for a few days of drinking, eating, dancing and shooting guns with the good ole boys. It was great to get back to my parents' cabin and enjoy a couple of days in the peace of the wilderness:

Ryan and Adam loading our weapons for the hunt

The carnage from a days shootin'

Lounging in the kitchen at the cabin

I could go on to describe the rest of my trip, but it wouldn't be much different. New Year's was a fine time partying down with chums at a nice little place in Loring Park called Nick & Eddie. But not much to say besides "we partied a lot and had a great time."

Minneapolis is as beautiful as ever, even though the wind is cold and the snow has buried us all in another Winter of waiting for Spring. Nice to get inside among friends and warm up. There is something about these winters when we're all inside with no other choice; I think everyone goes a bit crazy. But the cabin fever is shared and it bonds us together closer than those who spend the season thawing in the South could ever understand. And to survive it, when windows finally open and flip-flops are dug out of the closet; that is what makes this town worth living in year-round.

But somehow, toward the end of my winter vacation, I am eager to get back on the road. To dart around the country and be alone in a strange restaurant reading a book in some city I've never been to helps me gain perspective on where I've been and what's to come. I've learned that I'm too old to sleep past noon and too young to go to bed before 10pm. That a Saturday night spent quiet is not always a bad thing. And neither is work. So here I sit, 5am on Tuesday morning, reflecting in the dark.

Over the Hump and Reaching for Home

Last week was miserable, namely because I drove around Michigan. But the week ended with a wonderful retreat to Minneapolis, where I spent the weekend at Jack and Ryan's apartment in Uptown. Friday night we enjoyed pizza and beers at Dulono's Pizza as some old folks played bluegrass. Saturday morning I woke up well before my pals and headed to Dunn Brothers Coffee to finish reading The Sun Also Rises. That night I headed to an "Ugly Sweater Party." I took no pictures, but my sweater was indeed ugly.

I guess the only fun pictures I have of my weekend are these pre-party shots of Jack and Ryan playing True Love Travels on a Gravel Road:


Right now I'm in Rochester where it's been snowing all day. The weather is about -5 degrees and I guess the schools are closing early. I should be out of here in about half-an-hour to drive on to Madison, WI. I'm not going crazy because I've survived Michigan, I've drank beer in Nashville, and I'm finally on the home-stretch to a three-week vacation in two more days. Things aren't so bad once one is over the hump and headed for home.

Another Weekend in Nashville...Parades, Dancing, and a Quiet Six Pack of Bush Light

In the past week I've crisscrossed the Eastern half of the U.S., starting in Richmond and ending up in Music City, where I decided to spend another weekend in another dumpy motel in the margins of town. The Knights Inn on Spring Avenue and N. 1st Street is not a place for enjoying Nashville. While there is some charm in rude front desk attendants and bed covers sprinkled with dog hair, the real enjoyment seems to come from a pack of Marlboro Reds and a six-pack of Bush Light.

The opened door leading to darkness was my room...

Friday night I put on my best shirt and called the cab driver I met earlier, Bobby, who said as he first dropped me off at the motel, "Day or night, you call and ten minutes later I'm here for you Mike." On the phone, Bobby explained in his thick Ethiopian accent that the police were everywhere and he didn't know what was going on but it would probably be two hours until he could come pick me up. I told him it was okay and I'd find another way to get Downtown. "I'm sorry Mike," he replied. The dispacher at Allied Cabs had a guy in my area, and in ten minutes we were headed to Tootsie's, joking about all the security being for Barack Obama. Eight blocks from Downtown, traffic on the sidewalk was moving faster than on the street so I had my driver drop me off.

A parade marched down Broadway Avenue to 2nd Street! That explained all the blocked off streets and pedestrians, strollers and collapseable chairs in tow. Below are images from the parade, that stretched back for what seemed like miles:


It was damned cold outside and I don't know how the participants marching down the street could stand it, let alone the onlookers on the sidewalk. I enjoyed about 15 minutes of the floats, baton twirlers and marching bands before I headed into The Stage to watch a group that sounded very much like Kenny Chesney charm the Wrangler cladded, cowboy hat wearing music lovers into a very Western heel-toe type of dance. It was nothing new and I decided to go back to my industrial palace to read a bit and go to bed.

I had a fine time in Nashville, but the novelty of the road has worn down to an old hat routine and I find more fun being alone in my room with a good book and some Gerry Mulligan than trying to find something new and different in a new and different town. I'm starting to feel like those moments are reserved for the energy of a familiar group of pals that you can get in some loud trouble with when you have the confidence to ask a cowgirl to dance. There's something about a being alone that cuts the fun factor in half...but that doesn't necessarly make the moment less worthy, as I found out in the morning when I didn't have a headache!

Now I'm stuck in the Washington-Dulles airport having missed my connection due to what the gate agent said was "a strong Westerly wind." It's been two hours since we landed and it'll be two hours until I depart, but I have a cup of coffee, two books, and the Sunday NY Times next to me, these things having become best friends for a Nickel-Plated Wayfarer like me. Tomorrow I think I'll do some laundry as the machine at the Knights Inn was out of order.

Thanksgiving Weekend

While I love holidays, commuting by plane is no fun when families storm airport security with keys in their pockets and liquids and gels that give TSA officials nightmares and high blood pressure. Tuesday night Andy picked me up from the airport, where I had flown in from Albany. I woke up at my leisure on Wednesday and enjoyed a couple of hours with the newspaper until Andy woke up and we shared a pot of coffee:


Thanksgiving day I double-booked turkey dinner and suffered very much heartburn for it. Adam and Kelsey were gracious hosts for my brother and I, having cooked a huge (cage free) turkey with all the trimmings (and a delicious piece of pecan pie with ice cream).

Andy and I ate as much as we could and enjoyed a couple of beers before we all sat on the couch and dozed in front of the television as a college football game couldn't capture our interest.

Andy and I enjoying beers with our turkey

After much time and digestion, my brother and I headed for Gabe's house, where his traditional Thanksgiving involves slaving over the kitchen all day for a late night meal. We started with the duck, then dove into the turkey, all the while munching on some amazing sweet potato dish with pecans on the top.

Thanksgiving weekend was a much needed vacation from all this travel. I was reminded how lucky I am to have friends and family in Seattle who are a part of redefining traditions like Thanksgiving. As I get older and loved ones disperse throughout the country, I've learned that home has become less of a place and more of an exchange of warmth and hospitality. Lucky to have so many friends.

Last night I flew to Richmond, VA from Seattle with a layover in stormy Chicago O'Hare, where my flight was one of the few that was on time. Now I'm sitting outside the conference room at the hotel where Christmas music drones on in the house speakers. I'm thinking about the next three weeks and how much holiday music I'll have to suffer through. And the worst part is when there is silence and I find myself whistling Jingle Bells.